Further Tales of the City (20 page)

C
LAIRE MCALLISTER’S HUSBAND WAS IN THE CASINO
again, so the raven-haired ex-chorine sought out Frannie’s company on the Promenade Deck of the
Sagafjord.
Frannie was thrilled to see her.

“Pull up a chair,” she smiled, laying down her Danielle Steel novel. “I haven’t talked to a grown-up in ages.”

Claire mugged amiably. “Who you callin’ a grown-up?”

“You’ll do,” said Frannie. “Believe me.”

Claire lowered her formidable frame into an aluminum deck chair and sighed dramatically. “So where
are
the little darlings?”

Frannie shushed her with a forefinger to the lips. “Don’t even mention it, Claire. It’s almost too good to be true.”

“What?”

Frannie made a sweeping gesture with her arm. “This. Solitude. Blessed relief. I
adore
the children, as you know, but …”

“You’ve found a baby-sitter!”

The matriarch nodded triumphantly. “It was his idea, poor man. I hope he hasn’t bitten off more than he can chew.”

“Do I know him?” asked Claire, pulling a blanket across her lap.

“I think so,” said Frannie. “Mr. Starr.”

Claire drew a blank.

“You know,” added Frannie. “That American stockbroker from London.”

“That good-looking thing traveling with the hoity-toity blonde?”

Frannie smiled demurely. “They aren’t exactly traveling together.”

“Horseshit.”

“They met on the ship,” the matriarch explained, her face burning from the profanity. “I know her … somewhat remotely. She’s a gossip columnist in San Francisco. I’m afraid she’s a little common.”

Claire snorted. “You’d think she was the Queen of Sheba. She puts on airs something fierce. What the hell does that elegant man see in her?”

Frannie shrugged. “She’s rather pretty, don’t you think? I understand she listens well, too. At any rate, I can’t complain; she introduced me to
him.
I think I’m relaxed for the first time since we left San Francisco.”

“Did the children take to him?”

“Like a house on fire! He’s full of wonderful stories and jokes.” Frannie thought for a moment. “You know, he’s rather moody around adults … not sullen or rude, really … just introspective. Around the children, though, he’s a bundle of energy! He never stops trying to impress them. He’s like a child competing for a grown-up’s attention, instead of the other way around.”

“He sounds perfect,” said Claire.

Frannie nodded. “I think it’s important for the children to have a masculine presence.” She didn’t elaborate on this thesis, but it gave her pleasure to articulate it to a woman as sensible and down-to-earth as Claire. The twins had never had a father, after all … only that woman who had kept DeDe company in Guyana and Cuba. It wasn’t natural, Frannie reminded herself. Thank God for Mr. Starr!

“Say,” said Claire, after an interlude of silence, “Jimbo has a little business to do when we dock this afternoon. Hows-about
you and me exploring Sitka together? There’s a darling little Russian church and some marvelous scrimshaw shops. A couple of girls on the town … whatdya say?”

Frannie hesitated. “Well … I …”

“I
know
it’s a thrilling offer, honey, but try not to bust a gut!”

Frannie smiled apologetically. “I was just thinking … well, the children.”

“Can’t your Mr. Starr take them off your hands for a while?”

Frannie’s brow wrinkled.
“He did
offer, as a matter of fact.”

“Wonderful! Then, it’s settled!”

“It seems such an imposition, though.”

“Look, honey, if that man is cuckoo for kids, that’s
his
problem, not yours. You’ve gotta learn to recognize a gift from God when you see one!”

Frannie conceded with a grin. “You’re right. This
is
supposed to be a vacation.”

“Exactly,” said Claire.

Half-an-hour later, when Frannie went to pick up the twins, she found them giggling under a “fort” that Mr. Starr had constructed from two deck chairs and a blanket. Edgar had done that often—for DeDe—long, long ago.

Without announcing herself, Frannie stood outside the woolen shelter and reveled in the mirthful music of her grandchildren’s voices.

Then Mr. Starr began to sing to them:

“Bye baby bunting, Daddy’s gone a-hunting, gone to get a rabbit skin to wrap the baby bunting in …”

The sheer familiarity of that ancient nursery rhyme was all the reassurance the matriarch needed.

