Babycakes

by Armistead Maupin

  She had come to the same conclusion when she dragged home at 10 P.M. and found Brian sulking in the little house on the roof. “I couldn’t help it,” she said ineffectually. “I know you’re pissed, but these things come up.”

  “Tell me,” he mumbled.

  “We can still drive up there tomorrow.”

  “No, we can’t. I canceled our reservations. We were damn lucky to even get a room. I had no way of knowing if you’d pull this again.”

  “So you thought you’d punish me. That’s just great.”

  He turned and looked at her. “I’m punishing you, huh?”

  Determined to salvage something, she sat down next to him on the sofa. “I’ve got an alternative plan, if you’re really interested in hearing it.”

  “What?”

  “Well, we could check into one of those tawdry little motor courts at the end of Lombard Street … we’ve talked about that before. And we could be there in fifteen minutes.” She ran her forefinger lightly down his spine. “Wouldn’t that work just as well?”

  He made a grunting noise.

  “And don’t say it’s a dumb idea, because you were the one who came up with it. Right after we saw Body Heat. Remember?”

  He shook his head slowly, hands dangling between his knees.

  “Besides,” she added, “it strikes me that some sleazy neon would do wonders for both of us. Not to mention the Magic Fingers … and one of those Korean oil paintings of Paris in the rain. We can mess up both beds if we want to. and …”

  “Jesus!”

  The explosion really frightened her. “What on earth …?” “Is that the way you want it to be?”

  “Well, it was only a …”

  “Maybe I got it all wrong,” he said. “I thought we were talking about bringing another life into the world! I thought we were talking about our kid!”

  “We were,” she replied numbly, “in part.”

  “So why the hell are you trying to make something cheap out of it?”

  Her reserve flew out the window. “Oh my yes! Heaven forbid that Mommy should gel a little fun out of the procedure. We’re talking holy, holy, holy here. Tell you what, Brian … why don’t you run out and gather some rose petals … and we can sprinkle them on our goddamn bed of connubial bliss, just so the little bugger knows we’re good and ready for him … or her … or whatever the hell we’re manufacturing tonight.”

  He stared at her as if she were a corpse in a morgue and he were the next of kin. Then he rose and went to the window-facing the bay. After a long silence, he said: “I’m pretty thick, I guess. I’ve been misreading this all along.”

  “What do you mean?” Her voice was calmer now.

  He shrugged. “I thought you wanted a baby. I really believed that.”

  “I do, Brian. I do. I just can’t take it when … when you make it sound like that’s the sole purpose of our sex, that’s all. Hey, look … I came home from a horrendous day and you were sitting here like some spoiled kid with one more job for me to do. I’m sorry, but one miracle is all I can manage in a day.”

  “Miracle?” He frowned at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I just meant … I want you to want me for me, O.K.? I don’t like being jealous of a kid who’s not even here yet.” She smiled faintly as a gesture of reconciliation. “That’s all, Brian, just for tonight, can’t there be just two of us in bed?”

  “Sure,” he answered softly. “You bet.”

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”

  “I know,” she replied. “I know.”

  They smoked a joint later and made love on the floor of the TV room. Perhaps because of the tension of her day, Mary Ann’s orgasm eluded her until she took flight from the familiar and imagined it was Simon’s body that was grinding her fanny against the industrial carpeting.

  “You see?” said Brian, grinning at her afterwards. “Just the two of us.”

  Death at the Door

  AFTER SOME INVESTIGATION, MICHAEL LEARNED that London’s most fashionable dyke nightclub was a place in Mayfair called Heds. Tucked away discreetly in a basement, it was marked only by an understated brass plaque at the entrance: GENTLEMEN WILL KINDLY DISCHARGE THEIR WEAPONS BEFORE ENTERING THIS ESTABLISHMENT. The doorperson was a puce-lipped brunette with a Louise Brooks haircut.

  “Have you lads been here before?”

  Michael turned to Wilfred. “Have we?”

  “Once,” said the kid. “Don’t worry. We’re bent.”

