Significant Others (32 page)
“Twice.”
“O.K., twice. Your mind can cook up all sorts of ugly stuff.”
“You think my mind did that?”
“It could have.”
“I dunno.”
“Your headaches are gone, aren’t they? Your sluggishness.”
They were, he had to admit.
“You’re not gonna die,” said Michael. “Somebody’s gotta take care of me.”
“Hey.” Brian looked across at him. “Shut the fuck up.”
“O.K., O.K…. So nobody’s gonna die.”
Brian saw the elfin glimmer in his eyes and smiled back at him. “I love you, Michael.”
Michael plumped the pillow again. “So marry me.”
Brian laughed.
“I mean it,” said Michael. “I need a partner.”
“A partner?”
“At the nursery, you dildo.”
“Since when have you wanted a partner?” Michael shrugged. “I’ve thought about it ever since Ned left.”
“You talked to Wren,” said Brian.
Michael frowned. “What’s Wren got to do with it?”
“Everything, I’m sure.”
“Oh, don’t be such an asshole. I’ve thought about this for at
least
a year.”
“But you still talked to Wren.”
“Well, she may have mentioned that you’d expressed an interest…. Look, if you hate the idea …”
“I don’t hate the idea,” said Brian.
“I wanna buy that lot next door, expand the greenhouse. I need an investor, and I miss having a partner. You’re strong enough, we get along, there’d be no rude surprises.” Michael smiled. “ ‘You hold no mystery for me, Amanda.’ ”
Brian smiled back.
“Private Lives.”
“See? A breeder who knows Coward. What more could I want?”
Brian hesitated. “It could work, I guess.”
“Work?
It’ll be the best fun we ever had.” Michael reminded him of a kid coaxing his buddy into a tree house. “C’mon. Say yes.”
“I’ll have to talk to Mary Ann,” he said.
Walking home to The Summit, he warded off the specter of dread that dogged him across the moon-bright hill. The doorman made a lame joke about the fires still smoldering in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Whole neighborhoods had been incinerated, it seemed, and he hadn’t thought about it for days.
On the twenty-third floor, Mary Ann greeted him in Levi’s and a pink button-down. There were more candles than usual, and the synthesizer music they used for sex was playing in the background. He wondered if she’d had the tape on all evening, awaiting his return.
“Well,” she said softly, once more in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
“It’s O.K.”
“I drove out to Abbott’s Lagoon. Lost track of the time.”
“Have you eaten?” she asked, heading into the living room.
“I’m not hungry,” he replied, realizing it wasn’t exactly true; he just hadn’t envisioned food in this scenario.
“There’s some great fruit salad. Everything fresh.”
“No,” he said.
She slipped her arm around his waist. “You’ve lost weight,” she said. “It looks good.”
He avoided her gaze.
“Cheekbones,” she said, touching the side of his face.
He sat on the sofa and kicked his shoes off. She curled up next to him and said: “I taped
Entertainment Tonight.
It looks pretty good.”
“So I heard.”
“Who told you?”
“Well … Mrs. Madrigal, actually. Michael talked to her.” He couldn’t very well admit to calling the landlady, not when Mary Ann hadn’t heard from him.
“I thought
you
did,” she said. “Shawna said you did.”
“Oh, well … yeah, that time. This was another time.” Seizing upon his daughter as an evasion tactic, he added: “How’s she been?”
“Fine. She sprayed the Sorensons’ cat with mousse this morning.”
He smiled a little.
“The hair kind,” said Mary Ann. “Not the chocolate.”
He chuckled.
“She missed you,” she said.
“I missed you both.”
She looked at him with tenderness, but obliquely, cautiously. “Did it help?” she asked.
“What?”
“Getting away.”
What could he say to that? He put his arm around her, pulled her closer. “I wasn’t trying to get away from you.”
“It’s O.K.,” she said, her cheek against his chest. “People get sick of each other.” She giggled and patted him. “I get sick of you sometimes. You just beat me to it this time.”
This stung a little. He had never really been sick of Mary Ann. Even when he’d been with Geordie, it hadn’t been because he was sick of Mary Ann.
When he didn’t reply, she asked: “What’s the matter?”
“We have to talk,” he said.
It was terse enough—and dire enough—to make her sit up, blinking at him. “O.K.,” she said quietly.
“I have this friend who has AIDS,” he began, delivering the line as rehearsed.
