Sure of You (8 page)

Hauling in the maid sounded a little too grand to him. “We can do it without her, can’t we?”

“We could,” she said. “But it’s five for dinner…six counting Puppy…and somebody’s gotta dish it out. I just thought it would be more convenient.”

“I’ll cook, then. I’ll make my paella.”

“That’s sweet, but…”

“Hey,” he said. “It was a big hit last time.”

“I know that, but I want us all to be together. What’s the point in doing this if you’re holed up in the kitchen with the clams?”

“O.K.,” he said.

“You wanna ask Michael, or shall I?”

“Why don’t you?” he said. “He sees me all day. I think it would mean more. He hasn’t heard from you for a while.”

She nodded and lifted the receiver of the wall phone.

His paranoia raged away in silence.

Dance with Me

M
ICHAEL HUNG UP THE PHONE AND WENT TO THE
bathroom, where Thack sat naked in the empty tub, shampooing Harry. Sleek as a sewer rat in his coat of lather, Harry crooned softly in protest as Thack turned on the hand spray and rinsed the poodle’s rump.

“Yes,” said Michael, talking to Harry. “You’re a good boy. What a good boy you are!”

“You should see the fleas,” said Thack.

“I bet.”

“We’ll have to bomb the house, I’m afraid.”

Michael had expected this. As much as he pretended otherwise, Thack loved nothing better than “bombing the house.” This adamant antimilitarist turned into Rambo incarnate when there were fleas to be annihilated.

“Who was that on the phone?”

“Mary Ann.”

Predictably, Thack winced.

Michael lowered the toilet seat cover and sat down. “We’re invited to dinner on Wednesday.”

Thack lifted Harry’s head and sprayed around his neck. “What brought this on?”

The implication was that Mary Ann had been keeping her distance lately. Fearing the truth of this, Michael didn’t bother to argue. “An old boyfriend’s back in town. I think she thinks it might get heavy if it was just the three of them.”

“Which old boyfriend is this?”

“The one she met on
the Pacific Princess
. Who broke the story about the cannibal cult at Grace Cathedral.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“He’s O.K., actually. I mean, he was ten years ago.”

“He’d have to be,” said Thack. “He got the hell away from her.”

Michael was tired of this kind of sniping. “He didn’t get away from her. He got a job offer in New York. He asked her to come with him, but she didn’t want to leave San Francisco.”

Thack nodded. “Too busy conquering it, no doubt.”

Michael stood up. “I’ll call her and cancel.”

“No.”

“If there’s gonna be a scene…”

Thack flicked water at him. “Sit down. Don’t be such a prima donna.”

Michael sat down.

“Can’t I just piss and moan a little?”

“If you pick a fight…”

“Who says I’m gonna pick a fight? Brian’ll be there. I like him.”

Harry made a scramble for the side of the tub, his nails clicking frantically against the porcelain. Thack scooped him up and resumed rinsing.

“He doesn’t like it too warm,” said Michael.

“I know.”

“And don’t hit his balls with the spray. He hates that.”

Thack laughed. “Yes, Alice.”

Michael gave him a dirty look.

“Well, you sounded like her,” said his lover. “Just for a minute there.”

“Great.”

“Everybody’s gotta sound like somebody.”

“Well, tell me what I’m doing, so I can fix it.”

Thack smiled. “That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

The hell it wouldn’t. Homebody or not, he was damned if he was going to turn into is mother.

“Hand me Harry’s towel,” said Thack.

This was a frayed blue beach towel bearing the logo of All-Australian Boy, a sentimental relic of Michael’s tanning days at Barbary Beach. When his heart had still been hungry, he could spend an entire afternoon just getting his body ready for the night.

He snatched the towel off the shelf above the toilet and gave it to Thack. “Let’s go somewhere,” he said.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Like where?”

“I dunno. The Rawhide II?”

