“It is Sunday afternoon,” said Thack.
“I know, but … I mean, like when you were a kid, when you knew that Monday was coming, and the clock was ticking away. Saturdays were perfect, because there was Sunday, which was sort of a buffer. But Sundays just got worse and worse.”
Thack took Michael’s hand and kissed it. “Hang on to the moment,” he said.
To hell with that, thought Michael. “You know,” he said quietly, “you’re much more of a Californian than I’ll ever be.”
The late sun, slashing through the Levolors, turned them into prisoners again, striped by shadows. Michael slept for a while, waking when the stripes were gone. Thack was still asleep.
The clock said four forty-seven. For a six-fifteen flight, they should leave the house no later than five-thirty. If they overslept—and who was to say they couldn’t?—the next flight might not be until God-knows-when….
His deviousness under pressure was truly amazing. To repent for it, he slipped his hand around Thack’s bicep and squeezed gently. Thack woke up smiling. How could he look so happy? For that matter, how could he sleep so soundly when the time—no, their time—was slipping away?
“You should pack,” said Michael.
“Already am,” said Thack.
Michael rubbed his eyes. “I’ll drive you, of course.”
“ ’Fraid not.”
“What?”
“Not unless Brian’s back.”
“Damn. You’re right. Well … he must be.” He grabbed the bedside phone and dialed The Summit. After three rings, Mary Ann answered with a glacial hello.
“It’s Michael,” he said. “Is Brian back yet?”
“I thought he was with you.”
“No … I mean, he was, but we came home in separate cars.”
“Why did you do that?”
“No special reason,” he said, wary of mentioning Wren. “We met a friend there, and Brian said he’d enjoy being on his own.”
“How long have you been home?” she asked.
“A few hours. Maybe he took the ocean road home.”
“Yeah,” she said distantly. “Maybe. I have no way of knowing. You saw him last.”
This was clearly an attempt to assign guilt, and Michael would have none of it. “He said he was coming home,” he countered tartly. “I’m calling because I need the car for an airport run. Just ask him to call me, O.K.? When he gets in.”
She was silent for a while, then said: “Are you mad at me, Mouse?”
The nickname was as old as their friendship. She was using it, he realized, to signal her earnestness.
“No … I’m not.”
“You sound furious. What have I done?”
“Nothing.”
“I looked for you after the show the other day. You just took off.”
“Sorry,” he said, “if it looked that way. I had work to do, that’s all.”
“You said you wanted to meet Wren Douglas.” A certain wounded tremolo, perfected in Cleveland, had come back into her voice. Michael hadn’t heard it for a while, but it never failed to work on him.
“I didn’t much care for her,” he lied. “I changed my mind about meeting her after I saw the show.”
“Oh.”
“She wasn’t that great,” he added, somehow feeling traitorous to two women at the same time. “It had nothing to do with you, I promise.”
“O.K. I just wondered.”
“We’ll talk later, all right? My friend’ll miss his flight if I don’t call a cab.”
“I love you, Mouse.”
“Same here, Babycakes. Bye-bye.”
He hung up, racked with guilt, then called Veterans and ordered a cab for the foot of the Barbary steps. “We should go,” he told Thack afterwards. “It won’t take them long.”
Thack’s luggage in hand, they navigated the wobbly ballast stones along the lane. “I could go with you,” Michael said suddenly.
Thack looked confused.
“To the airport,” Michael added.
“Oh … well, you’d just have to pay the fare coming back.”
Michael didn’t argue with him. He pictured himself alone in that cab, and it seemed even worse than this.
“Besides,” said Thack, “I like the idea of saying goodbye at the steps. I like the symmetry of it, a clean break.”
It sounded like carpentry to Michael, precise and a little cold-blooded.
“Oh,” Thack added. “Tell Mrs. Madrigal I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Aren’t they tearing down the steps tomorrow?”
“Oh, yeah.” He hadn’t thought about that for days. “I’ll tell her.”
Reaching the steps, Thack set his suitcase down. Michael did the same with the carry-on. Thack said: “It’s been really great. Some great memories.”
“Same here,” said Michael.
Sadistically early, the cab appeared on the street beneath them. Thack waved authoritatively, then put his arms around Michael. “Gimme a kiss. We’ll make him squirm.”
“I don’t think so,” said Michael, seeing who the driver was. “Hello, Teddy,” he hollered down.
“Hello, Michael,” came the melodious reply.
“He’s a friend of mine,” he explained. “He must’ve recognized the address.”
“Oh.”
“He’s a lord.”
“Of what?”
“Of England,” said Michael. “Lord Roughton. He married this lesbian friend of mine. Get him to tell you about it.”
“All right,” said Thack, smiling. “I’ll do that.” He kissed Michael lightly on the mouth. Twice. “Stay well,” he said softly.
“I plan to,” said Michael.
Thack grabbed his bags and headed down the steps, stopping only to reexamine his earlier handiwork. When he saw Michael watching him, he grinned sheepishly. “Our plank,” he said.
“I know,” said Michael.
