“I can’t, Mona.”
Mona turned and saw the piteous expression on the old woman’s face. Mother Mucca took several steps toward her. “Mona, darlin’ … I don’t look like an ol’ witch, do I?”
“Oh, Mother Mucca … you’re beautiful! Don’t worry, please. Anna’s gonna love you.”
“We ain’t brought her nothin’.”
Mona hugged her. “We’re all she needs.”
“Yeah?”
Mona smiled. “Yeah.”
“Well, ring the doorbell, girl!”
Key to Her Heart
UP IN THE STARLIGHT LOUNGE, MARY ANN AND BURKE hoisted Pina Coladas and proposed a toast. “To new memories,” said Burke.
“Right, and to—” She frowned suddenly, realizing with a little shiver that the pianist had begun to belt out “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.”
“Burke … if that bothers you, I don’t mind asking him to stop.”
He smiled weakly. “I hadn’t noticed it.”
“Until I mentioned it, huh?”
“It’s O.K.”
“I’m sorry, Burke.”
He downed his drink. “I can’t bury my head in the sand, Mary Ann.”
“I wish there was something I could—”
“It’s just something I have to deal with, that’s all. I mean, you can’t avoid roses, can you?” His mouth curled in a rueful smile. “Try it sometime.”
“I know. It must be … Burke, couldn’t a psychiatrist do something? It seems like … well, if you could cure your amnesia, wouldn’t that take care of your fear of roses and … walkways with railings or whatever?”
“I’ve seen a shrink already.”
“Oh.”
“He hypnotized me and interrogated me and did everything but stick pins in a voodoo doll … and not a goddam thing happened. Except his bill at the end of the month.”
Mary Ann stared down at her drink for a moment, wondering how she could phrase the next question. “Burke, what if you …?”
“Yeah?”
“Oh … nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing.”
“Well, I was wondering if … Wouldn’t it jog your memory or something if you … came back to San Francisco?”
An interminable silence followed. She had risked this question not once but twice. Her face flushed instantly, and Burke seemed to sense her embarrassment. “It would almost be worth it,” he said at last, “to be around you.”
Mary Ann tore the edge off her cocktail napkin. “It just seems like … well, if you were exposed to some of the old places and … experiences and all, your memory might come back and you could sort of … exorcise your phobias.” She looked up at him imploringly. Her eyes were full of tears. “Oh, who the hell am I fooling!”
He dabbed at her eyes with a cocktail napkin. “Not me,” he smiled.
“I hate goodbyes. I always lose it. Always.”
“I know. Me too.”
“Nothing’s ever been quite as nice as this.”
“I know. I agree.”
“You do?”
He nodded.
“Well, then, why don’t we …? Oh, God, do I look like I’m begging?”
He held both her hands in his. “Do I look like I’m saying no, dummy?”
They snuggled under a blanket on the fantail, watching the lights along the shore.
“You won’t be sorry,” she said.
“You don’t have to promise that. You can’t.”
“What about your parents?”
“I’ll phone and tell them. They’ll understand.”
“Won’t they be a little … freaked. I mean, about San Francisco?”
“No more than I am.”
“Don’t be. I’ll be there this time.” She paused, then said as offhandedly as possible: “In fact, if you’d like, I think there’s a vacancy in my building.”
“Good. Where’s that?”
“Russian Hill. Barbary Lane. It’s a darling little walkway, like something out of a fairy tale, and the landlady’s so neat. Michael lives downstairs.”
“Where’s the vacancy, then?”
“Just across the hall.”
“Handy.”
She giggled. “The guy who lived there moved up to this little house on the roof.” Never mind what had happened to the guy who’d lived there.
Sitting up, Burke reached in the pocket of his windbreaker and handed Mary Ann a small package wrapped in tissue paper. She peeled it away, layer by layer, scarcely taking her eyes off Burke’s embarrassed face.
Inside, suspended from a twenty-four-karat gold necklace, was the curious little key he had shown her on the beach.
“For what it’s worth,” he said almost apologetically, “I love you.”
