Tales of the City

by Armistead Maupin

  “I remember,” said Frannie, smiling bravely. “Götterdämmerung.”

  Helen dropped her compact back in her purse. “C’mon, darling. Let’s go pour a stiff one at Jean’s.”

  “Helen … not just yet.”

  “Darling, you are down!”

  “I’ll be all right in a …”

  “He was an old, old pooch, Frannie.”

  “Is.”

  “Is … Frannie, look at it this way. He’s had a full, rich life. No dog’s had it as good as he has.”

  “That’s true,” said Frannie, brightening somewhat. “That’s very, very true.”

  The Tollivers Invade

  ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, HALLOWEEN WEEKEND had gone quite well.

  So far.

  Michael’s parents had rented a Dodge Aspen upon their arrival in the city, so it was easy enough to fill up their time with Muir Woods and Sausalito, The Crooked Street and Fisherman’s Wharf.

  But now it was Sunday. The Witches’ Sabbath was upon them.

  If he was careful, very careful, he could ease them through it, protect their fragile, Reader’s Digest sensibilities from the horror of The Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name.

  Maybe.

  In this town, he thought, The Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name almost never shuts up.

  His father chuckled when he saw the apartment for the first time. “Took you all weekend to clean it up, huh?”

  “I’m neater than I used to be,” Michael grinned.

  “Looks like a lady’s neatness, if you ask me.” He winked at his son.

  Michael’s mother frowned. “Herb, I told you not …”

  “Aw, it’s O.K., Alice. Christ, we’re not a couple of old fuddy-duddies. I remember what I was like at Mike’s age. Hell, son … I hope you didn’t move her out on our account.”

  “Herb!”

  “Your mother’s too old-fashioned, Mike. Go snoop around the kitchen, Alice. I’m surprised you could hold off this long.”

  Michael’s mother pushed out her lower lip and trudged out of the room.

  “Now,” said his father. “What the hell’s going on? Your mother and I thought you’d like to introduce us to … what’s her name?”

  “Mona … Papa, she’s only …”

  “I don’t give a damn what she is, Mike. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed you felt you had to hide the poor little thing. I’ve seen Hustler, son. I know a thing or two about 1976.”

  “Papa … she moved out. She wanted to.”

  “Because of us?”

  “No. She just wanted to. She found another roommate. There’s no hard feelings.”

  “You’re a damned idiot, then! She just up and left you and there’s no hard feelings? Jesus, Mike …”

  He stopped talking when he heard his wife return. She was standing in the kitchen doorway with a small brown bottle in her hand.

  “What’s this stuff, Mikey?”

  Michael went white. “Uh … Mama, that’s something … my roommate left behind.”

  “In the freezer?”

  “She used it to clean her paintbrushes.”

  “Oh.” She looked at the bottle again and returned it to the refrigerator. “You need to scrub your vegetable bin, Mikey.”

  “I know, Mama.”

  “Where do you keep your Ajax?”

  “Mama, can’t we just …?”

  “It’s disgusting, Mikey. It won’t take me a second.”

  “Alice, for God’s sake! Leave the boy alone! We didn’t come three thousand miles to scrub his goddamn vegetable bin! Look, son, your mama and I want to take you out to dinner tonight. Why don’t you show us one of your favorite places?”

  Peachy, thought Michael. We’ll just boogie on down to The Palms, sip Blue Moons in a window seat, and watch the Cycle Sluts wave leather dildos at the traffic cops.

  The Aspen was parked up on Leavenworth, near Green. Michael’s mother was out of breath by the time they reached Union. “I’ve never seen a street like that in my life, Mikey!”

  He squeezed her arm. taking sudden pleasure in her innocence. “It’s an amazing city, Mama.”

  Almost on cue, the nuns appeared.

  “Herb, look!”

  “Goddammit, Alice! Don’t point!”

  “Herb … they’re on roller skates!”

  “Goddamn if they aren’t! Mike, what the hell …?”

  Before their son could answer, the six white-coifed figures had rounded the corner as a unit, rocketing in the direction of the revelry on Polk Street.

