“Free?”
“Single.”
“Oh … yeah.”
“Single people can call the shots.”
The waiter appeared. “The lady would like some ice water,” said Beauchamp. He smiled at Mary Ann. “You don’t mind being called a lady, do you?” She shook her head. The waiter smirked and left.
“You know what?” said Mary Ann.
“What?” The eyes were locked on her now.
“I used to pronounce your name ‘Bo-shomp’ instead of
‘Beechum.’”
“Everybody does that.”
“I felt so dumb. Mildred finally corrected me. It’s English, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “My parents were shamelessly affected.”
“I think it’s nice. You should have told me when I said it wrong.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I even said Greenwich Street wrong when I first got here.”
“I called Kearny ‘Keerny.’”
“Did you?”
“And Ghirardelli ‘Jeerardelli,’ and … blasphemy of blasphemies … I called the cable cars trolleys!”
Mary Ann giggled. “I still do that.”
“So big deal! Fuck ‘em, if they can’t take a joke!”
She laughed, hoping it would cover her embarrassment.
“We’re all babes in the woods,” said Beauchamp. “At one point or another. Use it to your advantage. Innocence is very erotic.” He picked a crouton out of his salad and popped it in his mouth. “It is to me, at least.”
The waiter was back with her water. She thanked him and sipped at it, considering a new course for the conversation. Beauchamp beat her to it.
“Have you ever met my wife?”
“Uh … once. At the softball game.”
“Oh, yeah. What did you think?”
“She’s very nice.”
His smile was wan. “Yes … very nice.”
“I read about you two a lot.”
“Yes. Don’t you?”
She was squirming. “Beauchamp … I think Mr. Halcyon’s gonna be back in …”
“You want a scoop you won’t find in the social columns?”
“I don’t want to talk about your wife.”
“I don’t blame you.”
She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “This has been really …”
“We haven’t slept together since the Fol de Rol.”
She decided not to ask what the Fol de Rol was. “I think we should go, Beauchamp.”
“DeDe and I aren’t even friends, Mary Ann. We don’t talk like you and I do. We don’t relate….”
“Beauchamp …”
“I’m trying to tell you something, goddammit! Will you stop being so fucking … Middle American for about ten seconds?” He dropped his head and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “I’m sorry … God … please, help me, will you?”
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. He was crying.
“What can I do, Beauchamp?”
“I don’t know. Don’t leave … please. Talk to me.”
“Beauchamp, this is the wrong place for …”
“I know. We need time.”
“We could meet for a drink after work.”
“What about this weekend?”
“I don’t think that would …”
“I know a place in Mendocino.”
A Piece of Anna’s Past
THE SUN IN THE PARK WAS WARMER NOW, AND THE BIRDS were singing much more joyously.
Or so it seemed to Edgar.
“Madrigal. That’s lovely. Aren’t there some Madrigals in Philadelphia?”
Anna shrugged. “This one came from Winnemucca.”
“Oh … I don’t know Nevada too well.”
“You must’ve been to Winnemucca at least once. Probably when you were eighteen.”
He laughed. “Twenty. We were late bloomers in my family.”
“Which one did you go to?”
“My God! You’re talking about the Paleolithic period. I couldn’t remember a thing like that!”
“It was your first time, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then you can remember it. Everybody remembers the first time.” She blinked her eyes coaxingly, like a teacher trying to extract the multiplication tables from a shy pupil. “When was it—1935 or thereabouts?”
“I guess … it was 1937. My junior year at Stanford.”
“How did you get there?”
“Christ … a dilapidated Olds. We drove all night until we reached this disappointing-looking cinder-block house out in the middle of the desert.” He chuckled to himself. “I guess we wanted it to look like the Arabian Nights or, at least, one of those gaslight-and-red-velvet places.”
“San Franciscans are spoiled rotten!”
He laughed. “Well, I felt we deserved more. The house was ridiculously tame. They even had a photo of Franklin and Eleanor in the parlor.”
“One has to keep up appearances, doesn’t one? Do you remember the name now?”
Edgar’s eyebrows arched. “By God … the Blue Moon Lodge! I haven’t thought of that in years!”
“And the girl’s name?”
“She was hardly a girl. More like forty-five.”
“That’s a girl. Believe me.”
“No offense.”
“What was her name?”
“Oh, Christ … No, that one’s impossible.”
“Margaret?”
“Yes! How did you …?”
“She read me all the Winnie-the-Pooh books.”
“What?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Look, if I’ve …”
“My mother ran the Blue Moon Lodge. That was my home. I grew up there.”
“You’re not making that up, are you?”
“No.”
“Christ!”
“Don’t you dare apologize. If you apologize, so help me, I’ll take my sandwich and run home.”
“Why did you let me go on like that?”
“I wanted you to remember who you were then. You don’t seem too happy with who you are now.”
Edgar stared at her. “I don’t, huh?”
“Nope.”
He took a bite of his sandwich. His own present made him much more uneasy than this woman’s questionable past. He shifted the focus. “Did you ever … you know …?” She smiled. “What do you think?”
