Sure of You

by Armistead Maupin

  “Forget it,” said his lover. “We can send her some flowers tomorrow.”

  “Will you help me remember?”

  “Of course,” said Thack.

  When they reached the eucalyptus grove at the top of the steps, a cat shot past them on the path, flashing its tail like a broadsword. Michael called to it seductively, but the creature merely spat at them and bounded off into the mist.

  “Carpetbagger,” he yelled after it.

  Thack gave him a funny look.

  “He’s from there,” Michael explained, gesturing toward the new condo complex at the head of the lane. It was pale green and postmodern, with security gates and sunken garbage cans and buzzers you could hear for miles. Most of the eucalyptus grove had been sacrificed to make room for it.

  Beyond the complex, where the path narrowed and the shrubbery grew wild, lay the real Barbary Lane, a dwindling Bohemia of shingled lodges and garbage cans that weren’t ashamed to stand up and be counted. As they opened the lych-gate at Number 28, the smell of pot roast wafted across the courtyard from the landlady’s kitchen window.

  When she buzzed them into her inner sanctum, the place reassured Michael with its constancy—that familiar, immutable hodgepodge of dusty books and dustier velvet. She greeted them effusively in a plum-colored kimono, a pair of ivory chopsticks thrust into the silvery tangle of her hair.

  “Are you smoking?” she asked Michael.

  He pretended to examine his extremities. “I dunno, am I?”

  “Now you mustn’t make fun of my only sacrament.” She thrust a plate of joints into Thack’s hands. “Here, dear. You corrupt him. My biscuits are burning.” She spun on her heels and sailed back to the kitchen, all fluttering silk.

  Thack smiled at the histrionic exit, then offered the plate to Michael.

  Michael relented after only a moment’s hesitation. This was a special occasion, after all.

  When the landlady returned, he and Thack were both thoroughly buzzed, deep in the embrace of her worn-shiny dam-ask sofa.

  “Well,” she said, taking the armchair, “I have some rather exciting news.”

  “Really?” said Thack.

  She beamed at them both, one at a time, heightening the suspense. “I’m going away,” she said.

  Michael felt an unexpected stab of anxiety. Going away? Moving away?

  His distress must have been evident, for she made a hasty amendment. “Just for a month or so.”

  “A vacation, you mean?” Thack looked just as amazed.

  She answered with a wide-eyed nod, her hands clasping her knees. Apparently she was amazed too. Up to now she’d been the world’s most committed homebody.

  “Well,” said Michael, “congratulations.”

  “Mona wants me to meet her in Greece. And since I never get time with my darling daughter, I thought…”

  “Greece?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Lesbos?”

  The landlady’s eyes widened. “She’s told you about it?”

  “Well, not lately, but she’s been talking about it for years.”

  “Well, she’s going this time. She’s rented a villa, and she’s invited her doddering old parent.”

  “That’s great,” said Thack.

  Michael was already imagining the scenario. Ol’ frizzy-haired Mona, sullen and horny in some smoky taverna. Mrs. Madrigal holding court in her oatmeal linen caftan, doing that Zorba dance as the spirit moved her.

  “I can hardly take it in.” The landlady sighed contentedly. “The land of Sappho.”

  Michael snorted. “And about a zillion women who go there looking for Sappho. I don’t suppose she mentioned that?”

  “She did,” said Mrs. Madrigal.

  “It’s practically a pilgrimage.”

  “Yes.”

  “She said there are so many dykes there at the height of the season that it looks like the Dinah Shore Open.”

  Mrs. Madrigal gave him a look. “I think you’ve made your point, dear.”

  “Of course, I’m sure they’ve got men too.”

  “Yes,” came the dry reply. “I’m sure they do.”

  “When do you leave?” asked Thack.

  “Oh…early next week.”

  Michael wasn’t expecting this. Nor was he expecting the mild anxiety that swept over him. Why on earth should this bother him? It was only a vacation. “Not much time to pack,” he said lamely.

  She seemed to be searching his face for clues.

  “Of course, you won’t need much,” he added.

  “I’m not sure I know how to pack. I haven’t been off Russian Hill for years.”

  All the more reason you should go,” said Thack. Michael asked: “Isn’t it hot there?”

  “Warm,” she replied.

  “But you hate the heat.”

  “Well, it’s dry heat, at least.”

  “They won’t have dope,” he reminded her.

  “Hey,” said Thack, looking at Michael. “Stop being such a wet blanket.”

  Michael shrugged. “I just thought she should know.”

  At dinner their talk drifted to Mary Ann and Brian, who apparently hadn’t visited the landlady since Christmas.

  “They’ve both been really busy,” Michael assured her, provoking a skeptical sneer from Thack, who was always pre-pared to believe the worst about Mary Ann.

  Mrs. Madrigal fussed with a wisp of hair at her temple. “I’d be delighted to take Shawna for them. Brian hasn’t asked me to sit for ages.”

  “Well,” said Michael, feeling uncomfortable, “she’s in kindergarten now, of course. That takes care of a lot of it.”

