Babycakes

by Armistead Maupin

  He stood there, keeping his distance, looking down on her.

  “I think you’re a gentle, intelligent … incredibly sexy man.”

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  “I mean it.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll always remember you. I don’t need a baby for that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Stop saying thank you,” she said. “Come here. Don’t be so insecure.”

  “I’ve had a vasectomy,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve had a vasectomy.”

  She tried to read his face. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Are you?”

  She looked at him a moment longer, then leaned down and took his cock in her mouth.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  This time she didn’t bother to reply.

  Sack Time

  THE SKYLIGHT ABOVE THERESA’S LIVING ROOM HAD taken on a creepy, milky translucence—like a giant eyeball with a cataract. Brian stared at it in disbelief. Had they really been up all night?

  “You’re a lotta fun,” said Theresa.

  “Oh … sorry.” Had she asked him a question? What lime was it, anyway?

  “You’re grinding your teeth,” she said. She was on the sofa across from him, her feet tucked under the heart-shaped ass. “I think it’s sack time.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want some papaya juice?”

  “Great.”

  She rose. “I’ll get us a ‘lude too.”

  “That’s O.K.”

  “It’ll bring us down.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t do ‘ludes anymore.”

  “Well … a joint, then.”

  Three minutes later, she returned with a glass of juice and a joint that was already lit. She held it for him as he toked, pressing her fingers against his lips. “I like the feel of your mouth,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he replied.

  Her laughter seemed brittle. “You can do better than that.”

  “Sorry. I’m kinda zonked.”

  “The joint’ll fix you right up.”

  He would have to be more explicit. “Hey … I hate to be a party pooper, but I am really tired. It’s been great, really. If you’ll show me which bedroom is mine, I’ll …”

  “Jesus Christ.” She flung the joint into an ashtray. “What the hell have we been doing all night?”

  She had jarred him. “Uh … rapping, I thought.”

  “Rapping? How quaint!”

  “Look, Terry … I’m sorry, O.K.?”

  “Don’t be.”

  “You knew I was married,” he said.

  She stared at him incredulously. “You’re not going to tell me that’s the reason?”

  “Well … partially.”

  “So what’s the other part?”

  “Well … that’s the main reason, more or less.”

  “This is un-fucking-believable.”

  “Also … I’m not real terrific after a lot of coke. That’s another reason.”

  “That’s not a reason. I’ve told you I have ‘ludes.”

  He rose on wobbly legs. “This has been a real experience, believe me.”

  “Swell.”

  “If you’d told me last month that I’d spend Easter doing coke with the wife of the man who …”

  “Shut up about him.”

  “I didn’t mean that you aren’t …”

  “I know what you meant, Brian. I know who you came here for.” She retrieved the roach and relit it with trembling hands. “You should’ve fucked him when he was still alive. He might have appreciated it.”

  She smiled at him with surprising tenderness, then handed him the roach. “I think you should go home,” she said.

  Nanny Knows Best

  THEY FORMED A BIG T AGAINST THE RUMPLED FLANNEL sheets, Simon from side to side, she with her head against his trampoline-tight stomach.

  “I’m curious about something,” she said.

  “Mmm.”

  “Why did you get a vasectomy?”

  “Oh … well, actually, my nanny talked me into it.”

  “C’mon.”

  “It’s quite true. She gave me a stern little lecture. She said I was a confirmed bachelor and flagrantly irresponsible and it was the only decent thing to do. It was a remarkable speech.”

  “Was she right?”

  “About what? Flagrantly irresponsible?”

  “No. Confirmed bachelor.”

  He hesitated. “More or less, I suppose. Marriage is rough on a true romantic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “A certain spontaneity is lost, isn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Then why are we doing this?”

  She rolled over on her stomach and kissed his navel. “Because I like you very much. And I like doing this without babies on the brain.”

  “You’re not sorry, are you?”

  “No.”

  “It hasn’t utterly devastated your marriage?” She gave him a little pinch, smiling.

  “Just asking,” he said.

  “Brian isn’t everything to me, but … he’s the only constant.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

  “It would take a long time for me to fall out of love with him. It took long enough to love him. He’s sort of like … a maze I wandered into.”

  “You’re brighter than he is,” he said.

  “I know. I don’t care. He gives me other things.” She shifted slightly, kissing him again. “You’ve given me something too.”

  “What?”

  “Oh … a fresh perspective.”

  “On your husband.” He said it without rancor.

  “Not just that.”

  “Then … I’m glad.”

  “I’ll think about you,” she said.

  “I’ll think about you,” he replied. “Should we be watching the clock?”

  “Huh?”

  “Brian.”

  “Oh … he’s not coming back till afternoon.”

  He chuckled. “I should have known you’d know that.”

  Red-handed

  THE CLOCK IN THE LE CAR SAID EIGHT TWENTY-THREE when Brian parked on Leavenworth and began the trek up the Barbary Lane stairway. There were birds twittering in the eucalyptus trees, and the neighborhood tabby had already staked out a sunning spot on the first landing. He sat down and stroked the old cat’s belly.

