Sure of You (23 page)

“I realize that.”

“Well…you sounded pretty judgmental.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s typical of her not to level with the kid, to make it even worse by…”

“She’s got to tell her something, Brian.”

“Tell her the truth, then. Tell her I’m hurt and pissed. What’s so difficult about that?”

“Is that what you told her?”

“No…not exactly…”

“O.K., then. She’s just trying to spare Shawna’s feelings.”

“And I’m not, huh?”

“Brian…”

“It’s
my
fault her mother’s running off to join the goddamn circus. I get it.”

“I’m not talking about fault, Brian. If you would just sit down and hash this out with her…”

“Have you talked to her or something? Did she tell you to say this?”

“No.”

“She’s been giving you grief, hasn’t she? What did she do? Accuse you of defecting?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “I haven’t talked to her once since you left.”

“Well…”

“I do think it’s time you grew up a little and talked to her. You’re only making things worse.”

“Is that right?”

“The longer you put it off…”

“Thanks, Michael. I get the point. Just what I needed—another nagging wife.”

Michael stuck his clippers in his belt and began to walk away.

“Wait,” said Brian. “I’m sorry, man. Don’t listen to me. I don’t mean this shit.”

“I can’t handle it, Brian. I don’t know what to tell you anymore.”

“You don’t have to. I don’t expect you to.”

“You haven’t stopped pumping me all week. I can’t keep playing middleman like this.”

“When have I ever…?”

“Oh, Jesus, Brian, for years and years. I’d like to have a nickel for every time you’ve asked me what she really thinks about something.”

“Because she talks to you, man. She never tells me shit. You know stuff about my life that I don’t even know.”

Michael gave him a long, steely glance. “It helps to get her trust first.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, Brian…”

“No. Tell me. I wanna know.”

Michael gave him a weary little smile. “You fucked around on her so much.”

“If you mean Geordie…”

“No. Not just Geordie. What about that woman from Philadelphia?”

“What woman from Philadelphia?”

“You know. Brigid Something. With the tits and the saddle shoes. You said she was your cousin. Give me a big break.”

Brian remembered. He had brought her by the nursery one day years ago, long before he’d become a partner here. He had just come off an incredible nooner and wanted to show her off a little. Michael had still been a bachelor, still a trusted co-conspirator in matters of lust.

“Did you tell Mary Ann about that?” he asked.

“Hell, no,” said Michael. “She told me. I had no idea. I thought the cousin bit sounded too obvious to be an out-and-out lie.”

“Then how could she have possibly…?”

“She’s got eyes, Brian. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

Brian took this in, smarting a little. “Did she just tell you this?”

“No. Years ago.”

“Then why are you bringing it up now?”

His partner heaved a sigh. “Because you keep acting so wronged.”

“I am wronged.”

“Fine.”

“When did you get to be such a little Calvinist, anyway?”

“I’m not talking about sex; I’m talking about lying.”

“I haven’t fucked around for years, and you know it.”

“Since Geordie, right? Since you got scared shitless. Sorry, but no cigar.”

Brian’s face was aflame. “This is really ironic coming from you.”

“From me? Why is that?”

“You were the Whore of Babylon, Michael.”

“Maybe so, but I wasn’t married.”

“Only because you couldn’t be. You and Jon were a couple. If he were still alive…” He cut himself off, horrified by the careless ease with which he’d waded into these waters.

“If he were still alive, what?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Michael regarded him with cow-eyed melancholy, then walked back to the office without a word.

They avoided each other for the rest of the day.

Remembering’s Different

I
WOULDN’T COUNT ON HIM,”
MICHAEL TOLD THACK THAT
evening. “Not for dinner, anyway.”

Thack looked up from the chicken breasts he was breading. Behind him, beyond the big window, the fog tumbled into the valley like white lava. “What happened?”

“We had a fight.”

“Over what?”

“Nothing much. We called each other sluts.”

Thack arranged the breasts on a baking dish. “How tired.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Was it over Mary Ann?”

Michael paused. “Somewhat.”

“Thought so.”