It was comforting to know that some things never changed.

M
RS. MADRIGAL’S ANGULAR FACE SEEMED EVEN
more radiant than usual as she reached for the heavy iron skillet that meant breakfast at 28 Barbary Lane.

“I still can’t take it in,” she said. “Two eggs or three, dear?”

“Three,” said Michael. “Neither can I. I’ve been promoting it for months, but I didn’t think either one of them could handle the commitment right now. Mary Ann more so than Brian, I guess.”

Mrs. Madrigal cracked three eggs into the skillet, discarded the shells, and wiped her long fingers on her paisley apron. “I was the one who introduced them. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“I did,” beamed the landlady. “Just after Mary Ann moved in. I had a little dinner one night, and Mary Ann told me she was afraid there weren’t enough straight men in San Francisco.” Mrs. Madrigal smiled nostalgically. “That was before she knew about me, of course. If she
had,
I suppose we would’ve lost her to Cleveland for good.”

Michael smiled. “So you introduced her to Brian?”

“Not exactly. I told Brian she needed help moving the furniture. I let them take care of the rest. Wheat toast or rye, dear?”

“Wheat, please.”

“It was an unmitigated disaster, of course. Brian was a shameless womanizer, and Mary Ann was madly in love with Beauchamp Day at the time—God help her.” The landlady shook her head with rueful amusement.
“Then
she started dating the detective that Mona’s mother hired to check up on me.”

Michael nodded soberly.

“I was always rather glad he disappeared, weren’t you?” Her grin was as mischievous as it could get. “I do wonder what happened to him, though.”

Michael felt himself squirming. He avoided this subject as much as possible. Mary Ann alone had witnessed the detective’s fall from a cliff at Lands End, and she had shared that secret with no one but Michael. There were some things that even Mrs. Madrigal should never be allowed to know.

“Then came Burke Andrew,” said Michael, moving right along, “and those cannibals at Grace Cathedral.”

Mrs. Madrigal’s Wedgwood eyes rolled extravagantly. “She knows how to pick ‘em, doesn’t she?”

“Yep. But I think she’s finally got it right.”

“So do I,” said the landlady. “I’m a little surprised, frankly.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I just have this gut feeling she’s up to something. She seems so preoccupied lately. I would have guessed marriage to be the last thing on her mind.”

“So,” asked the landlady as they sat down to eat, “what has our wandering boy been up to lately?”

Michael pretended to be engrossed in the marmalade jar. “Oh … nothing much.” He knew she was inquiring into his love life, and he didn’t feel like talking about it. “I’m having
a celibacy attack, I think. I stay home and watch TV a lot.”

“How
is
that?”

“How is what?”

The landlady flicked a crumb off the corner of her mouth. “TV.”

Michael laughed. “My favorite thing this week was a special report on circumcision.”

“Indeed?” Mrs. Madrigal buttered another piece of toast.

“It was a hoot,” said Michael. “They interviewed a circumcision expert named Don Wong.”

“No!”

Michael crossed his heart. “Swear to God.”

“And what did he have to say?”

Michael shrugged. “Just that there’s no valid reason anymore for mutilating little boys at birth. Jesus. How long does it take people to figure things out? My mother isn’t exactly a modern thinker, but she knew
that
thirty years ago.”

Mrs. Madrigal smiled. “You should write her a thank you note.”

“The funny thing is … I hated it when I was a kid. I was always the only kid in the shower room who wasn’t circumcised, and it bugged the hell out of me. Mama said: ‘You just keep yourself clean, Mikey, and you’ll thank me for this later. There’s not a thing wrong with what God gave you.’”

“Smart lady,” said Mrs. Madrigal.

Michael nodded enthusiastically. “I was invited to an orgy this week.”

The landlady set her teacup down.

“It was for uncut guys only.”

She blinked at him twice.

“It’s O.K.,” said Michael. “It was a benefit.”

“Oh, really?”

“For the chorus.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Madrigal’s deadpan was ruthless. “A foreskin festival. Do they check you at the door or what?”

