Babycakes

by Armistead Maupin

  The kid gave the room a disparaging once-over. “They look like the dog’s lunch to me.”

  Michael laughed. “I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound good.”

  “It’s not, mate, it’s not. What part of the States are you from?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Well …” The kid rocked on his heels. “Poofters out the arse, eh?”

  Michael smiled. “I guess you could say that.”

  “The Queen went there, didn’t she?”

  “Right.”

  “Rained like bloody hell.”

  “Still is,” Michael said, “as far as I know. Just like here.” Still rocking on his heels, the kid gave him a half-lidded smile. “So … what say we have a go?”

  “Uh … what?”

  “Have a go, mate.” He banged his pale palms together to show what he meant.

  Michael chuckled. “Oh.”

  “What say?”

  “Thanks, but … I’m off the stuff for a while.”

  “Don’t fancy wogs, eh?”

  His directness seemed designed to throw Michael off balance. “Not at all. I just haven’t been very horny lately.”

  “Well, what are you doin’ here, then?”

  “Good question. Seeing the sights, I guess.”

  “O.K., then … I’m one of ‘em. My name’s Wilfred.” He extended his hand as an enormous grin spread across his face like a sunrise.

  Michael shook hands with him. “I’m Michael.”

  For the next half hour, they remained side by side at the bar, but spoke very little. Meanwhile, the legions of would-be leatherettes grew shriller and smokier as rain sluiced noisily through the gutters outside the door.

  “You didn’t bring a brolly, did you, mate?”

  “Nope. Like a dummy.”

  “C’mon, then. I did.”

  It sounded like another invitation to “have a go,” so Michael took the easy way out. “Thanks. I think I’ll just hang out for a little while longer.”

  “You’ll be sorry,” said Wilfred.

  “Why?”

  “Look at the time, mate.”

  A clock advertising Dane Crisps said ten forty-five. “It’s almost closing time,” Wilfred pointed out. “It isn’t a pretty sight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They turn the lights up. If you think these blokes look grotty now, just you wait till eleven o’clock!”

  Michael laughed. “A surefire way to empty the place.”

  “They know what they’re doing.” The kid grinned. “In straight pubs they turn the lights down at closing time. Who says we’re just the same, eh? C’mon, now … what’s your next stop?”

  “The tube station. I’m going home.”

  “Super. So am I.” He took Michael’s arm and steered him through the crowd to the door, then opened his umbrella. “Here, c’mon … get under here, mate.”

  Since Michael was at least four inches taller than his escort, he held the umbrella while Wilfred acted as navigator and guide, his right hand snugly planted in the right rear pocket of Michael’s 501’s.

  “Princess Diana lived down the way a bit … back when she was a teacher. Think of that, eh? Passing all these leather blokes on her way to the bleedin’ kindergarten. Here! Mind the lorry!”

  Michael jumped back onto the curb as a huge truck rumbled past, only inches away.

  The whites of Wilfred’s eyes flashed under the umbrella like a pair of headlights. “One more like that, mate, and we’re married for all eternity.” He pointed to white lettering on the street. “See? ‘Look Right,’ it says. We even paint it there for you bleedin’ Americans.”

  They strode briskly past a newsstand, then a garish ethnic restaurant—Arabic, maybe—with the menu painted on plywood and a huge chunk of symmetrical mystery meat, floodlit by pink bulbs, spinning like a lop on a vertical spit.

  “Druggies eat there,” said Wilfred. “It’s open late. Do you have a lover back in the States?”

  Michael laughed. “Nice segue.”

  “Nice what?”

  “Nothing. Bad joke. No, I don’t have a lover.”

  “Why not?”

  He hesitated. “I used to have a lover. It didn’t work out.”

  “A delicate subject, eh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d like to have a lover, I think, but I don’t think I’m going to meet one at the Coleherne.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Michael.

  They rode the tube in virtual silence, as tradition seemed to demand, Wilfred’s blue-denimed knee pressed against Michael’s black one.

  “What’s your stop?” asked Michael.

  “Same as yours, mate. Notting Hill Gate.”

  Michael was floored.

  The kid grinned. “You’ve never even noticed me, have you?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what …”

  “I live upstairs from you, mate. Good of Forty-four Colville Crescent.”

  The final proof came when they reached the house and Wilfred produced a key that opened the front door. He flipped the timer switch before turning to peck Michael lightly on the lips. “G’night, mate. Thanks for walking me home.”

  Then he sprinted up the stairs to the second floor.

  Cross Purposes

  LIKE OTHER THINGS ABOUT HER, MARY ANN’S MENSTRUAL cycle was so regular that Mussolini might have included it on his train schedules. When the world was going to hell in a handbasket and chaos ruled the day, she could always count on the prompt arrival of her period—or, as her mother had once explained it, “the bloody tears of a disappointed uterus.”

  Her uterus had been unusually disappointed today, which meant that her midmonth pains were due in another fourteen days, give or take a day or so. According to her doctor at St. Sebastian’s (and several authors she had seen on Donahue), those pains—mittelschmerz was the silly technical term—were the surest indication of ovulation.

