Babycakes

by Armistead Maupin

  “Are you all right now?” asked Michael.

  She nodded.

  “I don’t know what this is all about, Miss Treves, but I’ll have to call the police.”

  “No! Not vet … please, love, not yet.”

  “Why?”

  Her hands flopped about like injured sparrows. “It’s best that we talk first. For Simon’s sake. There’s nothing to be gained by destroying everything he’s ever …”

  “Is that Simon’s father?” Michael jerked his head toward the corpse.

  Miss Treves swallowed once, then looked away. “Is it?” asked Michael. She nodded.

  “And he thought I was Simon?”

  Another nod. “I told the bally fool you weren’t. He read that vile piece in the Minor and saw you leaving one day and convinced himself that Simon had come home from California.”

  Michael was totally lost. “He didn’t know what his own son looked like?”

  “Uh … mate.” Wilfred was tugging on his arm. “There’s a body out there. This is no time for a bleedin’ chat.”

  “He’s right,” said Miss Treves. “Perhaps we should bring it in.”

  “Now wait a minute …”

  “Just for a bit, love. We can put it back.”

  “But the police will know that something …”

  “No they won’t, love. Just be careful about fingerprints. The lad will help you. Won’t you, love?” She gave Wilfred a surprisingly winning little smile.

  The kid shrugged at Michael. “They can’t arrest us for movin’ him, can they?”

  So Michael gave in. He and Wilfred each took a leg and dragged the man-mountain into the apartment. Miss Treves showed her gratitude with another smile and said: “Would you mind covering him, love? Just for now?” Michael hesitated, then fetched Simon’s duvet from the bedroom and draped it over the body.

  “O.K.,” he said crisply, turning back to Miss Treves. “What is it you want me to do?”

  She looked down at her hands. “Nothing, really. Except … you mustn’t mention what he said about … being Simon’s father.”

  Michael studied her face. “Simon doesn’t know that, I take it.”

  “No. And he mustn’t. Ever.”

  “This guy …” He gestured toward the quilted mound. “He got Simon’s mother pregnant?”

  “No,” replied the nanny. “Well … yes. Technically.” Wilfred giggled.

  Michael ignored him. “And this man’s name was …?”

  “Benbow. Bunny Benbow. He was the head of the revue I used to sing with. We met the Bardills at a hotel where we were playing in Malta. Nineteen fifty-six. They were on holiday, an extended trip around the world. Mrs. Bardili took a fancy to Bunny … which was only natural, since we were all in show business. Mrs. Bardill was much more famous, of course, but …” She glanced almost sorrowfully at the corpse. “Bunny was a dashing figure in those days.”

  “So he came here tonight …?”

  “To see his son, in part. He was hopelessly sentimental, for all his faults. He knew that the Bardills were dead … and he thought there might be a chance of … being a father to Simon again.”

  “Again?” Michael frowned. “It doesn’t sound as if he ever was.”

  Miss Treves fidgeted. “He also wanted money. That piece in the Mirror made it sound as if Simon was very rich.”

  “So this guy comes waltzing back after … what? … twenty-eight years, and expects Simon to buy that? To give him money, just because he got Simon’s mother pregnant?”

  The nanny looked away. Her lower lip had begun to tremble.

  “Miss Treves …”

  “He was in prison for most of that time. He robbed a hotel in Brighton. That’s why the revue broke up. That’s why I came back to London and found the Bardills and asked for the job as Simon’s nanny.”

  Michael simply stared at her.

  “He tried to reach Simon,” she continued. “He wrote letters from prison, but I intercepted them. He had no right to spoil their lives. To spoil Simon’s life. We were all so very happy, and he had no …”

  “Wait a minute. How could he have known for certain?”

  “Known what?”

  “That he was Simon’s father.”

  She looked at him balefully.

  “I need the truth, Miss Treves.”

  “Love … I’m telling you the truth.”

  He reached out and took her child-size hand. “All of it?”

  She heaved a world-weary sigh. “Mr. Bardill was sterile.”

  He nodded to encourage her.

  “The Bardills wanted a baby very badly. Very badly.” She brought her fingertips to her temple and made a circular motion, as if to expel a private demon. “I’m sorry, love. There’s some brandy on the shelf above the fridge. Would you mind awfully?”

  “I’ll get it,” chirped Wilfred, bounding to his feet and dodging Bunny Benbow on his way to the kitchen.

  “You must be my friend,” Miss Treves said to Michael.

  “I am your friend.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “You did my nails, didn’t you?”

  She mustered a wan smile for him as Wilfred returned with a tumbler of brandy. She downed it in two efficient gulps and gave the glass back to the kid. “Thank you, love.”

  “My pleasure,” replied Wilfred, sinking to the floor again. He propped his chin on his fist and gazed at the two of them as if they were a television set about to flicker into action. “Don’t mind me.”

  Michael turned to Miss Treves. “So …?”

  “Yes. Well … Mr. Bardill was sterile, as I said … and it was a source of great anguish for both of them. When we met them at the Selmun, I knew there was …”

  “The what?”