Michael laughed. “I know. It’s pretty silly. Still … I’m glad that attitudes have changed. There’s no reason in the world to be snipping at your genitalia.”

The landlady looked down at her teacup, suppressing a
smile until Michael added hastily: “Unless, of course, you’re prepared to go all the way.”

Mrs. Madrigal looked up again and winked.

“More coffee, dear?”

A
VIGOROUS FUR-TRADING MONOPOLY IN THE LAST
century had given Sitka a distinctively Russian cast: a Russian blockhouse, Russian grave markers everywhere, Cossack dancers performing for tourists, even a pretty Russian Orthodox cathedral in the center of town.

Prue adored every inch of it.

“Isn’t it incredible, Luke? To think that this is America!”

Luke, however, was occupied with the orphans. He was kneeling next to them on the street, adjusting the miniature fur-trimmed parkas he had bought for them half-an-hour earlier. With the hoods up, the children looked like little Eskimos, almost too adorable to be true.

“Isn’t it a little warm for that?” asked Prue. “The weather’s practically like San Francisco.”

He looked up distractedly. “Be with you in a second.”

He hadn’t even heard her. Ordinarily, she might have been annoyed, or faintly jealous. Prue resented people—like Frannie Halcyon and her friend Claire, for instance—who demanded so much attention from Luke that they diminished her share of his love.

But the children were different. Seeing them with Luke, Prue remembered what it was that had captivated her about the scruffy, ill-dressed phantom who had cared for her wolfhound in Golden Gate Park. Luke related to children the way he related to animals—as a peer who respected their feelings.

The little girl knew that already. “Mr. Starr,” she chirped, tugging on his arm. “Take us on a flying boat,
please.
Take us on a flying boat.”

Prue smiled. “You told them about our float plane trip.”

Luke didn’t look up. “They pick up on things fast.”

“They speak English so well,” Prue observed. “For Vietnamese, I mean.”

Luke zipped up the little boy’s parka. “They’re refugees. They may have been raised by Americans … I don’t know.” There was a slightly caustic edge to his voice, implying that Prue should mind her own business. Suddenly, she felt as if she had walked in on a private conversation.

The little boy took up the cry. “Flying boat! Yeah! Take us on a flying boat!”

Luke confronted him sternly. “Edgar … not now!”

A tiny lower lip pushed out. “You promised.”

“His name is Edgar?” asked Prue.

Luke ignored her.

“Edgar was Frannie’s husband’s name. Do you think she named him?”

“Prue, would you shut up, please! I’m having enough trouble with
these
children!” The vehemence of the attack stunned her momentarily, until she realized that the children
were
genuinely upset. They were sniffling softly, not in a bratty way, but as if a trust had been violated.

“Luke,” she said warily, “if you promised them a float plane trip, I wouldn’t mind doing it again. Really.”

Luke stood up. He was rigid with anger. The big vein in his neck had begun to throb. “I didn’t promise them anything,” he muttered. “C’mon, we haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Prue assumed a placatory tone of voice. “A little food would do us all some good.” She smiled down at the orphans. “I’ll bet they have yummy ice cream in Alaska. Shall we go see?”

They peered up at her wet-eyed—sad, round faces encircled
in fur—then reached out for her hands.

Luke walked ahead of them, sulking.

His mood had improved considerably by the time they reached the restaurant, a knotty-pine-and-Formica greasy spoon near the cathedral.

“The meatloaf isn’t bad,” he said. “How’s your salad?” A feeble attempt at apologizing, but an effort nonetheless.

She decided to smile at him. “Awful. It serves me right for ordering a salad in Alaska.” She turned to the children. “Those hot dogs went down awfully fast.”

The orphans flashed mustardy grins at her. She marveled at how soon children could forget a hurtful situation. Then she reached across the table and stroked Luke’s hand. “Do I dare risk the little girls’ room?”

“Go ahead,” he winked. “The experience will do you good.”

The bathroom proved to be pungent with disinfectant, but surprisingly clean. She was there for five minutes, taking care of business and thanking the powers-that-be that her first significant conflict with Luke had fizzled out before it exploded.