“Fine by me.” Thack wrapped the towel around Harry, then set him down on the floor and gave him a brisk rubdown under the terry cloth. “What brought this on?”

“Nothing,” said Michael. “I just thought it might be fun.”

“Oh.”

“We hardly ever go out.”

Thack peered up at him wryly. “That’s what I get for calling you Alice.”

They’d been talking about going for ages. Charlie Rubin had been there several times in the month before his death and had sent back glowing reports. Michael and Thack had planned on going with Polly and Lucy, but Polly had dumped Lucy—only hours before the date, in fact—for the first runner-up in the Ms. International Leather competition. The new girlfriend preferred S & M to C & W, so Polly renounced the faith, and the boys were left dateless for the hoedown. To Michael’s unending glee, Polly had spent the next three weeks being plied with jewelry for her clitoris.

When they arrived at the Rawhide II, a dance class was in progress. The participants were in street clothes, pleasant looking but unextraordinary, as if the commuters on a BART train had acted on a sudden urge to waltz with one another. Fat and skinny, short and tall, couples of every configuration swirled around the room in a counterclockwise tide to the music of Randy Travis.

I’m gonna love you forever—

Forever and ever
,
Amen:

As long as old men live to talk about the weather—

As long as old women live to talk about old men.

Grinning uncontrollably, Michael found a stool at the bar and sat down. “What do you want?” he asked, since Thack was undoubtedly headed for the john. He peed about as often as a dog in a palm grove.

“Beer,” said Thack. “Miller’s, I guess.”

“O.K.”

“Do you see it?” He meant the men’s room.

“It’s the one marked Studs.” Michael rolled his eyes. “As opposed to Fillies.”

“How sexist,” said Thack.

When he had gone, Michael ordered the drinks. As providence would have it, his beeper went off just as his Calistoga arrived. The bartender smiled at him. “Another bionic man.”

Michael mugged ruefully. “It usually goes off on a coatrack somewhere.” He dug out his pillbox and popped two, chasing them with the Calistoga. When he was done, the man on the stool next to him gave him a knowing look, then tapped the pocket of his Pendleton.

“I’m set to go off any second.”

Michael smiled. “Last night at
Big Business
, there were enough to start a symphony.”

The man had dark, expressive eyes and the sweet E.T.ish quality Michael had come to associate with guys who’d been sick for a long time.

“Do you take the middle-of-the-night dose?” Michael asked.

The man shook his head.

“Me either. Double doses at seven and eleven?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s it going?”

The man shrugged. “I’ve got six T-cells.”

Michael nodded and counted his own blessings in silence. The last time he checked, he had three hundred and ten.

“I’m feeling real possessive about them,” said the man. “I may start giving them names.”

Michael chuckled. “You’ve said that before.”

“Not tonight,” said the man.

Thack returned and leaned against Michael’s stool, beer in hand. They watched the dance floor in silence as couple after couple revolved into view. This time the song was called “Memories to Burn.”

“Look at her,” said Thack. “Get a load of her.”

The object of his amazement was pantsuited, plump, and seventysomething. A tiny, pink-sequined sombrero was affixed to the side of her lilac hair, and she seemed to be enjoying herself no end. Her partner was a man about forty years her junior.

“She’s a stitch,” said Michael.

“She’s all yours,” said the man with six T-cells.

Michael turned and smiled at him. “You know her?”

“I guess so. She’s my mother.”

“Well…” Michael reddened. “She’s sure having a good time.”

“Isn’t she?”

Thack laughed. “She looks like a regular.”

The man grunted. “A regular
what
, we won’t say.”

“Does she live here?” Michael asked.

“She does now. She came out here five years ago from Havasu City. When I got sick.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I guess she thought I didn’t have too long, but…surprise, surprise.”

“She lives with you, then?” asked Thack.

“Oh, Lord, no. She lives with a friend of hers from Havasu City. The friend has a son here too.”

“Oh.”

