Babycakes

by Armistead Maupin

  Michael climbed from the truckbed, hoisted his bedroll to his shoulder, and trudged up the stairway to Barbary Lane, stopping long enough on the landing to wave goodbye to his campmates.

  Ned answered with a toot of the horn. “Go to bed,” he yelled. Like a master mechanic who could diagnose an engine problem simply by listening, he knew that Michael’s emotional resistance was down.

  Michael gave him a thumbs-up sign and followed the eucalyptus trees into the dark city canyon of the lane. He whistled during this last leg of the journey, warding off demons he was still unable to name.

  Back at the apartment, he dumped his gear on the bedroom floor and drew a hot bath. He soaked for half an hour, already feeling the loss of his brothers, the dissolution of that safe little enclave they had shared in the desert.

  After the bath, he put on the blue flannel pajamas he had bought the week before in Chinatown, then sat down at his desk and began composing a letter to his parents.

  The warming sound of Brian’s laughter drifted through the window as a new moon peeked from behind the clouds. Then came another man’s laughter, less hearty than Brian’s but just as sincere. Michael set his pen down and listened to enough dialogue to determine that the visitor was British, then returned to the task at hand.

  Boris, the neighborhood cat, slunk along the window-ledge, cruising for attention. When he spotted Michael, he stopped in his tracks, shimmied under the sill, and announced his arrival with a noise that sounded like a rusty hinge. Michael swung his chair away from the desk and prepared his lap for the inevitable. Boris kept his distance, though, rattling his tail like a saber as he loped about the room.

  “O.K.,” said Michael. “Be that way.”

  Boris creaked back at him.

  “How old are you, anyway?” Another creak.

  “A hundred and forty-two? Not bad.”

  The tabby circled the room twice, then gazed up expectantly at the only human he could find.

  “He’s not here,” said Michael. “There’s nobody to spoil you rotten now.”

  Boris voiced his confusion.

  “I know,” said Michael, “but I’m fresh out of Tender Vittles. That wasn’t my job, kiddo.”

  There were footsteps outside the door. Boris jerked his head, then shot out the window.

  “Mouse?” It was Mary Ann.

  “It’s open,” he said.

  She slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. “I heard talking. I hope I didn’t …”

  “It was just Boris.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean … I was talking to Boris.” She smiled. “Right.’’

  “Sit down,” he said.

  She perched on the edge of the sofa. “We have this really delightful Englishman upstairs.”

  He nodded. “So I hear.”

  “Oh … we haven’t been too …?”

  “No,” he assured her. “It sounds nice.”

  “He’s from the Britannia. He used to be a radio officer for the Queen.”

  “Used to be?”

  “Well … it’s a long story. The thing is … he needs a furnished apartment for a month, and he wants to swap with somebody from here. He’s got a cute flat in Nottingham Gate … or something like that. Anyway, it’s just sitting there waiting for somebody to come live in it.”

  “And?”

  “Well … doesn’t that sound perfect?”

  “For me, you mean?”

  “Sure! I’m sure Ned wouldn’t mind if …”

  “We’re closed for a month,” he said.

  “So there you go! It is perfect. It’s a ready-made vacation.” He said nothing, letting the idea sink in.

  “Think of it, Mouse! England! God, I can hardly stand it.”

  “Yeah, but … it still lakes money.”

  “For what? You can live as cheaply there as you can here.”

  “You’re forgetting about air fare,” he said. Her shoulders drooped suddenly. “I thought you’d be excited.”

  She looked so crestfallen that he got up and went to the sofa, kissing the top of her head. “I appreciate the thought. I really do.”

  She looked up with a wan smile. “Can you join us for a glass of wine?”

  “Thanks,” he answered, tugging at the lapels of his pajamas. “I was just about to crash and burn.”

  She rose and headed for the door. “Was Death Valley fun?”

  “It was … peaceful,” he said.

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  “Night-night,” he said.