  “The Selmun Palace Hotel. Where we were performing.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was a lovely old place, miles away from Valletta … up on a hill overlooking the sea. One of the Knights of Malta lived there long ago. The people who stayed there were all lovely people, and the Bardills were the loveliest of the lot. She was a famous actress, but she wasn’t a bit stuck-up. They bought bicycles in Valletta, which they rode all over the island, and she wore these lovely long scarves that trailed along in the breeze like …”

  “Miss Treves.” The brandy had been a terrible idea. “Time is of the essence.”

  She nodded. “I just want you to know that I didn’t think of them as strangers, the Bardills. I felt as if I’d known them all my life.”

  “All right.”

  “I knew that I could trust them.”

  He nodded.

  “At any rate … one night Mrs. Bardili took a long stroll with Bunny and told him about … Mr. Bardill’s condition. Bunny offered to make arrangements for them … to obtain a child.”

  “To adopt one, you mean?”

  “No,” she replied dimly. “To buy one.”

  Wilfred drew in breath audibly. Michael shot a quick glance at him, then turned back to Miss Treves. “But you said he was … It was his baby, you mean? He sold Simon to the Bardills because they wanted …?”

  “Yes,” she answered, before he could finish.

  “He sold his own baby?”

  “Our own baby.”

  He blinked at her.

  “Simon is my son.”

  A car swooshed through a puddle out in Colville Crescent. Wilfred’s eyes were porcelain saucers. Michael’s failure to respond immediately prompted Miss Treves to add defensively: “It can skip a generation, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” he gulped. “I didn’t mean to …”

  “Don’t be a silly-billy. It’s not what one would expect, is it now?”

  “No … I guess not.”

  “Bunny and I weren’t married. We weren’t even lovers in the conventional sense. We were professional partners mostly. Simon was simply the result of … a night of foolishness. It was a stupid mistake, but we salvaged it rather well. Until now.”

  Michael hesitated, then asked: “You �
� didn’t want a baby?”

  “No, love.” She smiled at him sweetly. “I wanted a career.”

  He nodded.

  “I wanted to be a star, if the truth be known, but that wasn’t in the cards. Bunny robbed that hotel in Brighton, and the whole bally world fell apart. If the Bardills hadn’t taken me on as Simon’s nanny …”

  “They took you in, knowing that you were Simon’s …?”

  “Oh, no! Bunny told them that Simon was the son of a girl in Valletta. He was simply acting as … broker. I imagine they suspected he was the father, but they never said as much. All they really cared about was having a beautiful son to care for.”

  “Does Simon think he’s their natural son, then?”

  “Everyone does. The Bardills were away from England for almost three years. They told their friends he was born in a Maltese hospital while they were on holiday … which was quite true. Mr. Bardili even had a birth certificate made, I’m not sure how. He was a barrister, you know.”

  “But what if Simon …?”

  “… had grown up to be little? Well, he didn’t, now. did he?”

  “No.”

  “It was naughty of us—I admit that—but it solved everyone’s problem at the time.”

  Michael looked back at the problem under the duvet. “And … this guy came here to spill the beans … and he expected Simon to give him money for that?”

  “Not exactly. He wanted money, yes … but he thought Simon already knew about him.”

  “You told him that?”

  She nodded. “I thought it would discourage him from seeking out Simon. I’m afraid I was wrong about that. It only sent him into a fury.” She cast a scolding glance at the father of her son. “He has such a temper, that one.”

  If there was something appropriate to say under the circumstances, Michael couldn’t think of it. Miss Treves sensed his discomfort and smiled sympathetically. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

  He waited a moment longer before asking: “What do you want me to tell the police, then?”

  “Everything,” she replied. “Except the reason he came here.” She turned to Wilfred. “That won’t make matters any worse for your father, love. They were both drunk—obviously—and they got into a senseless fracas. Bunny was wandering by on the pavement and … made too much noise, which … distressed your father … and they began to fight. They’ll see that he died of a heart attack, I’m sure.”

  Michael wasn’t so sure, “But couldn’t they trace him to Simon?”

  “How? I haven’t seen him myself for over twenty years. They have no reason whatsoever to link him with me if …”

  “What if Wilfred’s father comes back?”

  The kid shook his head. “He won’t, mate.”

  Miss Treves gave him a pitying look. “He might, love. I doubt if the police would hold him completely responsible for …”

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

  “Of course you care. Don’t be silly.”

  Wilfred smiled and shook his head.

  Miss Treves raised herself to a sitting position, then sought the floor with her tiny feet. She wobbled a little standing up—because of the brandy, no doubt—but her resolve seemed firm as she strode toward the corpse.

  “What are you doing?” Michael asked.

  She knelt next to the body. “Looking for something.”

  As she searched Bunny Benbow’s pockets, Michael grew increasingly nervous. “I don’t think you should do that. They might be able to tell if …”

  “We were looking for identification,” she said curtly. “That’s perfectly understandable. Here!” She had found what she wanted: Benbow’s ragged clipping of the Mirror story—ROVAL RADIOMAN ON FRISCO PLEASURE BINGE. She handed it to Michael. “Burn it, will you, love?”

  Michael stuffed it into his pocket. “Is there anything else on him?”

