Further Tales of the City (31 page)

A
FTER SLEEPING FOR ALMOST FIFTEEN HOURS, MARY
Ann awoke at 9:00
A.M
. and hurried downstairs to Mrs. Madrigal’s apartment. The landlady was in her kitchen, baking a cake.

Baking
the
cake.

Mary Ann pecked her on the cheek. “You’re so sweet to be doing that. What are those little brown specks in the batter?”

“Carrots,” said Mrs. Madrigal.

“You’re lying.”

“Then don’t ask impertinent questions. I take it you worked things out with Bambi?”

“Completely.”

“Good girl. Have you called your mother yet?”

“After the ceremony,” said Mary Ann. “I want this to be just family. I mean … my family here.”

The landlady smiled lovingly. “I knew what you meant.” She held out a spoon for Mary Ann to lick.

“Yum-hum,” said Mary Ann. “Carrots!”

DeDe phoned at eleven o’clock.

“I just saw the papers,” she said breathlessly. “I’m so sorry about Brian!”

“Thanks.”

“You poor thing! You must think this week will
never
end!”

“It can’t,” said Mary Ann, “until tonight.”

“Jesus. I’m afraid to ask.”

Mary Ann laughed. “No. It’s good this time. We’re getting married tonight. At the hospital. I’d love it if you could come.”

“Of course! How exciting! Can I bring the children?”

“That would be marvelous!”

“What about the show?”

“You mean our debut on the news?”

DeDe laughed. “Yeah.”

“Is Monday all right with you?”

“Sure,” said DeDe. “Fine.”

Mary Ann giggled. “It sounds like we just made a date for lunch or something.”

“Well … we can do that, too.”

By mid-afternoon, Mary Ann was back at the hospital. When she opened the door to Brian and Michael’s room, the sight that confronted her took her breath away.

“My God!”

Michael beamed at her from his bed. “Pretty neat, huh?” The room was a veritable jungle of greenery and flowers—most of which were obviously not indigenous to the hospital florist. Both beds were framed by boxwood bushes, passion vines trailed along the window sill, and a bright pink fuchsia drooped luxuriantly from Brian’s IV pole.

“They’re on loan,” said Brian. “Ned and a friend brought them by a little while ago.”

Mary Ann was undone. “What a sweet thing!”

Brian nodded. “You get your garden wedding, after all.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Ned. I want to call and thank him.”

“They’ll be back in a minute,” said Brian. “They went to get coffee.”

“Anyway,” said Michael, “we’ve got some questions to ask you.”

“If you mean Bambi, I’ve taken care of that.”

“What did you tell her? That the whole damn thing was a wild goose chase?”

“She doesn’t know about the kidnapping,” said Mary Ann. “She doesn’t even know about my trip to Alaska. She thinks we locked her up to prevent early release of the story.” She looked earnestly at both men. “I don’t want her—or anybody—to know about Mr. Starr.”

“Why?” asked Michael.

“Because that whole thing was a big fiasco. It’s embarrassing. It makes DeDe and me both look a little drifty.”

A smile flickered across Brian’s face. “What were you doing up there, anyway? Chartering dog sleds? Chasing Eskimos across the ice?”

“Brian …”

“And this Starr guy?” asked Michael. “You have no idea where he went after he dropped the kids off at Prue Giroux’s house?”

“None,” said Mary Ann.

“In other words, it was just Mrs. Halcyon’s dumb mistake. There was never a kidnapping. There was never a real threat of any kind. Slow curtain … The End.”

Mary Ann nodded vaguely. “That’s about it, I’m afraid.”

Michael addressed his next question to Brian. “Why do I have such a hard time believing that?”

Brian gazed lovingly at Mary Ann. “It’s all right,” he said. “She never lies to us about the important stuff.”

A bald head poked through the doorway.

“Ned!” exclaimed Mary Ann, grateful for the interruption. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done! We’ve
definitely
got to get a photographer now! Those fuchsias are the most wonderful …” Her gushing stopped when she saw the man shambling into the room behind Ned.

Brian took it from there. “Mary Ann, this is _____ ______”

“Yes,” she said, “I see.”

“He and Ned are staying for the wedding.” Brian winked at his bride-to-be. “I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

F
RANNIE HALCYON WAS HELPING HERSELF TO MORE
cinnamon toast when her daughter joined her for breakfast on the terrace at Halcyon Hill.

“How was the wedding, darling? Did everything go off all right?”

DeDe sat down and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Very sweet,” she said. “In some ways, a lot like mine. The minister even read from Gibran.”

The matriarch’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, dear. Are they
still
doing that?”