  The doorperson smiled at him. “Just checking. Have a good time, now.”

  The room was smoky and low-ceilinged, with a row of couches along one wall. Four or five lesbian couples were slow-dancing to Anne Murray beneath a jerky mirror ball. Most of the women were stylishly dressed, and some of them were astonishingly beautiful. Michael sat down on one of the couches and motioned Wilfred to join him.

  “This is really a long shot,” he said.

  The kid shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

  “It’s not realty her kind of place. It’s so … unpolitical.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course … her looks have changed completely. I guess the rest could’ve changed too.”

  “Have you thought about ringing her?”

  “That address, you mean? I tried that three days ago. There isn’t a listing for Roughton in Easley-on-Hill.”

  A cocktail waitress stopped at the sofa. “Something to drink, gentlemen?”

  “No, thanks,” said Michael. He glanced at Wilfred. “How about you?”

  The kid declined.

  Michael looked back at the waitress. “You wouldn’t happen to know an American woman named Mona Ramsey?”

  The waitress thought for a moment, then shook her head.

  “She’s in her late thirties. Wears her hair like Princess Diana. Swears like a sailor.”

  “Sorry, love. I don’t catch the names usually.” She smiled apologetically and moved to the next customer.

  “How much longer have you got?” asked Wilfred.

  “Till what?”

  “Till you go.”

  “Oh.” He thought for a moment. “Six days, I guess. I leave on Tuesday.”

  Wilfred nodded.

  “Why?” asked Michael.

  “Well … we could go there.”

  “Where?”

  “You know … Easley-on-Hill.”

  “Oh.”

  “We could go there for Easter, couldn’t we? It’s lovely country, Gloucestershire. We could take the train. I’ve some money put away. And … if we don’t find her. there’s no harm done, is there?”

  The kid’s earnestness frightened him. “Actually,” he replied gently, “I think I may do that.”

  Wilfred blinked at him. “Without me, you mean?”

  Michael hesitated.

  “I understand,” said Wilfred. “Forget I said that.”

  “It isn’t you,” said Michael.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does. I don’t want you to think … that I don’t like you.”

  “I know you like me.”

  “I just think … it would be easier with … just me. I mean, if I come crashing in on her scene, whatever that is. Do you see what I mean, Wilfred?” He found the kid’s hand and squeezed it.

  Wilfred nodded.

  “Do you dance?”

  The kid glanced around. “Here?”

  “Sure.”

  Wilfred shrugged, then stood up. Michael took him in his arms and led as they danced to “You Needed Me.”

  “Cripes,” murmured Wilfred, his head against Michael’s chest. “If me mates saw me, I’d be so bleedin’ humiliated.”

  Michael chuckled. “Same here.” He was actually remembering a time when he and Jon had necked around the pool table at Peg’s Place in San Francisco. A dyke bar was the best place in the world for man-to-man romance; the
management was always sympathetic, and there were no distractions. He wondered if lesbians felt the same way about gay men’s bars.

  “When will you leave?” asked Wilfred. “For Gloucestershire, I mean.”

  “Oh. Friday, I guess.”

  “Will I see you after that?”

  “Sure. I’ll be back for a day or so before I … go home.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t get gloomy on me, Wilfred.”

  “Right.”

  It was almost midnight when they returned to Colville Crescent. Wilfred’s father was lumbering about upstairs, obviously drunk. Michael opened the door of his apartment, then turned to the kid: “Why don’t you come in for a while? Until he passes out, at least.”

  Wilfred nodded and followed him into the room just as the phone rang. Michael reached for it and flopped on the sofa.

  “It’s Miss Treves,” said the voice at the other end.

  “Oh, hi.”

  “Listen, love … have you had any trouble?”

  “Trouble?”

  “Oh … prowlers … that sort of thing.”

  “No. Not that I know of. What is this?” Her ominously vague warnings were beginning to get on his nerves.

  “Oh … well, there may be a bit of … I doubt if it’s serious, but I thought it best to let you know … just in case. There’s been a misunderstanding, and the silly ass is drunk, so …”

  “Miss Treves …”

  “Just stay there, love. I’ll be round shortly. I’ll explain everything.”