There was nothing even close to comfort food in the house, so Michael ran down to the Searchlight and bought a quart of milk and a package of Oreos. He was tearing into them when the phone rang.
“Yeah,” he answered flatly, faking civility for no one, least of all Brian, who should have called hours ago, if he was going to be this late.
But it was Charlie. “Well, how did it go?”
“It was fine,” he said.
“Fine? What does that mean? What’s that noise?”
“I’m eating,” said Michael.
“Not cookies? Oreos?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, shit. It’s bad. Is he still there?”
“No. He left.”
“There was a fight?”
“No, Charlie, no fight. He just went home.”
“Well … you knew he was gonna do that.”
“This is true,” said Michael. “Now change the subject.”
“Swell,” said Charlie. “How ‘bout going to a wake with me?”
Michael felt his skin prickle. “Whose?”
“You don’t know him. Philip Presley. He worked on the Peninsula, I think.”
“You think? Don’t you know him?”
“Well, not exactly. His Shanti volunteer helped me out with Lou Pirelli’s memorial service, so I kind of owe him one. Please, Michael, his parents are snake-handlers or something. I can’t deal with Bible-thumpers without a little moral support.”
“I’m running out of outfits,” said Michael.
“Do the blazer,” said Charlie. “The blazer is you.”
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I should be at work, actually.”
“It’s during lunch hour. I’ll pick you up. It won’t take long. It’s potluck, but I’ll make my pecan pie, and it can be from both of us.”
Michael capitulated with a weary laugh. “What time?” he asked.
“Noon,” said Charlie. “You’re a prince.”
“See you then,” said Michael.
“By
e-bye,” said Charlie.
Michael hung up and continued ravaging the Oreos. He ate half a dozen of them and took the rest to the bathroom, where he soaked in the tub and waited for Brian to call.
Homesick at Home
FOR DEDE, THIS WAS THE VERY LANDSCAPE OF PEACE: the apple orchard, the swimming pool, the familiar line of bee-bristling lavender marching into the yellow hills. If Wimminwood had been D’orothea’s Oz, here lay her own beloved Kansas, her eternal consolation, her Halcyon-only space.
Smiling, she sat up on her towel and watched as the sun sank like a hot penny into the buttery distance. A soft umber dust hovered over the orchard, motes dancing in the light, rendering the scene in sepia tones.
She called to her daughter, frolicking solo in the pool.
“What?” came the put-upon reply.
“Time to get out.”
“Awww …”
“No lip, Anna. You’ll shrivel up.”
“No I won’t. I gotta catch up. I’ve been pool-deprived.”
DeDe mugged at her. “You poor little thing. You had a wonderful river right there in your front yard.”
“A wonderful, yucky river,” said Anna, climbing out of the pool.
To a certain extent, DeDe agreed with her, but she wouldn’t think of saying so. Anna ran to her, squealing, then did a little on-the-spot warpath dance, waiting to be dried. True luxury, DeDe decided, was only bestowed upon children.
“Where’s Edgar?” she asked, toweling Anna’s legs.
“In our room,” said Anna.
Something about her daughter’s tone made her suspicious. “You two aren’t fighting again?”
“No,” said Anna. “He says he feels crummy.”
“He’s sick?”
“No. He’s homesick.”
“Homesick?”
“For Brother Sun.”
DeDe blotted Anna’s face, then wrapped the towel around her like a sarong. “Well, I bet if you challenged him to a game of Parcheesi …”
Anna shook her head slowly. “He won’t,” she said.
DeDe scooped up her sunning stuff and strode across the terrace to the sun porch, where D’or was kitchen-knifing her way through the bills. “Your mother called,” she said, looking up. “She wants us for brunch tomorrow.”
“How did she sound?” DeDe asked.
“Good, actually. Cheerful. Not herself.”
“Did you accept?”
“I did,” said D’or. “Even more cheerfully.”
DeDe smirked. “Look who’s not herself.”
Dropping her stuff in the kitchen, she swept through the house and up the stairs, then stopped outside the children’s door, which was slightly ajar. He sat Indian-style in the window seat, his diary in his lap.
“Hi,” she said.
He looked up gravely. “Hi,” he replied.
“Lots to write about, huh?”
He shrugged.
“Sure,” she said, sitting next to him. “You made lots of new friends, learned how to make wallets … lots of good stuff.”
He nodded.
“It’s all right to miss your friends, you know.”
“I know,” he said.
“I liked that one boy a lot. Philo? Was that his name?”
Another nod.
“Did you write about Brother Sun?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe if you read it to me …”
He shook his head.
“Why not?” she asked.
“It’s just for boys,” he replied.
“Oh … I see.”
“No offense,” said Edgar.
“I understand.” She put her hand on his little knee, gave it a shake and got up. “D’or is grilling tuna tonight. Your favorite.”
“With peanut butter sauce?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Yum.”
Stopping at the door, she looked back, to find him absorbed in his diary again. She felt an unmistakable pang of jealousy.
