Babycakes

by Armistead Maupin

  “Simon, please don’t hate me.”

  He studied her face for a while before leaning over to kiss her forehead. “Never,” he said softly. And then he walked away.

  As night fell, she tried to stay occupied, but she couldn’t shake the dread that gripped her. When the phone rang at seven-fifteen, she lunged at it like a madwoman.

  “Hello,” she answered hoarsely.

  “Hi. It’s DeDe.”

  “Oh … hi.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Good. Well, D’or and I thought you and Brian might like to play tonight. Mother’s got the kids, and we’re just a couple of good-time gals on the town,”

  “That’s sweet,” said Mary Ann.

  “But?” replied DeDe.

  “Well … Brian isn’t here right now,”

  DeDe heard the uncertainty in her voice. “Is … uh … something the matter?”

  “Yeah. More or less.”

  “Sounds like more,” said DeDe.

  Mary Ann hesitated. “We had a fight.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was major, DeDe. I’m worried. He left here early this morning, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “He’ll be back.”

  “It isn’t that,” said Mary Ann. “He was in no shape to drive. He’d been up all night doing coke, and … I don’t know. I just feel creepy about it.”

  DeDe paused, then asked: “Did he give you any idea where he was going?”

  “Well … sort of.”

  “Where?”

  “Uh … Theresa Cross’s house.”

  “Jesus. How did he meet her?” “Through me,” Mary Ann answered lamely.

  “Big mistake,” said DeDe.

  “I don’t care about that part, really. I can deal with that. I just want to be sure he’s not … you know,”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d rather know where he is than not know where he is.”

  “Well,” said DeDe, “she lives just half a mile away. I could check out her driveway and see if his car is there.”

  Mary Ann was flooded with relief. Of course. “Oh, DeDe … would you mind?”

  “Gimme a break. Of course not. Call you back in half an hour.”

  “It’s the Le Car,” said Mary Ann, “and please don’t let her see you.”

  It was more like forty-five minutes, but she answered after only one ring.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s DeDe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The car isn’t there, hon.”

  “Oh.”

  “They could’ve gone out, of course. I mean … I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. You don’t even know for sure that that’s where he went.”

  “No.”

  “Please don’t worry, hon.”

  “I won’t.”

  “It’s early yet,” said DeDe. “Maybe he’s just visiting a friend.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have any Valium?” asked DeDe. “Yeah.”

  “Then take one before you go to bed.”

  Mary Ann did as she was told.

  Weirding Out

  THE FUNERAL WAS BEING HELD IN A SMALL SHINGLED chapel with orange and green stained-glass windows. Mouse stood next to her, holding her hand. She was crying more than he was, but she knew he was probably cried out by now. As the organist began to play “Turn Away,” she turned toward the window and saw that it wasn’t stained glass at all but dozens of orange and green parrots arranged geometrically on perches. One by one, they flew toward the starless sky, and darkness spilled like molten tar into the hole they had left behind….

  The phone rang.

  Her hand, only barely connected to her brain, felt for the receiver in the dark. She croaked something unintelligible.

  “Mary Ann?”

  It was Michael. “Oh … Mouse.”

  “I know it’s early, Babycakes.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t be pissed at me. I just wanted to give you a change of … oh, God, you’re pissed.”

  “No. It’s O.K. Gimme a chance to get it together.”

  “You sound really out of it.”

  She checked the bedside clock. “It’s five fifty-three, Mouse.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “And I took a Valium before I went to bed.”

  “Uh-oh.” He began to hum the theme from Valley of the Dolls.

  “Lay off,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “In England,” he replied. “Easley-on-Hill.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m staying at Lady Roughton’s manor house.”

  “Right,” she said, impatient with his teasing.

  “I’ll tell you about it later. I just wanted you to know I’ll be staying another three days.”

  Her reply was a colorless “Oh.” How long was she going to be alone?

  “It’s great here,” he added. “I guess I should’ve waited to tell you. I’m sorry. I’ll see you on …”

  “Don’t go, Mouse.”

  “Huh?”

  “Stay on the phone. Talk to me. I’m weirding out.”

  “How many Valiums did you say you …?”

  “Brian’s gone. We had a fight yesterday, and he walked out, and … I think something’s happened to him.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” he replied.

  “It is.”

  “Sounds to me like he’s punishing you. How long has it been?”

  “Almost twenty-four hours.” Michael said nothing. “Should I call the police?” she asked. “I dunno.”

  “I mean … if he’s checked into a motel or something, don’t you think he would’ve called by now?”

  “I guess,” he replied, “but maybe you oughta give it a few more …”

  “I had this awful dream. Mouse.”

  “When?”

  “Just now. Before you called. You and I were at a funeral together.”

  “You’re just thinking of Jon,” he said.

  “No. This was different. It was in a little chapel of some sort. And Brian wasn’t with us.”

  “Babycakes …”

  “It felt so real, Mouse.”

  “I know. That’s natural. You’re under a lot of stress. You need sleep, that’s all. If I hadn’t woken you, you wouldn’t have remembered that dream.”

  This was true, she decided.