  “O.K., but …”

  “Lock the doors, love. Don’t let anyone in. Check the windows too. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  She hung up.

  Michael rose, a little dazed.

  “Who was it?” asked Wilfred.

  “Miss Treves.”

  “Who? Oh … the midget?”

  “She said to lock the doors and windows.”

  “Why?” asked the kid.

  “Good question. Somebody’s drunk. It doesn’t make any sense. She’s coming over to explain it …” His words trailed off as he remembered the door that opened onto the garden from the kitchen. He hurried to lock it.

  Wilfred trailed after him like an anxious puppy. “Maybe it’s that fat bloke I saw.”

  “What fat bloke?”

  “You know. When that bitch was here.”

  “Oh.”

  As he secured the back door, he peered out into the dark garden, but all he could make out was the grim filigree of the rusty bedspring propped against the fence. The sky glowed luridly, pinkish-orange, reflecting the lights of the city. There was no movement anywhere. He went to the kitchen window and tugged on the sash. “This goddamn thing won’t close all the way.”

  Wilfred nodded soberly. “We’ve got one to match upstairs. Look, mate … what’s happening? Is someone coming?”

  “I don’t know. She seemed to think so.”

  “Then why don’t we leave?”

  “We can’t. Miss Treves is coming over.”

  The kid was silent for a moment, then said: “You forgot the window in the bedroom.”

  “God, you’re right!” He dashed into the bedroom, with Wilfred at his heels. The window was already shut, so they returned to the living room, where Michael waited nervously at the window facing the street.

  “What if he gets here before she does?” asked Wilfred.

  “Don’t make it worse,” said Michael. A car rumbled past the elephantine silhouette of the cement mixer on the sidewalk. He watched until it rounded the corner and passed out of sight. Did Miss Treves drive? he wondered.

  Moments later, the little manicurist arrived on foot, bustling along the sidewalk like a Munchkin bringing word of the Wicked Witch. Michael admitted her before she had a chance to reach for the buzzer.

  “I’m sorry, love,” she said in an earnest whisper as she hurried into the apartment and locked the door behind her. “You really shouldn’t be involved in this.”

  “There’s two of us, actually. This is my friend, Wilfred. He lives upstairs.”

  She nodded a brisk hello to the kid, then turned back to Michael. “It may be nothing, actually. I just wanted to be here in case … it got ugly.”

  Great, thought Michael.

  Miss Treves turned and looked out the window.

  “Look,” said Michael, “could you at least tell us who we’re expecting?”

  The little woman hesitated, then said: “Bunny Benbow.”

  “Who?”

  “Hush, love.” She hoisted herself onto her favorite chair. “Close the curtains, please. Quickly!”

  As Michael did so, he heard footsteps. It was a drunk’s gait, heavy and faltering. The man muttered to himself as he passed the house, but his words were too slurred to be understood. Holding his breath, Michael glanced at Wilfred, then at Miss Treves, perched motionlessly on the edge of her chair with a forefinger pressed to her lips.

  The footsteps stopped.

  For a moment there was no sound at all except for the angry screeching of tires several blocks away. Then the man bellowed out a single word—Simon!—and overturned a trash can in the yard. Seconds later, the squawk of the door buzzer made the three listeners go rigid in unison, like victims of a joint electrocution.

  Michael and Wilfred looked to Miss Treves for guidance. She shook her head slowly, once more using her finger to call for silence.

  The buzzer sounded again, followed by the thud of the man’s fists against the front door. “Simon, you bloody little bastard, I know you’re in there!”

  Still, Miss Treves insisted they remain quiet.

  “Simon, lad … c’mon now…. It’s your old man…. I won’t hurt you.” The man paused for a moment, waiting for a reply, then continued his plea in a more reasonable tone of voice, “Simon, lad … she lies about me … she’s a bloody liar, son…. C’mon now, open up, eh? Your old man needs your help, lad.”

  He got nothing for his efforts.