“Well…he was getting so sanctimonious. He hasn’t exactly been a saint. She’s had plenty of reason to…”

The phone rang.

Michael picked it up, pulling out the antenna. “Hello.”

“It’s me, Mouse.” It was Mary Ann.

“Hi.”

“Is he there?”

“No.”

“Is that her?” asked Thack, not exactly
sotto voce.

Michael gave him an annoyed nod and turned away. “I’ll tell him you called, O.K.?”

“No. Don’t. You’re the one I wanted.”

“What for?”

“She’s gonna suck you in.” Thack was being a real pain. Michael gave him a dirty look and walked out of the kitchen. The cordless model came in handy sometimes.

“How ’bout a date, Mouse?”

In the living room, he collapsed on the sofa and kicked off his shoes. “Come again?”

“Don’t make this hard on me,” she said.

“Well, what are you talking about?”

“I’ve got tickets to this open house tonight.” She paused dramatically. “Would you like to go with me?”

“Babycakes…look…”

“I feel so ganged up on, Mouse.” Her voice was small and plaintive.

“Well, you shouldn’t,” he said, melting fast.

“How can I not?” She sounded almost on the verge of tears. “Come with me, Mouse. Just so we can talk. We don’t have to stay long.”

“If you just wanna talk, can’t we just…?”

“I have to be there. I’m committed. I thought Brian would be here when I told them…”

“Oh…so you need a walker.”

Her response was grave and wounded. “You know that’s not true. I just thought we could…”

“Kill two birds with one stone?”

The silence was so long he wondered if she’d hung up. “Why am I so awful?” she said at last. “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, why are you acting like this?”

He heaved a sigh of resignation.

“I thought you’d enjoy it,” she said. “It’s black tie, and it’s in this beautiful house out at Sea Cliff.”

Thack, of course, saw his acquiescence as something just short of betrayal.

“Give me a break,” Michael argued. “I can’t stop seeing her just because they’re…”

“Why not? She dumped him, didn’t she? That’s clear enough.”

“And we men have got to stick together. Is that it?”

Thack frowned. “What do our dicks have to do with it?”

“A lot, if you ask me.”

“You think I’m being sexist?”

Michael shrugged. “Maybe unconsciously.”

“Well, you’re full of shit, then.”

“I didn’t say…”

“Is that what she told you? That this was the men versus one poor little woman?”

“No.”

“She’s jerking you around, Michael. Just the way she does him. She’ll say anything to get what she wants.”

“And women aren’t supposed to do that.”

“Nobody’s supposed to do that! It’s got nothing to do with sexism. You know I’m not a sexist. Why are you so blind about this? I don’t get it.”

Michael let him calm down for a moment. “You haven’t known her as long as I have.”

“Well, maybe I can see her more clearly, then.”

“Maybe you can.” He sighed. “You want me to cancel?”

“Do what you want to do.”

“Oh, right.”

“I’m not gonna lie to Brian about it.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Michael’s tone was glacial as he left the room. “I hadn’t planned to myself.”

His tux was spotted in several places and required major sponging. His dress shirt was clean, but he ended up stapling the cuffs, since he couldn’t find his cuff links and he wasn’t about to ask Thack for his. His beeper went off in the middle of this procedure, causing him to fling down the stapler and skulk off in search of water.

Back in the bedroom, he sat on the bed and finished dressing. As he put on his socks, he spotted something on his ankle—his lower calf, really—that he hadn’t noticed before. He leaned over to look at it.

“Hey,” said Thack, walking into the room, “if you wanna wear my red cummberbund, go ahead.”

Michael didn’t answer.

“What is it?”

“Come here a second. Look at this.”

His lover came to the bed. “Where?”

“There.”

Thack studied the purplish inflammation, touching it lightly with his forefinger.

“Does that look like it?”

No answer.

“It does to me.”

“I don’t think so,” said Thack. “It looks like a zit or something. Something healing. Look at the edges of it.”

When had he ever seen a zit down there? “The color seems right, though.”