  He made himself some hot milk, then went to bed, sleeping soundly until noon the next day. After finishing his letter to his parents, he drove to the Castro and ate a late breakfast at the communal table at Welcome Home. When the rain began to let up a little, he wandered through the neighborhood, feeling strangely like a tourist on Mars.

  Across the street, a man emerged from the Hibernia Bank.

  His heart caught in his throat.

  The man seemed to hesitate, turning left and right, revealing enough of his profile to banish the flimsy illusion.

  Blond hair and chinos and a blue button-down shirt. How long would he live before those things stopped meaning Jon?

  He crossed the intersection and walked along Eighteenth Street. In the days before the epidemic, the house next door to the Jaguar Store had been called the Check ’n Cruise. People had gone there to check their less-than-butch outer garments (not to mention their Gump’s and Wilkes Bashford bags) prior to prowling the streets of the ghetto.

  The Check ’n Cruise was gone now, and in its place had blossomed the Castro Country Club, a reading room and juice bar for men who wanted company without the alcohol and attitude of the bars. He sometimes repaired there after his stint at the AIDS switchboard.

  Today, as he entered, an animated game of Scrabble was in progress. At the bar, two men in business suits were arguing about Joan Sutherland, while another couple rehashed the Forty-Niners’ victory at the Super Bowl.

  He found a seat away from the conversation and immersed himself in the latest issue of the Advocate. An ad for a jewelry company caught his eye:

  I’M SAFE—ARE U?

  Dating is growing more and more complicated every day. Herpes, AIDS … If you are socially active it can be awkward and embarrassing to ask. How do you let someone you’re interested in know that YOU ARE SAFE? NOW you tan let others know simply by wearing your “I’M SAFE” ring or pendant. The jewelry does the “talking” for you. These handsome 14 Karat Klad gold plated rings and pendants are a great conversation starter for breaking the ice. So don’t get tagged out trying to slide into home. Let ’em know you’re safe, with your “I’M SAFE” ring and pendant.

  It was too much. He growled and threw the magazine on the floor, attracting the attention of the Forty-Niners fans. He gave them a sheepish grin and left without further explanation, heading straight for his car.

  When he got back to Barbary Lane, sunlight was streaming into the courtyard for the first time in weeks. Wisps of steam, like so many friendly ghosts, hovered above the courtyard as he passed through the lych-gate. He stopped long enough to savor the sweet, wet, ferny smell tingling in his nostrils.

  A figure rose from behind a low hedge, startling him.

  “Oh … Mrs. Madrigal.”

  The landlady wiped her hands on her paisley smock. “Isn’t it a grand day?”

  “It’s about time,” said Michael.

  “Now, now,” she scolded. “We knew it was coming. It was just a question of when.” She looked about her on the ground. “Have you seen my trowel, dear?”

  He scanned the area, then shook his head. “What are you planling?”

  “Baby tears,” she answered. “Why aren’t you going to London?”

  “Hey.” She had pounced without warning.

  “Never mind, I guess I’m being selfish. Still … it would have given me such vicarious thrills.” She fussed delicately with a strand of hair at her temple. “Oh, well. Can�
��t be helped.”

  These days, Mrs. Madrigal almost never tried to pull off her helpless-old-lady routine. Michael couldn’t help smiling at the effort. “I hope Mary Ann also told you it was a question of finances?”

  “She did.”

  “So?”

  “I’m not as gullible as she is.” The landlady found her trowel and slipped it into the pocket of her smock. Then she removed a pale yellow parchment envelope and handed it to Michael. “So I’m hereby eliminating it as an excuse. You’ll just have to come up with another one.”

  He opened the envelope and removed a check for a thousand dollars. “Mrs. Madrigal … this is awfully sweet, but …”

  “It isn’t a bit sweet. It’s a cold-blooded investment. I’m commissioning you to go to London and come back with some happy stories for us.” She paused, but her great blue eyes remained fixed on him. “We need that from you, Michael.”

  There was nothing he could say.

  “But money’s not the reason, is it? Not really.” She sat down on the bench at the end of the courtyard and patted the place next to her. “You haven’t finished settling up with Jon yet.”