DeDe on the Town
DEDE KNEW SHE MADE A LUDICROUS SIGHT. AN EIGHT-MONTHS-PREGNANT woman dining alone at the counter at Vanessi’s, her battered Gucci tote bag propped against the stool.
Well, screw it, she thought. North Beach had seen weirder things. A lot weirder. Like that freaky teeny-bopper hanging out in front of Enrico’s. Green hair and a garbage bag. Yecch!
Besides, she loved this restaurant. She delighted in its unaffected sophistication and burly Italian chefs who wielded skillets with all the grace and precision of tennis players.
Beauchamp, she realized, was probably home at the penthouse, and that was only four blocks up the hill. While she dreaded the prospect of a confrontation with her husband, she also drew a kind of perverse pleasure from the knowledge that she was stalking the old neighborhood on her own.
What puzzled her now was why her mother hadn’t protested this unorthodox trek into town. She had barely looked up from the suitcase she was packing for the trip to Napa. She had seemed curiously distracted.
But by what?
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in one of the booths?”
DeDe looked up from her sweetbreads at the kind brown eyes that had posed the question. The woman was very pretty, with dark curly hair and cheekbones that Veruschka would have killed for.
“Thanks. I like watching the show,” she replied, motioning to the chefs behind the counter.
“Oh, God, isn’t it marvelous? I think it’s the best therapy there is, watching them fling that zucchini in the air. You expect all hell to break loose, but it never does.”
“Unlike life.”
The woman laughed. “Unlike life.”
A waiter set a huge plate of pasta in front of the woman. “Well,” she sighed, with a grin, “oink, oink, oink.”
“You look fine,” said DeDe “I’m the one who ought to be watching it.”
“Well, you’re eating for two, honey!”
“Three.”
The woman whistled. “You get dessert, then.”
They both laughed. The woman was quite fair-skinned, DeDe observed, but there was something almost negroid about the warmth and earthiness of her mannerisms. DeDe liked her immediately.
Setting her fork down, the woman smiled at her. “You’re not married, are you?”
Silence.
“Oh, God,” said the woman. “If you’re a tourist, forgive me. We’re a little too liberated for our own good in this town.”
“No … I mean, yes, I’m married, but I’m separated … I mean, we’re separated. I live here, though. I’m a native.”
“Mmm. Me too. If you count Oakland, that is.”
“I have lots of friends in Piedmont.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She appeared to understand the East Bay caste system all too well.
“Why did you think I wasn’t married?”
The woman turned and scrutinized DeDe’s face, as if to reconfirm something. “I don’t know. You just look … independent.”
“I do?”
The woman smiled. “No. But I thought you’d like to hear it.”
DeDe looked down at her food, fascinated by this stranger’s insight, and a little afraid of it. “Do you think it’s too late
for me to … do something about it?”
An elfin grin spread over the woman’s face. “What would you like to do—I mean, right this very minute—if you could do anything you wanted and … you didn’t have friends in Piedmont who might not approve of it?”
DeDe smiled uneasily. “Oh … you mean, in the neighborhood?”
“If you like.”
“I’d like to see that topless dancer across the street who turns into a gorilla.”
“Why?”
“Just to see how they do it. With mirrors, I guess.”
The woman shook her head soberly. “It’s actually a gorilla in a girl mask with a flesh-colored body stocking.”
“You mean they …?” When the light dawned, DeDe laughed. “You see how gullible I am?”
“There’s only one way to find out for sure.”
“You’re joking!”
“There’s nothing I’d rather do than take a pregnant friend to a topless lady gorilla act.”
DeDe thought for a moment, then extended her hand. “It’s a deal. I’m DeDe Day … or DeDe Halcyon. Take your pick.”
A flicker of recognition seemed to pass over the woman’s face. “Have we met before?” asked DeDe.
“I … read the social columns.”
“Oh, God!”
“It’s O.K. I like you anyway. I’m D’orothea.”
“That’s a pretty name,” said DeDe.