“No fair.”
“O.K. I ran away from home when I was sixteen, several years before you patronized the Blue Moon. I never worked for my mother.”
“I see.”
“I’m currently running a house of my own.”
“Here?”
“At 28 Barbary Lane, San Francisco, 94109.”
“On Russian Hill?”
She gave up the game. “I’m a garden-variety landlady, Mr. Halcyon.”
“Ah.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Not a bit.”
“Good. Then tomorrow … your turn to buy lunch.”
Mona’s New Roomie
THE UNCOSMIC JANGLE OF THE TELEPHONE BROUGHT AN abrupt end to Mona’s mantra.
“Yeah?”
“Hi. It’s Michael.”
“Mouse! Jesus! I figured you got kidnaped by the CIA!”
“Long time, huh?”
“Three months.”
“Yeah. That’s about my average.”
“Oh … you got the shaft?”
“Well, we parted amiably enough. He was terribly civilized about it, and I sat in Lafayette Park and cried all morning. Yeah … I got the shaft.”
“I’m sorry, Mouse. I thought this one was gonna work out. I kinda liked … Robert, was it?”
“Yeah. I kinda liked him too.” He laughed. “He used to be a Marine recruiter. Did I ever tell you that? He gave me this little key ring with a medallion that said, ‘The Marines Are Looking for a Few Good Men.�
��”
“Sweet.”
“We used to jog every morning in Golden Gate Park … right down to the ocean. Robert had a red Marine tank top, and all the old mossbacks would stop us and say how nice it was to know there were still some decent, upstanding young men left in the world. Boy, we’d laugh about that … usually in bed.”
“So what happened?”
“Who knows? He panicked, I guess. We were buying furniture together and stuff. Well … not exactly together. He’d buy a sofa and I’d buy a couple of matching chairs. One has to plan on divorce at all times … still, it was a landmark of sorts. I’d never gotten to the furniture-buying stage before.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“Yeah … and I never had anyone read me German poetry in bed before. In German.”
“Hot stuff!”
“He played the harmonica, Mona. Sometimes when we were walking down the street. I was so fucking proud to be with him!”
“Talk much?”
“What?”
“Could he talk? Or was he too busy playing the harmonica?”
“He was a nice guy, Mona.”
“Which is why he dumped on you.”
“He didn’t dump on me.”
“You just said he did.”
“It just wasn’t … meant to be, that’s all.”
“Bullshit. You’re a hopeless romantic.”
“Thanks for the words of comfort.”
“All I know is I haven’t laid eyes on you in three months. There are other people in the world besides Mr. Right … and we love you too.”
“I know. Mona, I’m sorry.”
“Mouse …?”
“I really am. I didn’t mean to …”
“Michael Mouse, if you start crying on me, I’ll never boogie with you again!”
“I’m not crying. I’m being pensive.”
“You’ve got ten seconds to snap out of it. Jesus, Mouse, the woods are full of jogging Marine recruiters. Christ! You and your Rustic Innocent trip! I’ll bet that asshole had a closetful of lumberjack shirts, didn’t he?”
“Lay off.”
“He’s down at Toad Hall right now, stomping around in his blue nylon flight jacket, with a thumb hooked in his Levi’s and a bottle of Acme beer in his fist.”
“You’re a real hardass.”
“Just your type. Look … if I learn a little German poetry, will you come stay here till you find a place? There’s plenty of room in this barn. Mrs. Madrigal won’t mind.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re out on your can, right? You’ve got money?”
“A couple of thousand. Savings account.”
“Well, I’m sick of playing Edna St. Vincent Millay. It’s perfect. You can live here till you find another studio … or another harmonica player. Whichever comes first.”
“It’ll never work.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You’re into TM and I’m into est. It’ll never work.”
That night, he moved all his earthly goods into Mona’s apartment:
The literary works of Mary Renault and the late Adelle Davis. Assorted work boots, overalls and denims from Kaplan’s Army Surplus on Market Street. An Art Deco lamp in the form of a nymph perched on one foot. Random sea shells. A T-shirt that said DANCE 10, LOOKS 3. A hemostat roach clip. An exercise wheel. An autographed photo of La Belle.
“The furniture’s at Robert’s,” he explained.
“Fuck him,” said Mona. “You’ve got a new roomie now.”
Michael hugged her. “You’ve saved my life again.”
“Don’t mention it, Babycakes. Let’s just get the ground rules worked out, O.K.?”
“I squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom.”
“You know what I’m talking about, Mouse.”
“Yeah. Well … we’ve each got a bedroom.”
“And the living room is off limits for tricks.”
“Of course.”
“And if I bring any switch hitters home with me, it’s hands off, right?”
“Do I look like that kind of cad?”
“What about that Basque gardener last summer?”
“Yeah.” Michael smiled. “He was all right, wasn’t he?”
Mona stuck her tongue out at him.
Their First Date
ANNA SUGGESTED THEY LUNCH AT THE WASHINGTON Square Bar & Grill. “It’s a hoot,” she laughed over the phone. “Everybody’s trying to be so godawful literary. For the price of a hamburger, you can look like you’ve just completed a slim volume of verse.”