  One of them bellowed at Michael.

  “Hey, Tolliver!”

  Michael waved half-heartedly.

  The nun gave a high sign, blew a kiss, then shouted: “Loved your jockey shorts!”

  Trick or Treat in Suburbia

  MARY ANN TUGGED ON HER DRIVER’S ARM. OH, Norman … beep, will you?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Michael and his parents. Mona’s roommate.”

  Norman tapped on the horn. Michael looked towards them as Mary Ann blew a kiss from the window of the Falcon. He smiled feebly and pretended to yank out a handful of hair. His parents were charging ahead, oblivious.

  “Poor baby!” said Mary Ann.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh … it’s complicated.”

  “He’s queer, isn’t he?”

  “Gay, Norman.”

  Lexy poked her head over the seat. “What’s queer?”

  “Sit down,” said Norman.

  Mary Ann turned around and fussed with Lexy’s Wonder Woman cape. “You look so nice, Lexy.”

  The child bounced on the back seat. “Why don’t you have a costume?”

  “Well … I’m a grownup, Lexy.”

  The child shook her head vehemently and pointed out the window to three men dressed as high school majorettes. “Those grownups have costumes.” Norman chuckled, shaking his head. Mary Ann sighed. “How old did you say she was?”

  It was almost dark by the time they reached San Leandro. Norman parked the car in a pseudo-Spanish subdivision and opened the door for Lexy.

  The little girl bounced down the sidewalk with a mammoth plastic trick-or-treat bag.

  “Are you sure she’ll be all right?” asked Mary Ann.

  Norman nodded. “Her folks live over in the next block. I told them I’d … you know … let her get this out of her system.”

  “I hope they appreciate all this.”

  “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t like it.” He grinned sheepishly. “Rent-a-kid, you know.”

  “Yeah. It’s kinda nice, isn’t it?”

  “It isn’t boring for you?”

  “Not at all.”

  He looked at her solemnly for a moment, then squeezed her hand.

  “Norman?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re so good with kids that …”

  “Roxanne and me were gonna have kids. That was the plan, anyway.”

  “Oh … she died?”

  Norman shook his head. “She ran off with a ceramic-tile salesman from Daly City. When I was in Nam.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “That was a long time ago. About the time Lexy was born, in fact. I got over it.”

  She looked out the window, embarrassed by this new insight into his personality. Was Lexy his only link with a vanished dream? Had he given up all hope of building a home again?

  “Norman … I don’t see how anyone could leave you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters, Norman! You’re a gentle, kind, loving man, and no one should … Norman, you’ve got so much love to give someone.”

  His hands were fidgeting in his lap. He looked down at them. “Someone,” he repeated vacantly.

  He needed a sign from her. He was pleading for a sign.

  She was reaching up to touch his sad bear�
��s face when a hand on her shoulder made her yelp.

  Lexy was back.

  “Oh, Lexy …” Mary Ann laughed, somewhat relieved. “How did you do?”

  “A crummy apple.”

  “Well, apples are good. I’ll eat it if you don’t want it.”

  The child looked at her for a moment, then produced the apple and sunk her teeth into it defiantly.

  Norman shouted in horror. “Lexy … no!”

  Lexy grinned at him as the juice dribbled down her face. “It’s O.K.,” she said. “I already checked it for razor blades.”

  Chip off the Old Block

  MICHAEL ENDED UP TAKING HIS PARENTS TO THE Cliff House. It was the straightest place he could think of.

  It was also far enough away from the Halloween madness of Polk Street that roller-skating nuns were not likely to invade the family circle again.

  The nuns, he explained as cavalierly as possible, were “some crazy friends of Mona’s.” And, yes, they were men.

  “Fruits?”

  “Herb!” Michael’s mother dropped her fork and glared at her husband.

  “Well, what the hell do you want me to call them?”

  “That’s not a very nice word, Herb.”

  “Why not? I’m a citrus grower, Alice. We raise fruits!” He laughed raucously.