Mama’s Boy
WHEN SHE OPENED THE DOOR, MRS. MADRIGAL was wearing a red satin cloche with her plum-colored kimono. Her makeup was better than Mona had ever seen it.
The landlady smiled at her daughter. “Do I get a hug or don’t I?”
Mona flushed. “Oh, yes … oh, yes, you do!” She stepped gracelessly into the apartment, dropped her Persian saddlebag on the floor and threw herself into Mrs. Madrigal’s arms. The landlady patted Mona’s head for a moment, then gently removed herself.
“Isn’t there someone you’d like me to meet, dear?”
“Oh … God, I’m sorry.” She turned and confronted Mother Mucca, still standing in the doorway. The old woman glowered, shook her head at Mona, and addressed Mrs. Madrigal.
“She ain’t got the manners God gave a mule!”
Mrs. Madrigal smiled evenly, holding out her hand to Mother Mucca. “I’m so glad you came.”
The madam took her hand and grunted. “It was her idea.”
“Well, then I should thank you, Mona. It’s good to see you both.”
“I can’t stay long,” said Mother Mucca.
“I know,” said the landlady, taking Mona’s arm. “We’ll have a little sherry and a nice chat.” Her eyes linked only briefly with Mother Mucca. It was the same cordial, but distant, expression Mrs. Madrigal used on Jehovah’s Witnesses.
The hostess ducked into the kitchen, leaving Mona and her grandmother in the living room. Mother Mucca was rouged granite, sullen and unreadable.
“Well,” said Mona, “isn’t she nice?”
“It ain’t natural.”
“I thought we’d gotten past that.”
“Speak for yourself. That’s my son out there.”
“Well, she’s my father!”
“That’s different.”
“Oh, please!”
“I raised that child, girl! That’s my own flesh and blood!”
“You raised her in a goddamn whorehouse! What did you expect, anyway? John Wayne?”
“I’m gonna slap you right—”
The old woman stiffened again as Mrs. Madrigal reentered the room. She was carrying a tray containing three glasses of sherry and a bowl of chocolate-covered cherries.
“I thought I had some butter cookies, but I think Brian or one of the other children may have polished them off.”
Mother Mucca frowned. “You got children?”
“He’s a tenant,” snapped Mona.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Madrigal calmly. “I call them my children. It’s a little silly, I suppose, but they don’t seem to mind.” She smiled at Mona. “At least, if they do, they don’t tell me.”
Mother Mucca reached for a chocolate and popped it into her mouth. She wouldn’t look at her hostess. Mona sensed that disaster was imminent.
“So,” said Mrs. Madrigal, curling her legs up under her on the sofa, “you’ve had lots of adventures, I suppose?”
Mona nodded. “Winnemucca’s a trip.”
“I can imagine.” The landlady turned to Mother Mucca, who had just finished sucking the chocolate off her teeth. “I hope this young lady didn’t get in the way.”
The old woman snorted, forgoing comment by swilling her glass of sherry in one motion. Mrs. Madrigal held her ground, keeping her eyes on Mother Mucca. “Mona’s a lot like both of us, isn’t she?”
Silence.
“She’s got your looks, though,” added Mrs. Madrigal.
Mother Mucca stared into her glass. “Ain’t no wonder,” she said finally.
“What?”
“You call that a hat?”
“I don’t see what that—”
“Damnation, girl! Ain’t ya got no hair?”
“Of course I’ve got—”
“Well, why the hell do ya keep it all crammed up under that bonnet like you was bald or something? Look, girl … you and me gotta talk!”
“I assumed that was the purpose of this little—”
“Where’s your bedroom?”
“What does that have to do—”
“Where’s your goddamn bedroom?”
The two women had been gone for at least ten minutes. Mona sat terror-stricken in the living room, listening to their muffled voices. Then she heard Mrs. Madrigal say, “Mama, Mama,” and begin to cry.
She waited until the sound died down again, then moved quietly to the bedroom door and opened it. Mrs. Madrigal was seated at her vanity. Her back was to the door. Mother Mucca was standing beside her, brushing her daughter’s shoulder-length hair. She looked up and saw Mona.