Edgar was wary. “I think I’d prefer something less boisterous.”
“More private, you mean?”
“Well … yes.”
“For God’s sake! This isn’t a shack-up! If one of your cronies spots us, you can say I’m a client or something.”
“My clients don’t look as good as you do.”
“You naughty man!”
They ended up sitting two tables away from Richard Brautigan. Or someone who was trying to look like Richard Brautigan.
“That’s Mimi Fariña over by the bar.”
Edgar drew a blank.
“Joan Baez’s sister, you philistine. Where have you been all your life? The Peninsula?”
He grinned sleepily. “You’re mighty uppity for a slum lord.”
“Slum lady.”
“Sorry. I’m not very good on celebrities.”
Anna smiled at him unaccusingly. “Doesn’t your wife entertain them all the time?”
“You read the papers?”
“Sometimes.”
“My wife collects things, Anna. She collects porcelain ducks, old wicker furniture, nineteenth-century French Provincial birdcages that look like the château at Blois…. She also collects people. Last year she collected Rudolf Nureyev, Luciano Pavarotti, several Auchinclosses and a bona-fide, first-edition Spanish prince named Uamberto de Something-or-Other.”
“You can’t hardly get them no more.”
“She also collects bottles. Rum bottles.”
“Oh.”
“Shall we stop talking about her?”
“If you like. What would you like, by the way?”
“I’d like a good-looking … how old are you?”
“Fifty-six.”
“I’d like a good-looking fifty-six-year-old woman to walk on the beach with me and tell me a few jokes.”
“How soon?”
“Right away.”
“Crank up the Mercedes.”
The beach at Point Bonita was almost empty. At the north end, a group of teen-agers was flying a huge Mylar kite with a shimmering tail.
“Goddammit,” said Edgar. “Remember how much fun that used to be?”
Anna trudged along beside him through the coarse black sand. “Used to? I fly kites all the time. It’s delicious when you’re stoned.”
“Marijuana?”
Anna arched an eyebrow wickedly. She dug into her tapestry shoulder bag and produced a neatly rolled joint. “Please observe the cigarette paper. I thought it might appeal to your stern businessman’s heart.”
The paper was a counterfeit one-dollar bill.
“Anna … I don’t mean to be a spoilsport …”
She dropped the joint back in the bag. “Of course you don’t. Well! Let’s have a nice little stroll, shall we?”
He was hurt by her artificial cheeriness. He felt older than ever. He wanted to reach out to her, to establish some link between them that would last.
“Anna?”
“Yes?”
“I think you’re incredible for a fifty-six-year-old woman.”
“Bullshit.”
“I do.”
“This is exactly what a fifty-six-year-old woman is supposed to be like.”
He laughed weakly. “I wish you approved of me.”
“Edgar …” She took his arm for the first time. “I approve of you. I just want yow to climb out of that tough old hide of yours. I
want you to see how wonderful you …”
She let go of his arm and ran down the beach toward the teen-agers. In less than a minute she was back, trailing the great silver kite behind her.
She presented the string to Edgar. “It’s yours for ten minutes,” she panted. “Make it count.”
“You’re insane.” He laughed.
“Maybe.”
“How did you talk them into it?”
“Don’t ask.”
At the end of the beach, the teen-agers were huddled in a circle, watching Anna’s bribe go up in smoke.
Off to Mendocino
BEAUCHAMP’S SILVER PORSCHE CAREENED DOWN A Marin hillside like a pinball destined for a score.
Mary Ann fidgeted with her Mood Ring. “Beauchamp?”
“Yeah?”
“What did you tell your wife?”
He smiled like an errant Cub Scout. “She thinks I’m sending a kid to camp.”
“What?”
“I told her the Guardsmen were having a weekend for underprivileged kids on Mount Tam. It doesn’t matter. She wasn’t listening. She and her mother were planning a party for Nora Cunningham.”
“The opera singer?”
“Yes.”
“Your family knows a lot of famous people, don’t they?”
“I suppose.”
“You didn’t tell Mr. Halcyon, did you?”
“About what?”
“About us … going off.”
“Christ! Are you crazy?”
She turned and looked at him. “I don’t know. Am I?’
The place was located on a wooded bluff overlooking the Mendocino coast. There were half a dozen cabins in varying states of disrepair. It was called the Fools Rush Inn.
The lady innkeeper kept winking at Mary Ann.
When she had gone, Mary Ann said, “There’s only one bed.”
“Yeah. I’ll get her to bring in a rollaway.”
“She’ll think we’re really weird.”
“She will, won’t she?”
“Beauchamp, you said we wouldn’t …”
“I know. And I meant it. Don’t worry. I’ll tell her you’re my sister or something.”
He built a fire in the fireplace while Mary Ann unpacked her bag. Out of habit, she had packed the tattered copy of Nicholas and Alexandra she had been reading for the past three summers.
“Scotch?” he asked.
Tales of the City Page 6