Her brow furrowed. Her fingertips came to her chin and lighted, gently as a butterfly. “Brian … don’t tell me Michael is …?”
“No,” he said forcefully. “No, he’s fine.”
“God, you scared me!” Her hand slid to her chest in relief. “Who is he?” she asked.
“It’s a woman,” he replied.
I
T WAS LATE MORNING WHEN BOOTER FINALLY EMERGED
from his bedroom in Hillsborough, enticed by the camplike aroma of sausage frying. He had slept for over fourteen hours, and his system seemed to have recuperated admirably. The aches in his limbs were nothing more than the aches of being seventy-one. He could live with that, as always.
In the kitchen, he found Emma laying out paper towels on the countertop. “That smells wonderful,” he said, hovering over the big iron skillet.
“Don’t snitch none,” she said. “It’s for company.”
He gave her a teasing glance. “Aren’t I company? I’m invited, aren’t I?”
“Ask Miss Frannie,” said the maid. “You been gone so long, I don’t reckon she remembers who you are.”
“Oh … now.” He smiled at her, largely in recognition of her dauntless loyalty. When Frannie pouted, Emma pouted right along with her. It had been that way as long as he could remember. “Where is she?” he asked.
Emma laid some links out to drain. “The patio, I reckon. She’s fixin’ flowers for the table.”
He found Frannie doing just that, up to her elbows in blowsy pink roses. Seeing him, she seemed to brighten a little, so the maid’s grumpiness had probably been residual, a lingering ceremonial gesture.
Frannie said: “Aren’t these lovely?”
He nodded and smiled at her, his old friend. “There are some nice ferns down behind the tennis court.”
She fluttered her eyelids, faintly befuddled. Her face took on a plump-cheeked childishness which always tickled him.
“To go with the roses,” he explained.
“Oh, well … yes … fine.”
“Where are the shears?”
She rummaged in her garden things, handed him the shears and said, “Thank you,” with a look of mild amazement.
From the border next to the tennis court he clipped five or six large maidenhair fronds, returning to his wife as she adjusted the little linen tepees on the glass-topped table. “Those are perfect.” She took the fronds, beaming.
“Who’s for breakfast?” he asked.
“Oh … just family today. You look much more rested, Booter.”
“I am,” he assured her. “What family?”
“DeDe and D’orothea.”
“And the children?” he asked.
“Mmm,” she replied. “Emma’s setting up a card table on the lawn. They won’t be trouble.”
He wasn’t so sure about that.
As it turned out, the children were remarkably subdued, keeping to themselves at the other table, showing no interest whatsoever in the grownups. Booter relaxed a little, soothed by the sunshine and the soporific tones of the talking women.
“So,” Frannie was saying, “where did you end up going?”
DeDe, he noticed, shot a quick glance at her friend before replying: “Eureka, ultimately. But we drove around a lot. Just … taking it easy.”
“Did you stay in motels?” Frannie grimaced a little when she said the word.
“No,” said D’orothea, with almost as much hauteur. “Bed-and-breakfast places.”
“Some of them are very nice,” DeDe added defensively. “Carpeting and everything.”
D’orothea rolled her eyes.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Frannie said pleasantly, clearly intent on avoiding trouble. “I’m sure they’re very nice.”
“What about you, Mother? What have you been up to?” DeDe shifted the spotlight rather deftly, he thought.
“Oh … you know me. A little gardening, a few tiresome lunches. Lots of TV. I saw that woman, by the way, the one you like so much. This morning. On Mary Ann’s show.”
“What woman?”
“You know, that poetess who was on Broadway.”
“Poet,” said D’orothea. “Sabra Landauer.”
“Yes,” said Frannie. “That’s the one.”
DeDe frowned. “She was on Mary Ann’s show?”
Frannie nodded. “The whole time. Except for the last fifteen minutes, when they had a dog psychic.”
Booter couldn’t let that pass. “A dog psychic?”
“She’s quite extraordinary.” His wife reproved him with a look. “Don’t mock what you don’t understand.”
DeDe kept her eyes down as she spaded her grapefruit. “Did the psychic say what was on Sabra’s mind?”
Booter chuckled. DeDe fired off a good one every now and then.
His wife turned to DeDe, looking puzzled. “I thought you admired her. For being a feminist.”