“Git,” she said softly.
Table for Five
AS THE PACIFIC PRINCESS PULLED OUT OF ACAPULCO, Michael’s eyes stayed glued on the ever-diminishing figure on the dock. “Look at him,” he said. “That asshole would look gorgeous in an aerial photograph!”
Mary Ann slipped her arm around his waist. “Didn’t I tell you things would work out?”
“Yeah. I guess you did.”
“When’s he flying back to San Francisco?”
“Friday. I’m meeting him at the airport.”
“He’s awfully nice, Mouse.”
“I know. It scares the hell out of me.”
“Why?”
“Don’t make me analyze it. When I analyze things they … stop happening.” He turned and looked in her eyes. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”
She nodded grimly. “God, yes.”
“It seems like every time I start up with somebody new … I don’t know … I see the beginning and the end all at once. I know how it’ll die. I can play those scenes in my sleep. This time, though … well, I don’t wanna know the end. Not for a while, anyway.”
“Maybe there won’t be an end.”
He smiled at her indulgently. “Everything ends, Babycakes.”
“Now, Mouse, that’s not … What about us, then? You and I haven’t ended.”
He laughed. “We’ll be cruising the old folks’ home together.”
“Then what’s the difference?”
“The difference, dearheart, is that you don’t need me and I don’t need you. It’s these other turkeys we need … these one-and-onlys. Or at least, we think we do. Our poor little psyches have been marred forever by Rock Hudson and Doris Day.”
Mary Ann was composing a retort when Burke suddenly appeared behind her. “Well, we’re off, huh?”
She turned and took his hand. “We wondered where you were. We were just waving goodbye to Jon.”
“I did a little dickering with the maître d’.”
“About what?”
“I’m at your table now. That’s O.K., I hope?”
“Of course! That’s wonderful!”
Michael grinned wickedly. “Arnold and Melba will just adore you.”
“Oh, hell,” said Mary Ann. “What in the world are we gonna tell them?”
“Well …” Michael tapped his forefinger on his chin. “I think we should say that you and I are mature, freethinking adults. Our marriage simply isn’t working, so … we’re planning an amicable divorce, after which Burke and I will have a simple Episcopal wedding at Grace Cathedral.”
“Very funny.”
Burke laughed, winking at Michael. Then, turning to Mary Ann: “He’s got a point, you know. I could be gay. I mean, if I don’t remember …”
“You are not gay. That’s an order.”
“I don’ know,” said Michael ominously. “I’m sure I’ve seen him wearing green on Thursdays. And look at that body, girl. Straight dudes don’t have washboard stomachs.”
Mary Ann patted Burke’s waist. “This one does.”
Burke reddened visibly.
Michael took both their hands. “C’mon, you sickos. I’m so hungry I could eat a steward.”
The trio shared a joint in Mary Ann and Michael’s stateroom before heading to the dining room. When they sat down at the table, the matched pair from Dublin was conspicuously absent.
“What?” mugged Michael. “How can I eat without Arnold and Melba?”
Mary Ann giggled. “Maybe they ran out of clothes.”
“Or,” suggested Burke, “the maître d’ tipped them off, and they’re busy reporting us to the—”
He cut himself short when the couple appeared, pink as cooked shrimp and obviously delighted with their latest ensemble: matching Mexican cotton shirts, each embroidered with a single red rose.
Melba’s voice was pure white sugar. “Hi, Young Marrieds! Who’s your friend?”
Mary Ann began to stammer, seeing the Littlefields, seeing the rose, seeing Burke.
“Oh, hi. This is … Oh, Burke, why don’t you …?” She jerked to her feet, knocking over her water glass. Burke had his head between his knees, gagging. She snatched a linen napkin off the table and pressed it to his mouth.
“Burke … here, I’ll help you. Melba, I’m sorry. Give me your arm, Burke. It’s O.K….There, it’s O.K.” She led him away from the table without further explanation. Michael and the Littlefields watched their exit in silence.
More Tales of the City Page 13