“The two of ’em are real party animals.” He smiled dimly. “She knows more queers than I do.”

Thack laughed. The old lady twirled into view for a moment, waggled her fingers at her son, and twirled off again.

“She’s subdued tonight,” he said. “She’s got a whole outfit that goes with that hat.”

“You know…” Michael’s brow furrowed. “I think I’ve seen her before.”

The man looked at him. “You play bingo at Holy Redeemer?”

“No.”

“How ’bout the Bare Chest Contest at the Eagle?”

Michael laughed. “She goes to that?”

“Never misses one,” said the man.

“It must’ve been somewhere else,” said Michael.

The music ended, and the dance floor cleared. The old lady made a beeline for her son, dragging her partner by the hand.

“Ooowee,” she declared, patting her lilac wisps.

“How ’bout a Bud?” asked her son.

“Don’t mind if I do. George, this is Larry. Larry, George.”

“Hi. Uh…this is…” The man turned to Michael and Thack, looking apologetic. “We didn’t actually get each other’s names.”

“Michael.” He raised his hand in a sort of generalized greeting to all and sundry. “This is Thack.”

Nods and murmurs.

The old lady cocked her head. “Either of you boys feel like a go at it?”

“Oh, Lord,” said her son. “She’s worn out one and workin’ on another.”

“You hush up,” said the old lady.

“You don’t have to,” the man told Michael.

“I’d like to,” said Michael.

“You see, Larry,” said the old lady.

“I’m not sure I know
how
,” said Michael, seeing Thack’s amusement out of the corner of his eye.

“Nothing to it.” The old lady took his hand and led him toward the floor.

“I thought you wanted a Bud,” yelled her son.

“Hang on to it,” she called back. “Was it Michael, did you say?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’m Eula.”

“Hi,” he said.

Another song had already begun, so they waited for a space to open, then merged with the stream of waltzers. Custom seemed to demand holding your partner at arms’ length, which worked out fine, really, since Eula’s immense polyester-ruffled bosom had a few demands of its own.

“You’re doin’ good,” she said.

He chuckled. “It’s sorta the old, basic box step, isn’t it?”

“That’s it.” She nodded. “Watch those girls ahead of us. They’ve got the knack of it.”

The “girls” were a pair of fiftyish dykes in Forty-Niners jackets. They were good, all right, so Michael caught the rhythm of their movement and copied it.

“There you go,” said Eula. “You got it.”

“Well, you’re a good dancer,” Michael told her. And it was true, amazingly enough. She was remarkably light on her feet.

“First time here?” she asked.

“Uh-huh…well, no. I came here once in the early eighties, when it was called something else.”

“What was it called then?”

“I don’t remember, actually.” This was a lie, pure and simple. It had been called the Cave, and the walls had been painted black. Its specialties had been nude wrestling and slave auctions. Why he was hiding this from a woman who frequented the Eagle’s Bare Chest Contest, Michael did not know.

“That’s my son you were talking to.”

“I know,” he said. “He told me.”

“He don’t like to go out much, but every now and then I make him.”

He didn’t know what to say.

“Ronnie—that’s his lover—he’s even worse. All them boys wanna do is rent movies and stay home.”

“I know how they feel,” he said.

“Oh, now,” she said. “You’re more fun than that.”

The coquettish glint in her eye made him register finally on where he had seen her. “You were at the Castro Theatre, weren’t you? The Bow-Wow Beauty Pageant?”

“That was me,” she said.

“You had the Chihuahua, right? Dressed as Marie Antoinette?”

“Carmen Miranda.”

“Yeah. That was great.”

“Larry made the little hat,” she said proudly. “He found all them little plastic bananas down at the Flower Mart, and he sewed ’em on a doll’s bonnet.”

“Pretty clever.”

“He’s good with a needle,” she said. “He’s been working on the AIDS Quilt.”

Michael nodded.

“He’s already made ten panels for his friends.”

“That’s nice,” he replied.