When she returned to the dining room, their table was empty. Luke and the orphans were gone.

“Excuse me,” she asked the man behind the counter. “My friend and the children, did they …”

“They paid up and left,” said the man.

“What?
Left? Where did they go? Did they say?”

The man shrugged. “I figured you’d know.”

T
HE MAN BEHIND THE COUNTER SAW THE CONFUSION IN
Prue’s face and managed a kindly smile. “Maybe he just expects you to … catch up with him.”

“He didn’t say
anything?”

“No ma’am. Just paid the bill and took off.”

Prue stared at him, mortified, then glanced at the empty table again. Luke had left a tip, she noticed. What in God’s name was happening? Was this his way of punishing her? That little tussle over the float plane trip certainly didn’t justify this kind of childish stunt.

And what right had he to involve the orphans in this … this … whatever it was? Prue was livid now, scarlet with humiliation. There had better be a damn good explanation.

She left the restaurant and looked both ways down the street. They were nowhere in sight. To her right, the little gray-and-white frame Russian cathedral offered refuge to a steady stream of tourists. Maybe
that
was it. Maybe the children had grown restless while she was in the rest room, and Luke had taken them to the next logical stop on their tour of Sitka.

Maybe he had expected her to know that.

She entered the cathedral, paid a two-dollar donation, and stood in the back, scanning the room. She recognized several people from the
Sagafjord,
including the loud brunette who hung out with Frannie Halcyon, but Luke and the orphans were not there.

Out in the sunlight again, she considered her alternatives. If Luke was, in fact, trying to teach her some sort of lesson, then he could just go to hell. She could see the town on her own, if need be. On the other hand, what if some unforeseen emergency had arisen which had
demanded
that Luke leave the restaurant?

But what could have happened in five minutes?

She strode back to the restaurant, surveying it once more through a grease-streaked window.

Nothing.

Keep calm,
she ordered herself.
There’s an explanation for this.
If he had planned on upsetting her, he had succeeded completely. She would never let him know that, though. She would not let him see her cry.

Reversing her course, she walked in the direction of the ship, casting anxious sideways glances down the cross streets. When she was three blocks from the cathedral, she passed a narrow alleyway where a small furry figure caught her eye.

It was one of the orphans. The little girl.

She was standing at the end of the alleyway, framed prettily against a weathered wooden building.

“Hey!” shouted Prue.

The little girl remained immobile for a moment, looking confused, then waved tentatively.

Her name,
thought Prue.
What was it?

Remembering, she yelled again. “Anna! It’s me! Is Mr. Starr down there?”

Her answer came in the form of a looming shadow … and then Luke himself, lunging in from the left to snatch up the startled child.

“Luke! For God’s sake, what are you doing?”

His head pivoted jerkily, like the head of a robot, as he turned to look into her terrified face. The alien rage in his eyes made her blood run cold. Who was this man?
Who in the world was he?

She ran towards him, screaming: “What have I done, Luke? Just tell me what I’ve done!”

But he was gone again, sprinting down another alleyway with Anna under his arm.

Prue kept running, her heart pounding savagely in her chest. She watched Luke cross a vacant lot, then disappear into a thicket of weeds and wildflowers. Where was the other orphan, anyway?
What had he done with Edgar?

When she tried to follow, her heel caught on a rusty bedspring, wrenching her violently to the ground. She lay there, disbelieving, choking on her sobs while blood gushed from her ankle.

“LUKE,” she screamed. “PLEASE LUKE, I’M BLEEDING … PLEASE … PLEASE….”

But there wasn’t a sound.

Still on her stomach, Prue jerked an oily rag from beneath a discarded refrigerator and clamped it frantically against her ankle, scattering the flies that had already begun to gather.

She eased herself into a sitting position, leaning against the refrigerator as her eyes glazed over with the full horror of the thing that had happened:

A man with no last name, a man she had loved, a man carrying the identification of Father Paddy Starr, had kidnapped the foster grandchildren of Frannie Halcyon in a small town in Southeast Alaska. And the
Sagafjord
would sail in less than two hours.

It was time to pay the piper.