“No. Just Norman.”
“I see.”
“I like to say Norman Neal Williams first off, because it flows nice, you know.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Oh, thanks, but I’ve got lots of things …”
“The view’s real nice.”
That got her. She did want to see his view, as well as the layout of the Lilliputian rooftop house.
“O.K.,” she smiled. “I’d love to.”
The view was dazzling. White sails on a delft-blue bay. Angel Island, wreathed in fog, faraway and mystical as Bali Ha’i.
Wheeling gulls over red tile rooftops.
“That’s what you pay for,” he said, obviously apologizing for the size of the place. There was nowhere to sit but the bed and a kitchen chair next to the window facing the bay. The coat to his suit was folded over the back of the chair.
Mary Ann sighed at the panorama. “You must love getting up in the morning.”
“Yeah. Except I’m not here that much.”
“Oh.”
“I’m a salesman.”
“I see.”
“Vitamins.” He indicated a carrying case in the corner of the room. Mary Ann recognized the company logo.
“Oh … Nutri-Vim. I’ve heard of those.”
“Completely organic.”
She was sure his enthusiasm was strictly professional. There was nothing about Norman Neal Williams that struck her as organic.
The Ol’-Time Religion
ON SUNDAY MORNING, MONA WENT TO CHURCH.
In the old days—post-Woodstock and pre-Watergate—she had gone to church a lot. Not just any church, she was quick to point out, but a People’s church, a church that was Relevant.
That was a long time ago. She’d had it with the People, and Relevance was as obsolete as puka shells. Still, there was something nostalgically comfortable about returning to Glibb Memorial.
Maybe it was the light show or the rock ensemble … or the Afro-aphrodisia of the Reverend Willy Sessums, bojangling the bejeezus out of Third World Socialism.
Or maybe it was the Quaalude she took at breakfast.
Whatever.
Today she felt mellow. Together. A karmic cog in the great, swaying mechanism of Glibb Memorial. She sang out with the fervor of a Southern Baptist, flanked by a Noe Valley wood butcher and a Tenderloin drag queen in a coral prom gown.
He’s got the Yoo-nited Farm Workers
In His hands!
He’s got the Yoo-nited Farm Workers
In His hands!
“That’s right!” shouted Reverend Sessums, darting through his flock with a leather pouch full of black juju dust. “Chairman Jesus loves you, brother! And he loves you too, sister!”
He was talking to Mona. Directly to her. He smiled radiantly and embraced her, sprinkling her with juju dust.
Even with the Quaalude, Mona stiffened. She hated herself for it, for the cynicism that cloaked her embarrassment over anything personal. She wanted him to go away.
He would not.
“Do you hear me, sister?”
She nodded, smiling feebly.
“Chairman Jesus loves you! He loves all of us! The black and the brown and the yellow and the white … and the lavender!” The last color was directed to the man in the prom gown.
Mona looked at the drag queen, praying that Sessums had shifted his focus.
He had not.
“If you believe Willy … if you believe that Chairman Jesus loves you more than oil companies, more than Big Business and Male Chauvinists and the House Armed Services Committee … if you believe that, sister, then let ol’ Willy hear a ‘Right on!’”
Mona swallowed. “Right on,” she said.
“What’s that, sister?”
“Right on.”
“Make it loud, sister, so Chairman Jesus can hear you!”
“Right on!”
“AwwwwwwwHiiight! You’re beautiful, sister!” He began to sway and clap to the music again, winking privately at Mona like a nightclub comedian who had just had harmless fun at her expense.
The band broke into “Love Will Keep Us Together” as Sessums moved on.
“This is to die over,” said the drag queen, recognizing the song. “Don’t you absolutely adore the Captain and Tennille?” Mona nodded, collecting herself.
Her fellow churchgoer fumbled in his purse and produced a bullet-shaped inhaler. He handed it to her. “Have a popper, honey.”
After church, she drove back to Barbary Lane and fell into a black, contemplative mood.
She was thirty-one years old. She needed a job. She was living with a man who might leave her at any moment for another man. Her mother in Minneapolis had somehow lost the power to communicate with her.
Her only real guardian was Anna Madrigal, and the landlady’s interest had recently assumed an intensity that made her nervous.
Seeds and stems, seeds and stems.
The phone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Mona?”
“Right.”
“This is D’orothea.”
“Jesus. Where are you?”
“Here. In town. Are you glad?”
“Of course, I’m … Are you on vacation?”
“Nope. This is it. I did it. I’m here for good. Can I see you?
“I … sure.”
“Try not to sound so ecstatic.”
“I’m just a little surprised, D’or. What about lunch tomorrow?”
“I was hoping for dinner tonight.”
“I can’t, D’or. I’m going to … a dance contest.”
“Good reason.”
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“Noon? Here?”
“Twenty-eight Barbary Lane?”
“Yeah … O.K.?”
“I’ve missed the hell out of you, Mona.”
“I’ve missed you too, D’or.”
Child’s Play
MARY ANN STOPPED BY MONA’SJUST BEFORE NOON. She was wearing what Michael referred to as her “Lauren Hutton drag.”