“She’s all right,” said DeDe, as Emma arrived with a parsley-strewn platter of scrambled eggs and sausages. Booter detected another hurried visual exchange between DeDe and D’orothea.
Frannie took the platter from the maid and said: “Well, she was much prettier than I expected.”
DeDe grunted. “Did she read her poetry, or what?”
“No,” replied Frannie. “She talked, mostly.”
“About what?” asked D’orothea.
“Oh … her fiancé, for one thing.”
“Her fiancé?”
This came from both young women at once.
“He’s an actor,” said Frannie.
“He would be,” said DeDe.
Frannie added: “He was on
St. Elsewhere
last week. What do you mean, he would be?”
“It’s a career move,” said DeDe.
“I don’t understand.”
“She’s gay, Mother.”
D’orothea began to chuckle.
Frannie was lost. “Then, why would she …?”
“To throw people off the track.”
“You mean she would …?”
“She’s a star, Mother. Stars aren’t supposed to be gay.”
“Well, I know, but … that poor man!”
“Mother, he’s probably gay himself.”
“He is?”
“Yes. Now they’re both covered.”
D’orothea’s laughter gathered steam. Pushing away from the table, she threw back her head and gasped for air.
Frannie was plainly offended. “Well, just because I don’t know what her—”
“No,” DeDe cut in, “she’s not laughing at you, Mother.”
Frannie stuck out her chest like a pouter pigeon. “I mean
… really!”
“I’m sorry,” said D’orothea, rubbing her eyes, recovering control. “When are they getting married?”
Frannie continued brooding.
“Mother,” said DeDe, “when?”
“Tomorrow, I think. That’s what she came here for.”
D’orothea looked at DeDe and shrugged. “I must’ve been her bachelor party.”
After breakfast, Booter withdrew from the women and strolled through the garden, savoring the pleasant predictability of home. Out on the lawn, the children were engaged in a raucous croquet match, which he watched from afar, enjoying their enthusiasm.
When the boy came toward him in search of the ball, Booter seized the moment. “Son,” he said quietly. “Could I have a word with you?”
Edgar approached almost guiltily. Good God, thought Booter, am I really that terrifying?
“I wanted to thank you,” he said. “For your help the other night.”
The boy said nothing, shrugging a little.
“You were very brave, and I appreciate it.”
Edgar scratched the side of his neck. “How did you get away?”
Booter decided not to elaborate. “Someone else came along,” he said.
Anna yelled to the boy from the lawn. “Edgurr … hurry up.”
Booter looked at the little girl, then asked: “Did you tell her about it?”
“No,” said Edgar.
“Your mother?”
“No.”
“Why not?” asked Booter.
“They’re girls,” said Edgar.
Booter smiled at him and tousled his dark corn-silk hair. “Atta-boy.”
“Edgurr,” screamed Anna.
“I gotta go,” said the boy.
“I thought,” said Booter, “maybe we could do something next weekend. Just the two of us. Go to the museum … look for dinosaurs?”
The boy hesitated.
“We men gotta stick together, right?”
“I guess so,” said Edgar.
“Edgurr, I am leaving right this very minute!”
“Better run,” said Booter, smiling.
“She’s a pain,” said Edgar.
“Well, hang in there. Oh … tell me the answer.”
“What answer?”
“You know. What’s blue and creamy?”
“Tell you later,” said Edgar, running back to his sister.
T
HE WAKE WAS TO HAPPEN IN A HOUSE SOMEWHERE IN
the Richmond district. They drove there in Charlie’s Fairlane, so Michael kept his eyes peeled for parking places as soon as they crossed Park Presidio. “There’s one!” he called when they were still three or four blocks away.
“Fuck that,” said Charlie.
“We’re not gonna get any better,” said Michael.
Charlie tapped the dashboard, indicating a card imprinted with a wheelchair. “Handicap parking,” he said.
“Hey,” said Michael. “Perks of the eighties.”
“Right,” said Charlie. “Win a parking place and die.”
Most of the other celebrants had come directly from the inurnment at the Neptune Society Columbarium. Michael couldn’t help feeling a little fraudulent, like a bum on the sidewalk talking Chekhov with an intermission audience.
“I don’t know a soul,” he whispered, as they circled the dessert table.
“No one’s eating my pie,” said Charlie, frowning.
“Here.” Michael held out his paper plate. “I’ll take a slice.”