  Typically, she had lured him onto the appropriate set. He sat down less than ten feet away from the brass plaque that marked the spot where Jon’s ashes had been buried. “I’m not sure I ever will,” he said.

  “You must,” she replied. “What more do you want him to know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean … if we had him back with us right now … what would be your unfinished business?”

  He thought for a while. “I’d ask him what he did with the keys to the tool chest.”

  Mrs. Madrigal smiled. “What else?”

  “I’d tell him he was a jerk for needing to hang around with pissy queens.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’d tell him I’m sorry it look me so long to figure out what he meant to me. And I wish we’d taken that trip to Maui when he suggested it.”

  “Fine.”

  “And … I wore his good blazer while he was in the hospital and somebody burned a hole in the sleeve and I never told him about it … and I love him very much.”

  “He knows that already,” said the landlady.

  “I’d tell him again, then.”

  Mrs. Madrigal slapped her knees jauntily. “Does that about wrap it up?”

  “More or less.”

  “Good. I’ll take care of it.”

  He blinked at her, uncomprehending.

  “He’ll get your message, dear. I talk to him at least twice a week.” She patted the bench again. “Right here.” She leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Go to London, Michael. You’re not going to lose him this time. He’s a part of you forever.”

  He clung to her, tears streaming down his face.

  “Listen to me, child.” Now she was whispering directly into his ear. “I want you to run along the Thames in the moonlight … take off all your clothes and jump into the fountain at Trafalgar Square. I want you to … have a wild affair with a guard at Buckingham Palace.”

  He laughed, still holding tight to her.

  “Will you take the old lady’s money?” she asked.

  All he could manage was a nod.

  “Good. Good. Now run upstairs and tell Mary Ann to make all the arrangements.”

  He had reached the front door when she shouted her final instruction: “The toolbox keys are on a hook in the basement.”

  This Terrific Idea

  ON THE EVE OF MICHAEL’S DEPARTURE, MARY ANN found herself on a vigil at the San Francisco Zoo, awaiting the birth of a polar bear. She and her crew had camped out for seven hours beside the concrete iceberg which Blubber, the expectant mother, was compelled to call home. As the eighth hour approached, so did a smiling Connie Bradshaw, hunched over from her own pregnancy like some noble beast of burden.

  “Hi! They told me at the station I could find you here.”

  This was just what she needed. The Ghost of Cleveland Past. “Yeah,” she said dully. “If it keeps up like this, it may be a permanent assignment.”

  Connie peered through the bars at Blubber’s lair. “Where is she?”

  “Back there.” She pointed. “In her den. She’s not real fond of the cameras.”

  “I guess not, poor thing. Who would be?”

  Mary Ann shrugged. “Those women on the PBS specials seem to love it.”

  “Yuck.” Connie mugged. “Screaming and yelling and sweating … then waving at the baby with that dippy expression on their face. Only people are that dumb.”

  “I’m sure Blubber agrees with you, but she hasn’t got much of a choice. There are hearts to be warmed out there in the naked city.”

  Connie gazed wistfully at the iceberg, then turned back to Mary Ann, “Can you take a break and have a Diet Coke with me?”

  Mary Ann hesitated.

  “It won’t take long,” added Connie. “O.K.?”

  “Sure,” she replied, her curiosity getting the best of her. “Just for a little while, though. Blubber’s looking close.”

  She told her cameraman where she would be, then joined Connie under a Cinzano umbrella near the snack bar. Her old high school chum had rearranged her face into a mask of sisterly concern. “I’ll get right to the point, hon. Have you broken the news to Brian yet?”

  Mary Ann was beginning to feel badgered. “No,” she said flatly. “I haven’t.”

  “Super.” Connie beamed. “So far so good.”

  Mary Ann clenched her teeth. What the hell was so far so good about that?

  “I’ve been really thinking about this,” Connie added, “and I’ve got this terrific idea.”