Levi’s and a pink button-down shirt from the boys’ department at Brooks Brothers … with a pale-blue crew-neck sweater knotted cavalierly around her neck.
“Hi,” she chirped. “Do you guys feel like brunch at Mama’s?”
Mona shook her head. “Michael’s not eating. The big contest is tonight, and he thinks he’s fat.”
“Where is he?”
“Down in the courtyard … bronzing his fat.”
Mary Ann laughed. “What about you, then?”
“Thanks. I think I’ll pass.”
“Are you … O.K., Mona?”
“Don’t I look it?”
“Sure … I didn’t mean … You look … distracted, that’s all.”
Mona shrugged and looked out the window. “I just hope it’s not terminal.”
The line at Mama’s snaked out of the building and up Stockton Street. Mary Ann was considering alternative brunch spots when a familiar figure in the crowd signaled her sheepishly.
“Oh … hi, Norman.’’
“Hello. I’ve been saving your spot.” He winked at her rather obviously, fooling no one around him. Mary Ann slipped into the line behind him.
A little girl tugged on Norman’s leg. “Who’s she?” she asked.
Norman smiled. “She’s a friend, Lexy.”
“Well,” said Mary Ann, looking down at the child. “Where did you come from?”
“My mommy.”
Mary Ann giggled. “She’s precious, Norman. Does she belong to you?”
Before he could answer, the child reached up and tugged at Mary Ann’s sweater. “Are you breaking in line?”
“Well, I …”
Norman laughed. “Alexandra … this is Mary Ann Singleton. We live in the same building … right up there on that big hill.” He winked at Mary Ann. “She belongs to some friends of mi
ne in San Leandro. Sometimes I give them a breather on Sundays.”
“That’s sweet.”
Norman shrugged. “I don’t mind. I get the best of both worlds.” He tugged playfully on one of the child’s braids. “Isn’t that right, Lexy?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Tell ya later.”
“Can I feed the pigeons, Norman?”
“After breakfast, O.K.?”
Mary Ann knelt down in front of the child. “That’s a beautiful dress, Alexandra!”
The child stared at her, then giggled.
“Do you know what it’s called, Alexandra?”
“What?”
“Your dress. It’s called a Heidi dress. Can you say that?” Alexandra looked slightly put out. “This is a dirndl, “ she said flatly.
“Oh, well …” Mary Ann stood up, grinning at Norman. “I asked for that, didn’t I?”
The trio dined on omelets at Mama’s. Alexandra ate in silence, studying Mary Ann.
Afterwards, in Washington Square, the grownups talked, while Alexandra chased pigeons in the sunshine.
“She’s very bright, isn’t she?”
Norman nodded. “She gives me a complex sometimes.”
“Have you known her parents long?”
“About … oh, five years. Her father and I were in Vietnam together.”
“Oh … I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Well … Vietnam … It must have been awful.”
He smiled, holding up his arms. “No wounds, see? I was a chief yeoman in Saigon. Office job. Navy intelligence.”
“How did you get interested in vitamins?”
He shrugged. “I got interested in making a living.”
“I see.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing very interesting about me, Mary Ann.”
“Oh, no … I think you’re very …”
“There’s a movie I’d like you to see tonight, if you haven ‘t already….”
“What is it?”
“An oldie. Detective Story. Kirk Douglas and Eleanor Parker.”
“I’d love to,” she said.
What Are Friends For?
eAUCHAMP AND DEDE SPENT A LEISURELY SUNDAY morning in Sausalito, brunching at the Altamira.
They were a pair again, a matched set—bronzed and blooded and beautiful. People looked at them with hungry eyes, whispering speculations over Ramos fizzes in the brilliant sunlight of the hotel terrace. And DeDe loved every minute of it. “Beauchamp?”
“Mmm?” His eyes were exactly the color of the bay. “Last night was … better than our wedding night.”
“I know.”
“Was it …? Is it me that’s changed, or you?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me. A little.”
Beauchamp shrugged. “I guess I’ve … sorted out my priorities.”
“It confuses me a little, Beauchamp.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Things are … working now and … well, I just wanna know what I’m doing right, so I can keep on doing it.”
He rubbed his knee against hers. “Just keep being yourself, O.K.?”
“O.K.,” she smiled.
Back at Montgomery Street, Beauchamp clipped a leash on the corgi. “I think I’ll take Caesar up to the Tower. Feel like a walk?”
“Thanks. I should catch up on my letters.”
As soon as he had gone she called Binky Gruen.
“Bink?”
“DeDe?”
“I’m back.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“How much, dummy? How much did you lose?”
“Oh … eighteen pounds.”
Binky whistled. “That sounds like anorexia to me!”
“Binky, I need …”
“I am convinced, by the way, that Shugie Sussman has anorexia. I mean, there’s no doubt in my mind. She’s wasting away to nothing, and nobody can persuade her that she isn’t obese. It’s too tragic, DeDe. We may have to ship the poor thing off to the Menninger Clinic in a Manila envelope!”