  While some women apparently showed no outward signs of ovulation other than uncomfortable periods, Mary Ann had all the evidence she needed, thank you. Flipping through her New Yorker appointment book, she counted fourteen days ahead and found herself landing squarely on Sunday, April 3—Easter Day.

  Eggs at Easter. Cute.

  Brian never asked her about her mittelschmerz, apparently preferring to trust romantically in what he called “the good ol’ hunt and peck method of making babies.” The term had always annoyed her (why were men so proud of their obliviousness?), but she was suddenly grateful for his blind traditionalism.

  She closed the appointment book and leaned back in her chair, suddenly thinking of Mouse. She had explained her mittelschmerz to him once, partially as a way of explaining her bitchy flare-ups, and he had never let her hear the end of it. (“Uh-oh,” he would say, catching her with a frown on her face, “you’re not having your ethelmertz, are you?”) She giggled at the thought of that, and blew him a kiss across the world.

  The rest of her day was horrendous. She argued for at least an hour with a director who wanted to score her baby bear footage with cutesy-pie Disney music. Then Bambi Kanetaka insisted on ditching Mary Ann’s Wildflowers of Alcatraz story to make room for a sleazy feature on sex surrogates in Marin.

  When she got home at eight o’clock. Brian was bustling around in his denim apron while an aromatic beef stew waited on the stove. He pecked her on the cheek, then saw the fatigue in her face. “A ball-buster, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well … this should cheer you up. We got an intriguing invitation today.”

  “Yeah? Who from?”

  “Theresa Cross. She wants us to come hang out for a weekend. Use the pool, kick back … Who knows? Maybe even make a baby or two.” Seeing her expression change, he added: “Hey, I know she’s not one of your favorite people, but … well, it’s kind of a nice gesture, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” she conceded. “It is.”

  He looked relieved. “She
’s having some of her rock-and-roll friends.”

  “Great. When does she want us?” “Easter weekend.”

  Of course, she thought.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Well … I can’t, that’s all.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just … well, I have to work.”

  “On what?” he asked feistily. “It’s Easter, for God’s sake.”

  “I know, but … I promised to do the Easter feature for them … the sunrise service at Mount Davidson, that sort of stuff. I know it’s a bummer, Brian. I meant to tell you earlier. Father Paddy is doing the sunrise service, and they want me to … you know … cover it for Bay Window.”

  He hung a scowl on his face. “Jesus,” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied softly, avoiding the Jesus jokes.

  “Easter, for God’s sake. Where do they get off telling you you have to …”

  “Brian, it’s my job.”

  “I know it’s your job.” His forehead was forming ugly little trenches, a sure danger sign. “Don’t start with that it’s-my-job crap. I know what your responsibilities are. And your priorities, for that matter. I’m just disappointed. All right? I have a right to that, don’t I?”

  “Of course.”

  “Forget I asked,” he said in a calmer tone. “I’ll tell Theresa we can’t make it.”

  It jarred her to hear him call the rock widow by her first name—as if they were old buddies—but what else was he supposed to call her? Certainly not Mrs. Cross. “Don’t do that,” she said. “I think you should go.”

  He blinked at her.

  “I want you to go,” she added.

  “I don’t know …”

  “Look, one of us should find out what it’s like. Who’s gonna be there, anyway?”

  “Well … Grace Slick, for starters.”

  “Wow.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “Since when did you say wow to Grace Slick?”

  “That’s not fair,” she sulked. “I like Grace Slick.”

  “You do not like Grace Slick. You’ve never liked Grace Slick. Come off it.”

  “Well … I meant the wow for you. It was a vicarious wow. Oh, for God’s sake, Brian, go to your rock-and-roll party. It’s tailor-made for you. You’ll be pissed at me forever if you don’t go.”

  His eyes became doglike. “I wanted somebody to laugh at it with.”

  It was one of those moments of uncomplicated connection that made up for all the grueling compromises of marriage. She nuzzled his neck for a moment, then said: “We’ll laugh about it later. I promise.”

  He drew away from her to add a missing detail. “She’s asked her guests for overnight, I mean, like … the whole weekend.”

  She shrugged. Under the circumstances, she could hardly get huffy. “Fine. Great.”

  “Do you mean that?” he asked earnestly. “Or are you just being modern?”

  “If she touches you …” She chewed her forefinger, pretending to ruminate. “I’ll tear her tits off.”

  He laughed, then snapped his fingers. “I’ve got a great idea!”

  “What?” He was making her nervous,

  “I’ll take Simon along with me.”

  “I don’t know, Brian.” She weighed several arguments and settled on one. “That’s a little rude.”

  “Why?”

  “Well … she invited the two of us. She doesn’t even know Simon and … well, since it’s our first real invitation, it might be a little pushy to drag along a perfect stranger … especially one who’s kind of a groupie and all.”

  “That’s what I thought would be perfect,” he said. “He’s crazy about her … and unattached.”

  “Yeah, hut she’s probably got a surplus of men as it is.”

  “Straight men?”

  “Well … whatever. Don’t fix them up, Brian.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because … she’s loo much of a vulture.” He laughed. “I think Simon can take care of himself.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” she said, leaning against him again. “Have you forgiven me yet?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Good. There’s something else we can work on, too.”