  “How’s it goin’, Boris? You havin’ a good Easter? You didn’t know it was Easter? Well … wake up and smell the coffee, man!”

  Beneath him, on the steep slope of Leavenworth, two pint-sized Chinese kids emerged from a doorway and began fighting over a plush Smurf that was bigger than both of them. He watched them for a while, then shouted through cupped hands: “Hey, guys!”

  Their squealing stopped. They looked up at him.

  “The Easter Bunny bring you that?”

  Without answering, they stood and stared at the crazy man on the stairs.

  “Be cool,” he said.

  The kids backed into the doorway, emerging seconds later with their mother.

  Brian waved at the three of them. “Happy Easter,” he yelled.

  The woman waved back halfheartedly, then herded the children into the house.

  Brian got up and headed into the leafy canyon of the lane. When he reached the courtyard, he noticed that a row of pink hyacinths had popped up in the soft, dark loam where Jon’s ashes had been buried. Mrs. Madrigal’s doing, no doubt.

  The landlady was probably still sleeping, so he took special care to close the door quietly behind him. Tiptoeing across the foyer, he reached the carpeted stairs and began to climb, avoiding the familiar squeaky spots.

  As he reached the second floor, he heard movement in Simon’s apartment. The Englishman was already up. He wondered for a moment: Should I
stop and tell him about my all-nighter with the rock widow?

  Why not?

  The buzzer was noisy as hell, so he rapped on the door. There was more activity inside, but no one came to the door.

  He knocked again.

  Footsteps.

  The rattle of the latch chain.

  A slice of Simon appeared through the door. “Oh … hello there.”

  Brian kept his voice down. “You weren’t asleep, I hope?”

  “Well … ah … no, actually.”

  “I’m back from the front.” Brian grinned.

  “What?”

  “Theresa’s bash.”

  “Ah.”

  “We’ve been doing nose candy all night.”

  Simon nodded.

  “It was wild, man. She was after my ass.”

  Simon arched an eyebrow, “Indeed?” He was trying to sound impressed, but something was distracting him.

  The light dawned.

  “Jesus.” Brian banged his forehead with his palm. “You’ve got a lady in there.”

  Simon blinked, then nodded.

  “Sorry,” whispered Brian, backing away. “Catch you later.” He gave the lieutenant a thumbs-up sign. “Carry on, old man.”

  He climbed the stairs feeling pretty stupid. The coke had obviously numbed his reasoning powers. It was Sunday morning, the morning after Saturday night; Simon was hardly likely to be alone.

  No.

  Simon had gone to the sunrise service.

  Maybe he had changed his mind, though.

  Maybe he had bailed out at the last minute.

  Maybe he had picked up someone at the service.

  Maybe not.

  Maybe he didn’t have to.

  He reached his door and found it locked. His temples were throbbing angrily as he searched for his keys. Be cool, warned the last tattered remnants of his reason. Be cool.

  He went straight to the bedroom.

  The bed was empty.

  Maybe Mary Ann was still on the job.

  Maybe there had been technical problems.

  Maybe she had gone to breakfast afterwards.

  He sat down, then got up again and went to the landing.

  He had been there almost a minute when he heard Simon’s door open and close. He ducked back inside and sat there massaging his temples as the crippling green poison flooded his brain.

  Someone was climbing the stairs.

  A Name for This

  SHE TRIED TO BE STATELY ABOUT IT, CHIN UP AND shoulders back, like Mary Queen of Scots striding toward the ax. If Brian had been doing coke all night, her own level-headedness was even more important.

  She opened the door. He was silting in the armchair facing her.

  “Hi,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  His face seemed to do a dozen different things at once.

  “I’m not going to lie to you,” she said.

  “Go ahead,” he said darkly. “One more time won’t make a fucking bit of difference.”

  “It isn’t as bad as it looks, Brian.” She skirted his chair, heading for the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get us a drink.”

  “No! Get back here. We’re talking.”

  “O.K., but …”

  “Get back here, I said.”

  She came back and sat on the sofa. “We shouldn’t be doing this now. You’ve been up all night. Your nerves are raw. There’s no way you can rationally …”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  She folded her hands in her lap.

  “Did you spend the night down there?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  He stared at her with horror in his eyes.

  “Brian … it was more … friendly than anything else.”

  “Friendly?”

  “I just mean … it wasn’t the beginning of something, it was the end of something.”

  “Oh, yeah? How long have you two …?”

  “No. I didn’t mean that. Last night was the only time.”

  “Goddamn him, goddamn him!”

  “Please don’t blame Simon.”

  “You forced him, huh?”

  “No, but … he’s your friend.”

  “Yeah … and you’re my loving wife. There’s a name for this, isn’t there?”

  “I don’t love him,” she said, feeling oddly disloyal to Simon.

  “You’re just a slut, huh?”