  Her frisking produced only a few coins and a St. Christopher medallion. She brushed off her hands and stood up. “Well, now … are we clear on everything?”

  “I think so,” said Michael.

  She turned to Wilfred. “How about you, love?”

  The kid nodded.

  “Good. Then I’ll just slip back to …”

  “Wait a minute,” blurted Michael. “Where should the body be when the police arrive?”

  “My, yes … well … I suppose we should put him back in the hallway, don’t you? That way you can say he burst in when … the lad’s father opened the door. Of course, you could very well have brought him in here … no, I think the hallway’s best. Would you mind awfully?”

  So Michael and Wilfred dragged Bunny Benbow back to the site of his untimely demise.

  “Splendid.” Miss Treves beamed as she supervised the arrangement of the corpse. “That looks quite natural, I think.” She headed toward the door. “I’ll just toddle on home. Would you ring me, love, when the police have gone?”

  “Wait …”

  “The number’s on the fridge under ‘Nanny.’ “

  “Oh … O.K.”

  “I’m just around the corner. Chepstow Villas.” She gave him a supportive smile. “Keep your pecker up, love. It’ll all be over soon.”

  She reached for the doorknob—reached up—then froze and turned around again, gazing wistfully at the body as she spoke: “Goodbye, Bunny. Safe journey home.” Her eyes glimmered wetly as she glanced back at Michael. “Such a child, that one. Such a big, overgrown child.”

  All She Gets

  MARY ANN WAS SLICING KIWI FRUIT WHEN MICHAEL called.

  “You sound so close,” she said. “Are you sure you’re in London?”

  “I’m sure.” His tone seemed tinged with irony.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “No … I’m fine. What time is it there?”

  “Oh … suppertime.”

  “Is Simon there?”

  “No. Why would he be here?”

  “I meant … around.”

  “Oh.” She must have sounded far too defensive. “He and Brian are out running, actually. We’re having Simon to dinner tonight. Wait a minute … what time is it there?”

  “Late. Or early, rather. I just saw a bobby to the door.”

  “A bobby?” She giggled. “Sounds like you’re doing all right.”

  “Not that way.”

  “Oh.”

  “A man had a heart attack in our hallway. He was in a fight, and he died right outside my door.”

  “Oh, Mouse … how awful.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you O.K.?”

  “Sure.”

  “You don’t sound O.K.”

  “Well … I’m rattled, I guess. I’m not used to being interrogated.”

  “What did they want to know?”

  “You know … just what I heard.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Not much, really. Just a couple of drunks yelling.”

  “Was it anybody you knew?”

  “No. Well … the other guy lived upstairs. He ran away when … the guy had the heart attack. It’s over now, anyway. How are you, Babycakes?”

  “Fine. Well … O.K. Nothing to speak of, one way or the other.”

  “Is Simon enjoying himself?”

  “Oh, yes. As far as I know.”

  “I’ve got a message for him. Tell him Fabia Dane slopped by. She used to be Fabia … uh … Pumphrey, but she got married and she wants him to …”

  “Hang on. I’d better write this down.” She scrambled for a pencil. “What were those names again?”

  He spelled them for her. “She’s having a summer party at her new country place. She’s sending him an invitation later. Her new husband makes potato chips. And she’s a cunt.”

  “Is that part of the message?”

  “That’s a footnote. I think he knows it already.”

  “O.K. Anything else?”

  “That’s it. She looked to me like a jilted girlfriend.”

  “Oh, rea
lly?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Uh … cunt wasn’t enough?”

  “Well …”

  “An upper-class cunt. How’s that?”

  “Great.” She giggled, pleased with this elaboration. She needed all the reinforcement she could get. “When will we see you again?”

  “Tuesday night, I guess. Tell Simon I’ll leave the keys with his nanny.”

  “His nanny?”

  He laughed. “That’s a whole different story. She’s his former nanny, actually. If you try to reach me after tomorrow, I won’t be here. I’m going to the country for Easter.”

  “How elegant.”

  “Maybe. I’m not exactly sure where I’m going. I mean … I know where I’m going, but I don’t know what I’m going to find.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “No. Get this: I think Mona’s there.”

  “Mona? Our Mona?”

  “I think so, but there’s no way of knowing for sure. She won’t talk to me.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “Just briefly. From a distance. Her hair is blond now, and she cuts it like Princess Di.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s macabre, isn’t it?”

  “How do you know she’s in this country place?”

  “I don’t. It’s kind of a long shot. I don’t know … at least I’ll see the countryside.”

  “Are you going alone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon, Mouse …”

  “I might go with a friend.”

  She heard someone whoop in the background. “Uh, Mouse … who was that?”

  “Who do you think? The friend.”

  “He just found out he’s going?”

  “Right.”

  “He sounds pleased.” He sounded delirious, in fact; the whooping hadn’t stopped. “How old is he?”

  “Eleven, at the moment. Wilfred, get down from there.”

  “Wilfred, huh? How English can you get? He isn’t really eleven, is he?”

  “No.”

  She waited for him to elaborate, then said: “Is that all I get?”

  “That’s all you get. Until I’m home.”

  “Is there good dish?” she asked.