“Binky, as much as I’d like to hear about Shugie Sussman …”
“Sorry, darling. Did you have a marvelous time? I mean, aside from those godawful Leonardo da Vinci exer …?”
“I need your help, Binky.”
“Sure.”
“I … need a doctor.”
“Oh, God! You are sick! Jesus, I am such a …”
“No, not sick. I just need a doctor.”
“Oh.”
“I was thinking about the one you saw last spring.”
“Uh oh.”
“It isn’t an item yet. I’m not sure. I’d just feel better if …”
“It may have been the exercise, DeDe. Sometimes a physical change like that can screw up your cycle.”
“I’ve considered that.”
“Hell, it could even be anorexia.”
“Will you stop? It could be almost anything. I just want …”
“Almost anything but Beauchamp, huh?”
Silence.
“You want a gynecologist who doesn’t know the family, right?”
“Yes.”
“O.K. This guy’s a prince. Gentle, discreet and a treat to look at. Got a pencil?”
“Yeah.”
“Jon Fielding. The Jon doesn’t have an h. He’s at 450 Sutter. You can tell him I sent you.”
The Beach Boys
MRS. MADRIGAL’S TENANTS HAD DUBBED THAT CORner of the courtyard “Barbary Beach.”
Well, thought Michael, spreading his towel on the bricks, it ain’t Sunday at Lake Temescal, but it’ll have to do.
In less than seven hours he would be on the platform at The Endup.
He needed all the rays he could get.
“Hi,” said a voice somewhere between him and the sun.
He looked up, shielding his eyes. It was the guy from the third floor. Brian something. He was carrying a towel imprinted with a Coors label.
“Hi. Come on in. The water’s fine.”
Brian nodded and tossed his towel on the ground. Five feet away, Michael noted. Close, but not too close. A perfect HBU. Hunky But Uptight.
“Think it’s worth it?” asked Brian.
“Probably not, but what the hell? Who are we to disappoint all those other pink bodies in the bars?”
Brian laughed, obviously catching the irony of the remark. O.K., thought Michael, he knows we’re not heading for the same bars. Much less the same bodies. Still … he knows, and he knows that I know he knows. It’s O.K.
“You’re Brian, and I’m Michael. Right?”
“Right.”
They shook hands, still on their bellies, reaching out over the void in order to touch.
Michael laughed. “We look like something off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel!”
Fifteen minutes later, Michael felt like talking again.
“You’re single, right?”
“Yeah.”
“This must be a great town to be single in. I mean … for a straight guy.”
“Oh?”
“Well, I mean … there are so many gay guys that a straight guy must be a hot property with the women. At least … you know what I mean.”
Brian grunted. He was on his back now, his hands folded behind his head. “I spent four fucking hours at Slater Hawkins last night, trying to plug a chick I wouldn’t have sneezed at in college.”
“Yeah,” said Michael, somewhat jarred by the remark. “It kinda gets to be a game, doesn’t it? Unwrapping the package is more fun than the package itself. At least, sometimes …” He looked over at Brian, wondering if they were communicating at all. “Do you know Mary Ann Singleton?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Mary Ann and I had this really heavy session where she told me she wanted to go back to Cleveland, and I gave her the whole est trip about taking control of her life and all … but the creepy thing is that sometimes I think sh
e’s right. Maybe we should all go back to Cleveland.”
“Yeah. Or go live in a farm town in Utah or something. Get back to basics.”
“Uh huh. I have that one too. A mountain village in Colorado, maybe, with just the bare essentials. One nice French restaurant and a branch of Design Research.”
They both laughed. Michael felt instantly more comfortable with him.
“The thing that bugs me,” said Brian, “is that you never really know what women are like … not for a long time, anyway. They only show you what they want you to see.”
Michael nodded. “So you fantasize over all the wrong things.”
“Yeah.” Brian began to tear blades of grass from between the bricks.
“Christ! That happens to me all the time,” said Michael. “I meet some person … male-type … at a bar or the baths, and he seems really … what I want. A nice mustache, Levi’s, a starched khaki army shirt … strong … Somebody you could take back to Orlando and they’d never know the difference.
“Then you go home with him to his house on Upper Market, and you try like hell not to go to the bathroom, because the bathroom is the giveaway, the fantasy-killer….”
Brian looked confused.
“It’s the bathroom cabinet,” Michael explained. “Face creams and shampoos for days. And on the top of the toilet tank they’ve all always got one of those goddamn little gold pedestals full of colored soap balls!”
Ebony Idol
THE BLACK WOMAN ATE SUNDAY DINNER ALONE IN THE back room at Perry’s.
She was an image of grace and sophistication, dark and sleek as a patent-leather dancing slipper. She was avoiding her french fries, Brian noticed, and her eyes seldom wandered from her plate.
“More coffee?”
She looked up and smiled. Wistfully, he thought. She shook her head and said, “Thanks.” She was devastating.
“What about dessert?”
Another no.
O.K., he thought, so much for the standard conversation ploys. It’s time for the heavy-duty back-up patter.
“Didn’t like the french fries, huh?”
She patted her tiny waist. “I’m allergic to them. They look wonderful, though.”
“One or two won’t hurt you.”
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