  “Besides,” he added, “I think Brian’s just moping.”

  “You do? Really?”

  “Yeah. I do. Get some sleep, O.K.? It’ll all seem better in the sunshine.”

  “O.K.”

  “And I’ll see you on Friday.”

  “All right. I’m glad you’re having a good time, Mouse.”

  “Thanks. Night-night now.”

  “Night-night.”

  She rose just after ten o’clock and called in sick to Larry Kenan. He was relatively pleasant about it, which only reinforced her nagging suspicion that something was seriously off kilter in the universe. She made herself a defiantly big breakfast. If Brian was trying to make her suffer, she had done more than enough suffering already.

  She was reading a Cosmopolitan in the courtyard when Mrs. Madrigal appeared and sat down next to her in the toasty sunshine.

  “Lovely day,” said the landlady.

  “Mmm.”

  “Did you have a nice Easter?”

  She hesitated. “It was O.K.”

  Mrs. Madrigal smiled tenderly. “I miss him already, don’t you?”

  For a moment, Mary Ann thought she meant Brian. “Oh … sure … he was a nice guy.”

  The landlady nodded but said nothing. Mary Ann looked down at her magazine again.

  “And Brian’s gone too, isn’t he?”

  Mary Ann met her eyes. “How did you know?”

  “Oh … just a feeling.”

  Mary Ann felt her anxiety rise. If Mrs. Madrigal was having premonitions, maybe that dream really meant something. “Do you
want to talk about it, dear?”

  In five minutes, she had told the landlady everything: Brian’s sterility, her pregnancy scheme, how Simon’s feelings were hurt and how she had tried to apologize, Brian’s ill-timed return and angry departure. Mrs. Madrigal took it all in stride, but drew a deep breath when Mary Ann had finished.

  “Well, I must say … you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

  Mary Ann ducked her eyes. “Do you think I was wrong?”

  “You know better than that.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t do absolutions, dear.” She reached for Mary Ann’s hand and squeezed it. “But I’m glad you told me.”

  “He wanted a baby so badly.”

  “I know. He told me.”

  “He did? When?”

  “Oh … back when you were covering the Queen.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh … just that he wanted one … and you were somewhat cool to the idea.”

  “I would have one for him,” she replied.

  “I can see that,” said the landlady.

  “I’m just so afraid it’s too late. It isn’t like him to stay away this long.”

  Mrs. Madrigal smiled faintly. “Let him concoct a little mystery, dear. It may be his only defense.”

  “Against what?”

  “Against your layers and layers of mystery.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Mary Ann. “I’m not so hard to figure out.”

  The landlady patted her knee. “You and I know that, child … but he doesn’t.”

  “Then …?”

  “Don’t ask him where he’s been, dear. Let him have that for his own.” Mrs. Madrigal rose suddenly. “It’s time for me to tidy up the basement.”

  Her abrupt departure puzzled Mary Ann until she looked across the courtyard and saw her husband coming through the lych-gate. His gait was leaden, and his face seemed devoid of all emotion as he turned and headed in her direction.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” she replied.

  He sat down on the bench, but kept his distance. “Shouldn’t you be at work today?”

  “I called in sick.”

  He nodded, hands dangling between his knees. “Is Simon still …?”

  “He’s back in England. He left yesterday.”

  He sat there in silence for a long time. When he finally spoke, he addressed his remarks to the ground. “I wasn’t doing a number on you. I needed time to think.”

  “I know.”

  “I couldn’t do it here. There was too much to …”

  “I understand completely.”

  “Stop doing that,” he said edgily.

  “What?”

  “Just let me talk. I’m not looking for explanations. I’ve worked this out.” She nodded. “O.K.”

  “I think I should go,” he said. “Go?”

  “Live somewhere else for a while. Find another job, maybe. I’ve got no function here.”

  “Brian, please don’t …”

  “Listen to me, Mary Ann! I’m almost forty and I haven’t left a mark on anything. I can’t even give my wife everything she wants. I can’t even do that.”

  “But you do!”

  “I don’t. What the fuck was that little scene about, huh?”

  “It wasn’t about that, Brian. It was …”

  “It doesn’t matter. I know how I feel, Mary Ann. It’ll only get worse if I stay here.”

  “Do you know how I feel, Brian? What would happen to me if you left?”

  “You’d handle it,” he said, smiling faintly. “That’s one of the things I like about you. You’re strong.”

  “I’m not strong.”

  “You’re stronger than I am,” he said. “I’m a soft male.”

  “A what?”

  “Chip Hardesty’s got a vacant studio in his new place. He says I can stay there until …”

  “Brian, for God’s sake!” The tears had begun to stream down her face. “We’re in love with each other, aren’t we?”

  He wouldn’t look at her. “There has to be more than that, sweetheart.”

  “Like what?”

  “I dunno. A reason. A purpose.”

  “We’ll find you a job, then.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll find me a job.”

  “Well, sure … but you can do that here.”

  “Uh … excuse me.” It was a third voice, awkwardly interceding. They both looked toward the lych-gate, where a tall, heavily freckled man was standing. “Mary Ann?”