  Ever since the time she had taken Mary Ann to singles night at the Marina Safeway, Connie and her terrific ideas had been nothing but trouble. “I don’t know,” said Mary Ann. “If it’s about getting pregnant, I’d just as soon …”

  “Don’t you even wanna hear it?” Connie was crushed.

  “Well … I appreciate your concern …”

  “Hear me out, O.K.? Then I’ll shut up. It’s not as weird as you might think.”

  Mary Ann doubted that, but she murmured a reluctant O.K. and fortified herself with a sip of Diet Coke.

  Connie seemed enormously relieved. “Remember my little brother Wally?”

  Why was it that people from home always expected you to recall minutiae from fifteen years ago, things that weren’t even that important at the time? “ ’Fraid not,” she said.

  “Yes you do.”

  “Connie … Cleveland was a long time ago.”

  “Yeah, but Wally used to deliver your paper. He delivered most of the papers on that side of Ridgemont.”

  The light dawned, however dim. A dorky kid with Dumbo ears and a bad habit of mangling the petunias with his Schwinn. “Yeah,” she said. “Sure. Of course.”

  “Well, Wally’s at UC med school now.”

  Mary Ann whistled. “Jesus.”

  “I know,” Connie agreed. “Does that make you feel old or what? He’s kind of a hunk too, if I do say so myself.”

  That was almost too much to imagine, but she let it go. She had a creepy feeling she already knew where this conversation was going to lead her. All she could do was pray that the polar bear would go into labor and rescue her from the embarrassment.

  “Anyway, Wally and some of his friends make donations from time to time to this sperm bank in Oakland.”

  Right on the button.

  “They’re not exactly donations,” Connie continued, “since they get paid for it. Not much. Just a little … you know … extra cash.”

  “Mad money.”

  “Right.”

  “Besides,” Mary Ann deadpanned, “they’re lying around the dorm all night with nothing to do …”

  Connie’s face fell. “O.K. I’m sorry. Forget it. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  She should never have used irony on Connie Bradshaw. “Hey,” she said, as gent
ly as possible, “I appreciate the thought. I really do. It’s just not for me, that’s all. The people at St. Sebastian’s suggested it, but … well …”

  “I thought it would be so perfect,” Connie lamented.

  “I know.”

  “They have these three cold-storage vats at the sperm bank—one for known donors, one for unknowns, and an extra one in case the freezer craps out. Wally’s stuff goes into the ‘unknown’ vat, but I thought maybe we could get his number or something … or get him moved into the ‘known’ vat … so you’d know what you were getting.”

  “It was a sweet thought. Really.” Not so sweet was the vision looming hideously in her brain: a turkey baster brimming with the semen of her former paperboy.

  “Plus,” added Connie, still plugging away, “it seems like the perfect solution if you want to get pregnant and you don’t want Brian to know that he’s not the father. There wouldn’t be any strings attached as far as Wally is concerned, and … well, everything would work out for everybody.”

  And the blessed event would be Connie’s niece or nephew. It was touching to think that Connie might regard this arrangement—consciously or unconsciously—as a means of cementing a friendship that had never quite worked out. It was downright heartbreaking, in fact.

  “Connie … I’d go to Wally in a second, if I thought I could handle artificial insemination.”

  “It’s not all that complicated, you know. They send you to this fertility awareness class and teach you how to measure your dooflop, and you just do it. I mean, sperm is sperm, you know?”

  “I know, Connie. It also comes with an attractive applicator.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you see? I know it’s easy. I know lots of people do it. I can see your point entirely. It’s the artificial part that stops me cold.” She lowered her voice to a vehement whisper. “I can’t help it, Connie. I want to be fucked first.”

  Connie’s jaw went slack. “You want Wally to fuck you?”

  “No!” She proclaimed it so forcefully that a Chinese woman at the next table looked up from her chili dog. Modulating her voice, she added: “I meant that in a general sense. I want the baby to grow out of an act of love. Or … affection, at least. You can blame my mother for that. That’s what she taught me, and that’s what I’m stuck with.”