Geordie
ON A SAND DUNE AT POINT REYES, BRIAN WATCHED until the sun had been extinguished by the coastal fog. Then he trudged back to the car, past the secret inland sea called Abbott’s Lagoon. He loved this spot—had loved it for years—for its desolation and drama, its pristine white knolls and sparkling water, a storybook Sahara rolling down to a Biblical shore.
The threat of death, apparently, was a last-minute eye-opener for some people, but not for him. He had known already how special this place was. He had said so a thousand times. On the proverbial path of life, there weren’t many goddamn roses he hadn’t already stopped and smelled.
Shouldn’t that count for something?
He drove back to the city by way of the dizzying Stinson Beach road, then sat in traffic at the bridge while a wounded Saab was hauled away. It was after dark when he finally arrived at the doorstep of Geordie’s cottage.
She checked him out through the little hatch, then opened the door. “Forget something?” she asked blandly. She looked less haggard than before. Rested, at least.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shrugged.
“I shouldn’t have run off like that.”
“A week ago,” she said, smiling wearily. “I’ve already forgotten about it.”
“Can I come in?”
She shrugged again, then made a frivolous welcoming gesture. He stepped past her awkwardly into the low-ceilinged room. A half-eaten TV dinner, still steaming, sat on the coffee table.
“I’m interrupting supper,” he said.
“So what else is new? Sit down.” She raked newspapers off the sofa to make a place for him. “Want me to heat you one? It’s Lean Cuisine.”
“No,” he said. “Thanks.”
She could tell what he was thinking, and smiled. “It’s not denial,” she said. “I’m not dieting. I just haven’t shopped since the diagnosis.”
“Looks good,” he said lamely.
“Did you take the test?”
“Yeah.”
“When do you get your results?”
“Five days,” he said.
She cut a piece of turkey with her fork and chewed it vigorously. “You’re gonna be all right.”
He didn’t know what to say. It seemed selfish somehow to wish for something she had already been denied.
“How ‘bout a beer?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
“You’re a blast,” she said, deadpanning.
He smiled back at her, then sat there tongue-tied, hands dangling between his legs. “How’s your friend?” he asked at last.
“Not good,” she replied. “Tubes … all that. He doesn’t recognize me.”
“I’m sorry.” He looked down again, composing his thoughts. “Look … I could shop. I’m a good shopper.”
“For who?” She drew back a little.
“For you … whenever.”
“Hey,” she said. “So they found a lesion. I can still get around, Brian.”
“You should eat better,” he said. “Greens. Healthy stuff. Shiitake mushrooms.”
“I loathe mushrooms,” she said.
“Yeah, but these are great for the immune system. It comes in a powder. You put it in V-8 and it tastes just like pizza.” He remembered Jon, sitting up in bed with a glass of the stuff, smacking his lips and saying: “What? No pepperoni?”
“That is dis-gusting,” said Geordie.
He laughed. “Liquid pizza. Works for me.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“You’re gonna need somebody,” he said.
She turned and stared at him.
“I have all sorts of free time,” he added.
“You have a wife and a child.”
“And a maid,” he said. “Who does most of the work.”
She studied his face a moment longer, then said: “My sister said she’d help.”
“Good,” he answered. “Then that makes two of us.”
She cut off
another piece of turkey, then asked: “Will your wife know where you’re going?”
Tonight of all nights, he found a parking space at the very foot of the Barbary steps. When he reached the courtyard, he looked up at Michael’s window, a bar of burnished gold embedded in the dark ivy of the second floor. Seeing a shadow pass, he almost called out, but changed his mind and pushed the buzzer instead.
Michael looked angry when he opened his door on the landing.
“I’m late,” Brian said quietly. “And you needed the car.”
Michael’s face remained stony. “Thack wanted a ride to the airport,” he said.
So that was it. He had robbed them of a decent send-off, a prolonged farewell. “Sorry,” he said, as contritely as possible. “I didn’t know he was leaving tonight.”
“No big deal.”
“I figured everybody would just … kick back.” Michael gave him a twisted little smile. “He’s kicking back on a 747.”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure,” said Michael. He stood aside, then closed the door. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t know he was leaving, either.”
Brian headed for the armchair and collapsed into it.
“I think he just freaked out,” said Michael, sitting down on the sofa.
“About what?”
Michael plumped the pillow next to him. “My being positive.
“You told him that?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“A couple of days ago,” said Michael. “Before we went to bed.”
Something didn’t compute. “Wouldn’t he have said something earlier, then?”
“Oh, he was cool about it,” said Michael, “and we were safe and all. Unless you count French kissing, which I don’t.”
“Then why would he all of a sudden …?”
“I think it just ruled out any … long-term considerations.”
“But that wouldn’t make him leave early.”
Michael ran his palm along the arm of the sofa. “I dunno. I may have been looking long-term.” He gave Brian a wistful smile. “You know me.”
Now it made sense.
“I don’t blame him,” said Michael. “Who wants to start something with somebody who … you know.” He chewed on his lower lip. “He was a nice guy. Some guys won’t even date outside their own antibody type.”
Significant Others Page 25