DeDe smiled. “_______ ______ was there, by the way.”

“Really? What on earth for?”

“He’s a friend of the family,” smiled DeDe.

“Oh.”

“And Mary Ann sent you a piece of the wedding cake … along with her love.”

“Bless her heart,” said Frannie. “She’s had a dreadful time of it, hasn’t she? All that frantic dashing about with you … and then her fiancé is mistaken for a homosexual.”

DeDe scowled at her. “That is hardly the point, Mother.”

“Well,” said Frannie merrily, “all’s well that ends well, I
always say. One look at my grandchildren is proof enough of that.”

“Are they up yet?” asked DeDe.

Frannie pointed to the edge of the garden. “They’re out there keeping Emma company.” She smiled benevolently at the distant figures, then turned to her daughter with a sigh. “You know … I feel awfully silly about all that.”

“All what?” asked DeDe, buttering a piece of toast.

“Well … not checking to see if Mr. Starr had come back to the ship. We maligned him dreadfully … when you come to think of it. We assumed the very worst about him.”

DeDe took a bite out of the toast. “That was a perfectly natural reaction.”

“I know. Just the same, I wish I could write him a thank-you note. Do you think he left a forwarding address with Prue?”

DeDe shook her head and continued to eat.

“He must think us awfully stupid,” added Frannie. “I mean … leaving the children like that. Think how it must have looked to
him.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said DeDe.

“He was always such a gentleman,” said Frannie, closing the subject once and for all. She turned her gaze to the garden again, then shook her head in admiration. “Emma’s such a marvel, isn’t she? Just look at her out there! She’s absolutely obsessed with that new azalea bed of hers.”

“Uh-huh,” said DeDe.

“You can’t help admiring her,” said Frannie. “Starting a new hobby at
her
age.”

DeDe nodded. “She loves this family very much.”

“I don’t care what they say,” declared the matriarch. “You can’t get help like
that
anymore.”

When the phone rang, DeDe took it in the kitchen.

“Halcyon Hill.”

“Uh … Emma?”

“No. This is DeDe.”
At last,
she could say that.

“I thought so! Thank God!”

“Who is this?”

“Who else? The Red Menace.”

“D’or! Where are you? You sound different.”

“It must be the ambience. I’m in Miami.”

“What?”

“At the Fontainebleau, no less. When I sell out, I don’t fuck around!”

DeDe laughed. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Yeah? Wanna see me?”

“Are you kidding? How soon can you get here?”

“Gimme a day or so. Listen, hon … what about your mother?”

“I’ll take care of that,” said DeDe.

Five minutes later, she hung up the phone and went out to take care of it.

M
ARY ANN AND BRIAN CHOSE GOLDEN GATE PARK AS
the site of their unofficial “honeymoon”—a lavish picnic lunch that marked their first venture into the outdoors since the knife attack. At the last minute, they asked Michael to join them.

“You know,” said Mary Ann, smearing Brie on a chunk of sourdough bread, “there’s only one thing missing today.”

“What’s that?” asked Michael.

Mary Ann smiled and handed him the morsel. “Jon,” she said.

Michael popped the bread into his mouth and turned to Brian. “Will you please tell the Little Woman to lay off for a while? She’s determined to make us Lucy & Ricky & Fred & Ethel.”

Brian grinned. “Does that make me Fred or Ricky?”

“Don’t press your luck,” said Michael. “You might be Ethel.”

“When does Jon’s ship get back?” asked Mary Ann.

“Tomorrow,” said Michael. “Pass the smoky cheddar, please.”

Brian shoved the cheese board in Michael’s direction. “Remember when you and I were here last?”

“Yeah?”

“You told me to hurry up and marry Mary Ann.”

“He
did?”
Mary Ann stopped spreading Brie and looked up. “That’s so sweet, Mouse.”

“Well,” continued Brian, still talking to Michael, “I think it’s time you married Jon.”

Michael lopped a strawberry into his mouth. “I’ve done that already.”

“Then,
remarry
him.” This was Mary Ann, putting in her own two cents’ worth.

Michael looked at them in succession. “You guys want
everybody
to be married.”

“But, it would be so wonderful, Mouse. We could all plan trips to Yosemite together … and
family
things. You’ve been looking for two years, Mouse. Have you ever found
anybody
better than Jon?”

Michael pretended to search for another strawberry.

“Everybody but you can see that. Jon is your Christmas tree man.”

“My
what?”

“You told me that, once. Before you met Jon. You said you didn’t expect that much from a relationship … just somebody nice to buy a Christmas tree with. That’s Jon, Mouse! He doesn’t even mind it when you sleep around.”