  “Brian …”

  “Well, what possible reason …?”

  “Come off it. They don’t have sluts anymore. I like Simon, that’s all. I didn’t plan for it to happen, but … it happened. It’ll only affect us if you make it affect us, Brian.”

  “I get it,” he said. “I’m the problem here. Me and my quaint ideas about husbands and wives and sluts.”

  He was wielding that word like a switchblade, trying to goad her into a fight. She regarded him in silence, then got up and went to the bedroom door. “I’m taking a shower,” she said. “If you want to discuss sluts, I suggest you talk to that woman who’s so hot for your ass in Hillsborough.”

  When she saw his expresston, she realized she shouldn’t have said it. “Maybe I’ll do that,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just fucking do that!” He sprang to his feet, grabbing his keys off the coffee table.

  “Brian …”

  “Take your goddamn shower. I’m sure you need it.”

  “Brian, you can’t …”

  “I can’t what?”

  “Drive in that condition. Look at you. Your eyes are bloodshot….”

  “You think I’d stay here?”

  “Please … just get some rest first. Do what you want later, but don’t get back on that freeway in that …”

  But he was already out the door.

  Nuptials

  IT WAS ALMOST DARK NOW AND MICHAEL HAD WITHDRAWN to the folly on the hill above Easley House. From this duncecapped pavilion he could see the twinkling cottages of three villages and the backlit stained glass of Easley’s family chapel. Headlights crisscrossed a field adjacent to the manor house as the guests began to arrive on the road from Easley-on-Hill. An unseen organist struck a few exploratory chords. A woman’s shrill laughter reverberated in the courtyard. Here he sat on a hilltop overlooking Wales and somewhere below him—probably cursing her fate—Mona Ramsey was about to be married.

  He felt absolutely nothing.

  A cog in his emotional mechanism had ceased to function. He didn’t care anymore. His heart had been kicked around enough.

  He would wait here until it was over. Then he would find Wilfred and they would ask for a ride into Moreton-in-Marsh. They could stay at the Black Bear, catch the first train to London in the morning.

  The organ in the chapel plunged into an unidentifiable Anglican hymn. Almost simultaneously, Mona’s wholly identifiable voice cut through the encroaching darkness. “Mouse! Where are you, goddamnit?”

  She was standing in the courtyard, looking from left to right, much as she had done that day on the heath. This time, however, she was decked out in a peach-colored wedding gown. “I’m not standing for this shit, Mouse!”

  He hesitated a moment longer, then shouted: “I’m up here. At the folly.”

  She swung around, fixing her gaze on the pyramid, then hiked her gown above her knees and sprinted up the slope. Her curses exploded like cherry bombs as her heels dug into ground that had been booby-trapped by moles. When she finally reached the folly, her chest was heaving violently. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Wilfred just told me. I can’t believe it! What is the matter with you? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’re getting married,” he said. “It’s hardly the time to …”

  “Fuck that shit, Mouse! I had a right to know!”

  “You never once asked about …”

  “All right, then! I’m a self-centered asshole! What do you want me to say? Christ, Mou
se … you rigged it so I would hurt you! You deliberately …” She didn’t finish. There were tears streaming down her face. “He can’t be dead!” she said in a much weaker voice. “How can that beautiful man be dead?”

  He felt himself crumbling. “I don’t know,” he said, reaching out for her as his own tears came.

  They held on to each other for a long time, sobbing. Finally, he said: “We tried to reach you.”

  “I know.”

  “He sent you his love. He said to give you that turquoise ring you liked.”

  “Oh, God, Mouse!”

  “I know. It’s a bitch. I know.”

  “Was he in much pain?”

  “Some. For a while. Not always. He was wonderful, really. He cracked jokes and did his Tallulah Bankhead impersonation … and flirted with the orderlies.”

  “That tart.” She swiped at her cheeks.

  “They loved it, of course, since he was a doctor and knew all the inside dish. It wasn’t so bad, Mona. Not all the time. We got much closer to him … to each other. You don’t really know for certain about a family until somebody dies. You don’t know anything until that happens.”

  She pulled away from him. “And you weren’t going to tell me.”

  “Why do you think I’ve chased you across England?”

  “I don’t know. To punish me, I guess. To make me feel like shit. Your usual motives.”

  “You’re wrong”—he smiled—”and you’re missing your wedding.”

  “In a fucking minute.”

  “Yes, ma ’am.”

  “I want to know something.”

  “What?”

  “Do we … still love each other?”

  “Mona …”

  “Because I love you, you little shithead … and if you think you can pretend that I don’t, you can just go fuck yourself!” He was touched. He smiled at her.

  “O.K.,” she added, “I should’ve called or something. You’re right about that. Obviously I should’ve called. And I shouldn’t have run from you that day on the heath….”

  “Why did you do that, anyway?”

  She looked away. “I dunno … I was a little uncomfortable about the whole thing … and this man from the Home Office was with us … and I knew that introductions would be awkward. I figured I could write you about it later.”