  “Simon!” he bellowed again.

  “Hey,” came another voice, just as angry. “Sod off!”

  Michael locked eyes with Wilfred, who pointed to the ceiling to indicate the identity of the other shouter.

  “Who said that?” yelled the man at the door.

  “Up here, you bleedin’ fool!”

  Another garbage can clattered to the ground as the caller apparently staggered back into the yard. “Call me a fool, you goddamn black bastard. Come down here and call me that, you woolly-headed wog!”

  The man returned to the door and began pounding again, a racket that was presently accompanied by the menacing thud of Wilfred’s father’s footsteps on the stairs. “C’mon, lad … doncha even wanna see what your old dad looks like? I know what you look like. Tell you what, lad … talk to me for just a bit and I’ll leave you be. Eh? That’s the least you …” His words were cut off by a bone-chilling howl from the aborigine and the bang of the door as it was thrown open. “I told you to sod off, didn’t I?”

  Michael turned to Wilfred, whispering though it was no longer necessary. “This is insane. We can’t just sit here.”

  “Says who?” the kid replied. “I’m not going out there.”

  Miss Treves slipped out of her chair and inched toward the door. “Dear God,” she murmured. “This is dreadful. Isn’t there something we can do?”

  The noise in the corridor was horrendous, a mixture of animal grunts and maniacal wheezing. Someone slammed against the wall so hard that a tin engraving fell off the wall in Simon’s living room. After almost a minute of desperate battle, there was nothing left but the sound of one man’s heavy breathing. Then someone opened the front door, closed it, and ran away from the house.

  The corridor was still again.

  Michael made his way toward the door.

  “Wait!” said Wilfred.

  “We have to see,” answered Michael.

  Miss Treves said nothing, hands aflutter at her throat.

  Pr
essing his ear against the door, Michael listened for a moment. Nothing. He eased the door open, to reveal a large white man lying on his back in the corridor. He knelt by the form and watched for breathing, then laid his ear against the wet polyester above the man’s heart.

  “It’s the fat bloke,” said Wilfred.

  Miss Treves waddled glumly into the corridor. “He’s just … unconscious, isn’t he?”

  Michael looked up and shook his head.

  “He’s dead?” asked Wilfred.

  Miss Treves whimpered softly and fainted, falling against the hillock of the corpse’s belly.

  Michael looked at Wilfred, then down again at the macabre tableau at his feet. His mind flashed perversely on the last scene of Romeo and Juliet.

  Wilfred said the first sensible thing. “Have you any smelling salts?”

  Michael shook his head. Did anyone have smelling salts? “Wait,” he said, suddenly remembering. “I’ve gol something that might work.” He rushed to the bathroom and returned with the little bottle of concentrated liquid deodorant he had bought at Boots.

  Wilfred frowned. “I don’t know, mate. Poppers?”

  “It’s not poppers.” Michael knelt next to Miss Treves and scooped her into his arms. He uncapped the bottle and waved the pungent stuff under her nose. Nothing happened. He set the bottle down. “There’s not enough ammonia, I guess. This is like spraying her with Glade.”

  “I’ll get something wet,” offered Wilfred, dashing out of the room. He came back with a sea sponge from the bathroom and dabbed delicately at the midget’s features.

  Miss Treves’s nose was the first thing to move. Then her left eye twitched. Then a little convulsion shook her whole body awake. “Thank God,” murmured Michael. He carried her back to the living room and laid her carefully on the sofa. It took a moment for her to realize where she was. Then the terror returned to her face. “Are you sure he’s dead?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh,” nodded Michael.

  “Who was that? Who did it?”

  “Wilf … uh, the man upstairs.”

  “Me dad,” put in Wilfred. He gave Michael a quick glance to show that he didn’t need to be protected.

  “They were both drunk,” said Michael. “It was just a … freak thing.”

  Miss Treves nodded wearily. “Bunny has a bad heart.” She glanced toward the corpse in the hallway. “The bally fool … the stupid, bally fool. I told him to leave well enough alone, but he was always …” Her voice trailed off in despair.