“Oh?”

Mary Ann nodded. “He told me so himself. He
loves
you.”

“He sleeps around himself,” said Michael. “Why do you think he’s on that ship?”

“Then you’re
perfect
for each other! Like me and Brian.”

Brian gave his wife a funny look. She squeezed his leg to reassure him.

“Are you meeting his ship?” she asked Michael.

A long pause, and then: “Yeah.”

Mary Ann smiled triumphantly, giving Brian’s knee a healthy shake. “You see … you see?”

“See what?” asked Michael.

“Nothing,” grinned Mary Ann.

“You’re impossible,” grumped Michael. “What did you do with the Dijon?”

But his smile betrayed him again.

High on the ridge above them, Prue Giroux made her way carefully through the rhododendron dell, disregarding once again the admonitions of her priest.

She had not set foot in Luke’s shack since her escape with the children.

Something strangely akin to remorse engulfed her as she pushed open the door of the little house and perused its scattered contents.

The walls had been horribly vandalized with spray paint. The foam rubber “sofa,” once the scene of her happiest moments, was littered with alien condoms.

“Animals,” she muttered.

Very little remained except the handmade plaque, now rudely splashed with crimson:

THOSE WHO DO NOT
REMEMBER THE PAST
ARE CONDEMNED
TO REPEAT IT

She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving that sentiment behind, so she removed the plaque from the wall and slipped it lovingly into her tote bag. Before the tears could come, she hurried out into the sunlight again and scaled the slope to the rhododendron dell.

She was halfway across the dell when she spied a familiar figure emerging from one of the enormous bushes.

“Oh … uh … Prue, darling.” It was Father Paddy, looking unusually flustered.

Prue tried to sound breezy, hoping he hadn’t deduced the reason for her visit to the dell. “Isn’t it a gorgeous day, Father?”

“Yes, indeed! God’s in his heaven, all right!”

“Mmm.”

“What are you … uh … doing in this neck of the woods?”

“Just walking Vuitton,” said Prue.

“Oh … well, it’s a lovely day for …” Before he could finish, another man emerged from the huge shrub. He greeted Prue by name, winked at Father Paddy, and sauntered off down the path, whistling contentedly.

“I didn’t know you knew Officer Rivera,” said Prue.

Father Paddy hesitated. “Actually … we just met.”

“He’s so conscientious,” observed the columnist. “It’s nice to know that there are policemen like that.”

“Yes,” said the cleric. “Yes, it is.” He took Prue’s arm suddenly. “I don’t know about you, darling, but I’m
famished.
How about a little lunch somewhere?”

“I’d adore lunch,” said Prue. “Help me find Vuitton.”

The priest scolded her with a glance. “You’ve lost him again?”

“Of course not,” said Prue. “He’s around here somewhere. Vuiiiton! Here, boy!
Vuiiiiiton! …”

ARMISTEAD MAUPIN
is the author of
Tales of the City, More
Tales of the City
, Further Tales of the City, Babycakes, Significant Others, Sure of You,
and
Maybe the Moon.
In 1994 Tales of the City became a controversial but highly acclaimed miniseries on public television.
More Tales of the City
became a Showtime original miniseries in 1998.Maupin lives in San Francisco.

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“In this third book of
Tales,
Maupin watches his
characters with a sharp eye and describes them with a
sharper tongue, but his bemused irony is tempered with
such obviously genuine affection that the result is both
uplifting and urbane.”
Philadelphia Inquirer

“The abrupt violence in this once-lighthearted novel reads as
much more dangerous—and true—because we’ve been
fooled into going along with what seemed to be a joke.
Maupin is a mask-wearer, like many of his actors. He is also
capable of compassion, of making us care about and care for
the players. They may behave indecently but they are
innocents; the villains live in the larger world
beyond Barbary Lane.”
Los Angles Times

“Armistead Maupin is a first rate, world-class novelist,
creating characters so vivid, complicated, tender, and true as
to seem utterly timeless….I’m willing to bet that fifty years
from now Maupin’s work will be read for its detailed
descriptions of late twentieth century America, its rollicking
humor and kind heart, its Chekovian compassion, its
Wildean wit, its intricate … sometimes unbelievable
but always utterly irresistible plotlines.”
Stephen McCauley

“Like those of Dickens and Wilkie Collins, Armistead
Maupin’s novels have all appeared originally as serials. It is
the strength of this approach, with its fantastic adventures
and astonishingly contrived coincidences, that makes these
novels charming and compelling. Everything is explained
and everything tied up and nothing is lost by reading
them individually. There is no need even to
read them chronologically.”
Literary Review