  She rose, wiping her eyes. “Yeah … that’s me.”

  The man came forward. He was in his early twenties, but his corn-fed demeanor and prominent ears and the canvas sack slung from his neck instantly suggested the clumsy kid who had been her paperboy fifteen years ago in Cleveland.

  Only this time he wasn’t delivering the paper.

  This time he was delivering a baby.

  Familiar Mysteries

  THE FIRST THING MICHAEL NOTICED WERE THE HYACINTHS in the garden, half a dozen pale pink erections smiling in the face of death. He smiled back at them, rejoicing in his family, savoring his return to the family seat.

  Mrs. Madrigal spotted him from her kitchen window and hooted a greeting. He set down his suitcase and motioned for her to come outside. She emerged seconds later, almost running, rubbing her hands on her apron. “Dear boy,” she crooned, hugging him heartily. “You’ve been sorely missed.”

  “Thanks for the hyacinths,” he said.

  “What? Oh … you’re welcome. You look wonderful, dear. You’ve put on some weight.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Well … oh, don’t be such a man. Your beauty is still intact. C’mon. Let’s get that bag inside. Mary Ann and Brian will want to see you.” She grabbed his suitcase and led the way, charging toward the house.

  “Good,” said Michael. “He’s back, then.”

  She looked at him as she shouldered her way through the front door. “You knew about that?”

  He nodded. “We talked on the phone. She was freaked.”

  “Well … she’s fine now.”

  He reached for the suitcase. “Let me carry …”

  “No. You’ve had a long flight. We’ll leave this in the foyer for the time being.” She dropped the suitcase and flung open the door of her apartment. “And you’ll stop in for a very small sherry.”

  “Great,” he replied. “Wait a minute, let me get something.” He stooped to open his suitcase, then dug around in a side pocket until he found the envelope. “This is from Mona,” he explained, handing it to her.

  “Where on earth …?”

  “In England.” He smiled.

  “You can’t mean it!”

  He nodded. “She’s in good shape. She’s happy, and she wants you to come visit her.”

  “In England?”

  “Just read the note.”

  Mrs. Madrigal looked dubious as she set the envelope on her telephone stand. Mona was right, he decided. The landlady did act an awful lot like a father when the subject was Mona.

  She beckoned him into the apartment, pointing to the sofa. “All right, now … sherry.” She bustled off to the kitchen, leaving him to absorb the familiar mysteries of this faded velvet cavern where silk tassels hung like stalactites. God, it was good to be back.

  When she returned, she handed him a rose-colored wineglass full of sherry. “She’s actually living there?”

  “No pumping.”

  “Well, tell me what she’s doing, at least.” He sipped his sherry and smiled at her. “Following in her father’s footsteps.”

  “Now, dear, if …”

  “That’s all you get.”

  The landlady fussed with a wisp of wayward hair. “Well, drink your sherry, then.”

  He kept smiling as he sipped. Unable to restrain herself, she rose and went to the phone stand. She picked up the envelope, then set it down again and picked up the phone and dialed a number.

 
; “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Alerting the troops.” She spoke into the receiver. “Our wandering boy is home. Yes … that’s right … that’s right. Fine … I’ll tell him.” She hung up and turned back to Michael. “Your presence is requested in the Hawkins residence in exactly three minutes.” She headed toward the kitchen.

  “What am I waiting …?”

  “Just sit there and finish your sherry, young man.”

  He chuckled at her revenge. The sherry went down like sun-warmed honey. He sat there in the musty embrace of Mrs. Madrigal’s sofa and counted his blessings while she puttered about in the kitchen.

  Finally, he rose. “Do you want to come with me?” he yelled.

  “No, thanks,” came the reply. “I’m involved with a lamb stew at the moment.” Her head poked into view, her angular features ruddy from the stove. “We’re having dinner here tonight. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Perfect,” he said, on his way out the door.

  He picked up his suitcase and climbed the stairs, leaving it on the landing before heading up to the third floor. Mary Ann met him outside her door. “Look at you,” she squealed. “Chubbette.”

  “Fuck you very much.”

  They hugged for a long time before she led him into the apartment.

  He looked around. “I thought Brian was here.”

  “Sit down,” she said.

  Something was the matter. He felt his sherried security begin to ebb. This was why he usually hated homecomings, this queasy preparation for the news they didn’t want to spoil your vacation with. His first thought was: Who else has died?

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing. This just takes some … easing into. Sit down.”

  He sat down.

  She perched on a footstool. “Remember my old friend Connie Bradshaw?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “You know … who I stayed with … when I moved out from Cleveland.”

  “Oh, yeah. With the oil paintings on velvet.”

  She nodded.

  “The tacky stew.”

  She winced. “She wasn’t tacky. Mouse.”

  “But you always said …”

  “Never mind that. She was very good to me, and I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “O.K.”

  “She died, Mouse.”

  “Oh.” He was relieved in spite of his better instincts. Thank God, it was no one he knew.

  “She died in childbirth. Well … not during, but a day or so after. It was something called eclampsia. Her blood didn’t clot. She had a stroke.”