  “You just shouldn’t talk that way about people who can’t help themselves.”

  “Can’t help themselves! Who the hell can’t help skatin’ down the middle of the street dressed up like a goddamn nun?”

  “Herb … don’t raise your voice. There might be Catholics in the room.”

  Michael looked up from his plate, speaking as offhandedly as possible. “It’s kinda like Mardi Gras, Papa. There’s lots of crazy stuff going on. A lot of people do it.”

  “A lot of fruits.”

  “Not just … them, Papa. Everybody.”

  His father snorted and reattacked his steak. “I don’t notice you out there making a goddamn fool of yourself.”

  “He’s with us, Herb. Maybe he’d like to be out there … going to a party or something. It sounds like a lot of fun to me.”

  “Well, you two go right ahead. I’ll just sit here and finish my steak with the normal people.”

  A waiter refilling Herbert Tolliver’s water glass caught the remark and rolled his eyes in pained forbearance.

  Then he winked at Michael.

  Back at 28 Barbary Lane, Alice Tolliver recapped the social history of Orlando for the past six months.

  A new shopping mall had been built. The Henleys’ daughter, Iris, was addicted to pot and living with a professor in Atlanta. A colored family had bought the McKinneys’ split-level down the road. Aunt Miriam was doing fine, despite her overlong recovery from a female operation, and everybody in central Florida agreed that Earl Butz would never have been fired if he had made that remark about an Irishman.

  They weren’t expecting an early frost.

  Herbert Tolliver sat quietly through the telling of this saga, embellishing only occasionally with a chuckle or a nod of his head. He was mellower now, softened by the wine at dinner, and he beamed at his son in open affection.

  “Is … everything goin’ O.K. for you, Mike?”

  “Pretty good, Papa.”

  “Don’t you worry about your ladyfriend, you hear?”

  “I won’t, Papa.”

  “Your mama and I are gonna miss you at Christmas.”

  “Now, Herb, he’s grown up now, and he’s got friends of his …”

  “I know that, goddammit! I just said we’d miss him, didn’t

  I?”

  His wife nodded. “We will, Mikey.”

  “I’ll miss y’all too. It’s just so expensive to fly back there for …”

  “I know, Mikey. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Mike … if we can help out a little bit until you can find

  a job …”

  “Thanks, Papa. I think I can manage. I’ve picked up a little on odd jobs.”

  “Well, you let us know, O.K.?”

  “O.K., Papa.”

  “We’re mighty proud of you, son.”

  Michael shrugged. “Not much to be proud of, is there?”

  “Don’t be a damn fool! You’re as good as the best of ‘em! Some things take a little time, son. You’ll work it out before you know it. Hell, I kind of envy you, son. You’re young and you’re single and you’re livin’ in a beautiful town full of beautiful women. You got no sweat at all, son!”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Course I’m right. Smooth sailin’ all the way.” He chuckled and grazed his son’s cheek with a playful fist. “Long as you can keep those fruits away.”

  Michael made a manly grin. “I’m not their type, anyway.”

  “Attaboy!” said Herbert Tolliver, tousling the hair of his pride and joy.

  DeDe’s Growing Dilemma

  WHEN DEDE CALLED BEAUCHAMP AT WORK, HE was briefing Halcyon’s hottest new model on the Adorable Christmas campaign.

  “Look, I’m right in the middle of …”

  “Sorry, darling. I just … I was afraid you’d forget about Pinkie and Herbert’s opening tonight.”

  “Shit.”

  “You forgot.”

  “What time do we have to be there?”

  “I can meet you after work. We just need to make an appearance.”

  “Six o’clock?”

  “Fine … I love you, Beauchamp.”

  “Me too. Six o’clock, then?”

  “Yeah. Be good.”

  “Always.”

  He hung up and winked at D’orothea. “My wife. Sometimes I think God put women on this earth to remind men of cocktail parties.”

  D’orothea merely grunted.

  “Ah,” Beauchamp grinned. “That makes me sound like a chauvinist pig, I guess.”