“Go see August, then, if it worries you. Isn’t tomorrow your day for pentamidine?”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll put your mind at ease, anyway.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Thack, shaking Michael’s knee. “I’ll get the cummerbund.”

Mary Ann had done a show that morning on baby evangelists, so that was what they talked about on the long drive to Sea Cliff. His guess was that the heavier stuff would come later, when they were both feeling a little more sure of each other.

The fog in Sea Cliff was as dense as he had ever seen it. The house was seventies modern, a cluster of multileveled metallic boxes with thick glass walls overlooking the ocean. Flash-cubes of the Gods, he thought, as Mary Ann turned the Mercedes over to a valet parker.

“What’s the deal here?” he asked. The lights along the path glowed soft and spongy in the fog. Out on the darkling plain of the Golden Gate there were horns bleating like lost sheep.

“We just walk through and look at it,” she said. “It’s a benefit for the ballet.”

“Whose house is it?”

“I don’t know, really. Some guy who died. He left a provision in his will that they could let people see it after he died.”

“How odd.”

“Well…he was a realtor.” She shrugged as if this explained it.

Suddenly it hit him. “Arch Gidde. Was that his name?”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s it.”

“Christ.”

“You knew him?”

“Not very well. Jon did. He used to come here all the time.”

“This Gidde guy was gay?”

“What did you think he died of?”

“Prue said it was liver cancer or something.”

“Right,” said Michael.

“Well…I guess he has a right to his privacy.”

Michael knew what Thack would have said to that.

The house was nicer than he’d imagined, but this was hardly the night to show off its view. The fog pressed against the windows like a fat lady in ermine. While Mary Ann sought out “somebody in charge,” he loitered in the living room and gave the place an embarrassed once-over. It seemed a little callous to be checking out the digs of a dead man, even with the blessing of the deceased.

He remembered the day the realtor had propositioned him at the nursery—back when it was still God’s Green Earth. Arch had come in for primroses and recognized Michael as an ex-lover of Jon’s. Moving in for the kill, he had stuffed a business card into Michael’s overalls and made an overt and clumsy reference to owning a Betamax.

Now “Betamax” had the ring of “Gramophone,” and the travertine reaches of Arch Gidde’s living room, circa 1976, seemed as quaintly archival as a Victorian parlor preserved in a museum. The focal point was a gleaming chrome fireplace (with a matching chrome bin for the logs). Facing the hearth was a pair of enormous Italian sofas—pale arcs of buttery leather, burnished over the years by the endless buffing of gym-toned asses. The only thing missing was a lone anthurium in a crystal vase.

He could picture Jon here easily, sprawled in the golden light like some surly sweater spread out of
GQ
. He had been a mess in those days, but he had changed dramatically toward the end, and that freer, more forgiving person was the one Michael chose to remember.

“Wait till you see the bedroom.”

Mary Ann was back, taking his arm at the bar as he ordered a Calistoga.

“Is it nice?”

“The walls are brown suede. And padded. It’s such a
womb
.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Nothing. No, fuck that. A white wine.”

“Hey,” said Michael. “Wild woman.”

She smiled at him. “I’m so glad you’re with me.”

When their drinks came, he lifted his to hers. “To things getting better.”

She took a sip, then said: “Why am I no good at this, Mouse?”

“At what?”

“Ending things.”

“Oh.”

“I wanted so much not to hurt him…to do it the right way…”

“You think there is one?”

“One what?”

“A right way.”

“I don’t know.” She took a sip of her wine. “I guess if I’d told him earlier…”

“Yeah.”

“I know I’m doing what has to be done. But even so…I feel like such a piece of shit, you know?” She looked at him almost reverently, as if she was expecting absolution.

“Well, c’mon…you’re not a piece of shit.”

The room was beginning to fill up. It seemed to make her uneasy. “Why don’t we get away from the bar?” she said.

“Fine.”

They found a quieter spot—a den of sorts—on a lower level. “The thing is,” she said, continuing where she’d left off, “I can’t ever remember what it was like when I did feel something toward him. I wake up some mornings, and I look at him, and I think: How did this happen?”

What did she expect him to say to that?