  “What?”

  “Save Palm Sunday for me, will you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because … the signs are good … babywise.”

  It took him a while. “You mean … ethelmertz?”

  She nodded. “Ethelmertz.”

  “Hot damn!” He held her closer. “That makes up for Easter, right there.”

  “Good,” she replied. “I hoped it would.”

  The Kid Upstairs

  MICHAEL WAS FEELING REMARKABLY CHIPPER when he awoke at eight forty-five in Simon’s musty bedroom. A cement mixer gargled gratingly out in the street and someone was frying kippers across the garden, but nothing could shake his nagging suspicion that life was finally getting better.

  He flipped on his bedside radio. A newscaster informed him that a schoolmaster had been found crucified on a moor in Scotland and that London bookmakers had opened bets on when the capital would have a consecutive forty-eight-hour period without rain. None of it bothered him a bit.

  He was brewing a pot of tea when someone rapped on his door. To be almost certain who it was gave him the pleasant illusion of being at home. “Mornin’, mate.”

  Michael smiled at the kid. “Mornin’.”

  Wilfred was wearing a variation of last night’s ensemble—a bow tie (black) and sleeveless sweater (turquoise), with a white shirt and 501’s. He had a “look,” it seemed. Michael couldn’t help remembering the porkpie hat he had worn all over London when he was sixteen.

  “Tea?” he asked.

  “Super,” said Wilfred.

  “Sit down. I’ll bring it in.”

  He returned to the kitchen and came back with the tea things on a tray. “Why didn’t you tell me you lived here?”

  Wilfred shrugged, now sprawled on the sofa, one leg draped over the arm. “I didn’t want to be the wog kid upstairs. I wanted to meet you …” He searched for the right words and couldn’t find them.

  “With our tribe?” offered Michael.

  “There you go.” Wilfred smiled.

  “Did you follow me to the Coleherne?”

  The kid’s face registered mild indignation. “You’re not the only bleedin’ poofter who goes to the Cloneherne, y’know.”

  Michael took note of the pun. “The Cloneherne, huh?”

  Wilfred twinkled at him. “That’s me own name for it.”

  “Not bad.”

  “So what are you doin’ in Lord Twitzy-twee’s flat?”

  “We swapped apartments. I gave him my place in San Francisco for a month and … Simon’s a lord?”

  “He acts like one, that’s for sure. He’s a poof, is he?”

  Michael shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Didn’t think so.” Wilfred surveyed the room imperially. “Not very tidy.”

  On that point, at least, there seemed to be a consensus. “I don’t think it matters to him,” Michael said.

  “Who’s the midge?” asked the kid.

  “The who?”

  “The midge. The runt lady who visits.”

  “His nanny,” Michael replied. “And watch your mouth.”

  “His nanny. My-my.”

  “What do you take in your tea?”

  A powerful voice thundered in the stairwell. “Wilfred!”

  “Jesus,” muttered Michael. “Who’s that?”

  The kid was already heading for the door. “Look … meet me at the tube station in half an hour. I’ve got something special to show you.”

  “Wilfred, who was that?”

  “Aw … me dad, that’s all.”

  “Your father?”

  “Tube station. Half an hour. Got it? You won’t be sorry.”

  He dashed out the door, blowing a kiss as he left.

  Michael liste
ned to him clattering up the stairs, then sat down and poured himself a cup of tea. This was an entirely new wrinkle. If Wilfred lived with his parents, the last thing Michael needed was to come off as the foreign reprobate who had “recruited” their son. Daddy Dearest didn’t exactly sound like a man of reason.

  Fuck that. His life had finally begun to take on a momentum of its own, and it felt too good to turn back now. Or, as Mrs. Madrigal had once explained it; “Only a fool refuses to follow, when Pan comes prancing through the forest.”

  So he ate his toast and marmalade, made his bed, and strolled up Portobello Road toward the tube station. Wilfred was waiting for him by the ticket machines. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” Michael said.

  “Why?” asked the kid.

  “Well … your father sounded pissed.”

  Wilfred shook his head. “He doesn’t start in drinking till noon.”

  Michael smiled, recognizing a language problem. “I meant pissed angry, not pissed drunk.”

  “Oh. Well, he’s always pissed angry.”

  “About what?”

  Wilfred thought for a moment. “Maggie Thatcher and me, mostly. Not necessarily in that order, mind you.” He mimicked his father’s booming basso. “ ‘O? needs a bleedin’ Thatcher, when ya ain’t got a bleedin’ roof over your head? Eh? Eh?’ That’s his favorite joke.”

  Michael chuckled. “You do it well.”

  “I hear it enough,” said Wilfred.

  Following the kid’s instructions, Michael bought a ticket to Wimbledon, the last stop on the District Line, south of the river. As they waited on the platform, he asked Wilfred: “Does this have something to do with tennis?”

  “Just shut your trap, mate. You’ll see.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wilfred gave him an elfin grin. For just a moment, he reminded Michael of Ned in Death Valley, teasing his friends with the undisclosed wonders that lay just beyond the next bluff.