  “No,” she said coldly. “Do you want it to?”

  The Hoover Gallery was jammed with patrons, a canvas of kelly green and pink. The women were decked out in understated Lilly Pulitzers, while their blue-blazered husbands expressed their individuality in madras patchwork trousers.

  Beauchamp and DeDe headed directly to the bar, wearing identical smiles and flaunting their new-found bliss like Tahitian tans.

  DeDe was still clinging to Beauchamp’s arm when Binky Gruen intercepted them.

  “Oh, thank God you two showed up! Beauchamp, quick, gimme a kiss! I have to look occupied!”

  Beauchamp pecked her on the cheek. “I’ve heard better excuses, Ms. Gruen.”

  “Keep talking, goddammit! He’s looking this way!”

  “Who?”

  “Carson Callas. He’s been blowing pipe breath at me for the past fifteen minutes, telling me how sexy he is! Yecchh!”

  Beauchamp recoiled in mock surprise. “You don’t think Carson Callas is sexy?”

  “Sure. If you get off on midgets in puka shells.”

  “Naughty, naughty. He won’t put you in his column, Binky.”

  “Or vice versa, if I can help it. Look, be an angel and fill this up with scotch. I feel an attack of ennui coming on. Your skinny wife looks thirsty too.”

  Beauchamp took Binky’s glass, then turned to DeDe. “Champagne, Skinny Wife?”

  “Please.” Her tone was deliberately chilly. She hated it when Binky and Beauchamp did their Lombard and Gable routine.

  By the time Beauchamp had disappeared into the crowd, Binky was ready to pounce.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Did you see Dr. Fielding?”

  “Binky … this is hardly the place.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes.”

  Binky whistled. “I’ve got a good abortion man, if you need one.”

  “Binky … will you just shut up, please!”

  “Well, pardonnez-moi! I thought you could use a friend about now. I guess I was mistaken.”

  “Binky, I … Look, I’m sorry … it’s just th
at you make it sound so … A good abortion man, for heaven’s sake! Does he cater parties too?”

  Binky giggled. “No, but he’s marvelous with windows and floors!”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Well, I think you’re getting much too heavy about this whole business.” She patted DeDe’s stomach. “No pun intended, darling. Look … if all that nasty Catholic guilt is gonna be too much for you, why don’t you just go ahead and have the little bastard?”

  “I thought you had that one figured out already.”

  “What the hell? Beauchamp can play along. He needs an heir, doesn’t he? Who’s gonna know the difference?”

  “Binky … you don’t know what you’re talking about….”

  “Don’t tell me it would show?”

  DeDe glared at her for several seconds, then nodded.

  “Hair?” asked Binky, her eyes fairly dancing with excitement. “A different color hair?”

  “No.”

  “Not skin?”

  Another nod.

  “Oh, you poor baby! Oh, DeDe, I didn’t mean to be so … What color?”

  DeDe pointed to her daffodil Diane von Furstenberg and burst into tears.

  After repairing her mascara in the bathroom, she merged with the mob again. Beauchamp was waiting with lukewarm champagne.

  “I’m with Peter and Shugie,” he said. “Wanna join us?”

  She shook her head with a watery smile. “Not right now, Beauchamp. Binky and I are catching up.”

  Alone again, she plastered a smile on her face and headed toward the corner where Binky was holding court. A hand stopped her, clamping onto her forearm.

  “Well, doesn’t Mrs. Day look good enough to eat?”

  If her arm had been free, she might have crossed herself. It was the society editor of Western Gentry magazine.

  Carson Callas.

  Mrs. Madrigal and the Mouse

  MICHAEL WAS SHIFTING HALF OF HIS CLOTHES INTO Mona’s closet when Mrs. Madrigal phoned.

  “Michael, dear. Could you come down for a moment?”

  “Sure. Three minutes, O.K.?”

  “Take your time, dear.”

  Well, he thought, hanging up the phone, here it comes. Eviction time. She’s been more than lenient about the rent so far, but enough is enough.