  “Yeah,” said Thack.

  The landlady bit her lip and nodded. “More potatoes, dear?”

  Thack shook his head and patted his stomach. “I’m stuffed.”

  “There’s lots more pot roast in the kitchen.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Michael?”

  “Well…”

  “Ah, he who hesitates…”

  He smiled at her, abandoning the pretense of this week’s diet.

  “Come with me,” she said, beckoning him toward the kitchen. And then to Thack: “Excuse us, will you, dear?”

  In the kitchen she hovered a little too cheerily over the roast. “Still like the crispy part?”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  As she carved, her eyes remained fixed on her labors. “Should I be doing this, dear?”

  “What?”

  “Leaving.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Why not?”

  “Well…if everything’s not all right with you…”

  “Everything is fine,” he said. “Don’t you think I’d tell you?”

  “Well, I’d certainly hope…”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’ll come yelling. Trust me.”

  She took her time arranging the slab on his plate. “I’ll be gone for a whole month.”

  “Will you stop it!”

  She set down the serving fork and wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Forgive me.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “I know it’s irrational, but it’s all I’ve thought about ever since…”

  “Don’t I look all right?”

  She cupped her hand against his cheek. “You look wonderful. As usual.”

  The intensity of her gaze embarrassed him, so he looked away. “Mona says it’s a beautiful island. They’ve only had an airport for five years or something.”

  “Mmm.” Her hand slid away, and she busied herself with dishes in the sink.

  “Leave those,” he said. “I’ll get them later.”

  “You could come with us,” she said, spinning around. “Huh?”

  “To Lesbos. I know Mona would love that.”

  He smiled at her indulgently. “I’ve got a business to run. And a house to pay for.”

  Thack appeared in the doorway, holding his plate. “Is it too late to change my mind?”

  “
Of course not,” said the landlady.

  Michael stood aside while she heaped meat on Tack’s plate. She seemed just as relieved as he that Thack had come along to put an end to their awkwardness.

  They were washing dishes, the three of them, when someone rapped on the front door. Before the landlady could finish drying her hands, Polly Berendt had loped into the kitchen. “Oh, hi,” she said, seeing Michael and Thack. Then she turned to Mrs. Madrigal: “I was on my way out, and I thought you could use this.” She unzipped a pocket on her black leather jacket and produced a check, obviously for the rent. “Sorry it’s late.”

  The landlady tucked this offering into the sleeve of her kimono. “No trouble at all, dear.”

  Awkwardly, Polly rubbed a palm against a denimed thigh. “Well, I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything.”

  “You aren’t interrupting. We’ve finished our dinner. Come sit with us.”

  “Thanks. I can’t.” She looked at Michael. “I’m meeting some friends at Francine’s.”

  “Oh,” chirped the landlady. “Do I know her?”

  “It’s a bar,” Polly explained.

  Michael couldn’t resist. “Guess where Mrs. Madrigal’s going.”

  Polly looked faintly suspicious. “Where?”

  “Lesbos.”

  “Uh…you mean…?”

  “The island,” Thack put in. “Where Sappho’s from.”

  Polly nodded vaguely.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of her,” said Michael.

  “Well, of course I’ve heard of her. I’m just not up on my mythology.”

  “Sappho wasn’t mythological.”

  “Hey,” Thack told him, “lay off.”

  “Yeah,” said Polly.

  Mrs. Madrigal was frowning now. “If you children are going to quarrel…”

  Michael shook his head reproachfully at Polly. “How can you call yourself a dyke?”

  His employee heaved a sigh and shifted her weight to her other hip. “I don’t call myself one. I am one. I didn’t have to take a course in it, you know.”

  “And that,” said Michael, keeping a straight face, “is what’s wrong with the young people of today.”

  Polly groaned. Thack slid his arm along Michael’s shoulder and gave him a vigorous shake. “Such an old poop.”

  “Indeed,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “And such a short memory.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well…if I’m not mistaken, dear, I had to explain Ronald Firbank to you.”

  Michael frowned at her. “You did?”

  She nodded.

  “You couldn’t have.”

  “I think so.”

  “Well…Firbank is much more obscure than Sappho.”

  “Now,” said the landlady, dispensing with the subject as she turned her attention to Polly, “will you be all right while I’m gone?”

  Polly shrugged. “Sure.”

  “I doubt you’ll need heat, but if you do and it goes on the fritz, there’s a knob on the furnace you can jiggle.”

  Polly nodded. “I remember.”

  “I’m leaving the extra keys with the Gottfrieds on the third floor, so you can buzz them if you lose yours.”

  “O.K. Thanks.”

  “Oh…if you could keep an eye out for Rupert. I think he’s eating with the Treachers these days, but I keep some kitty food for him just in case. It’s in the cupboard here. I’ll give you a key before I leave.”

  Hearing all this, Michael felt old and faintly alienated, like some decrepit alumnus who returns to his campus to find that undergraduate life has gone on without him. Who were these people, anyway—these Gottfrieds and Treachers who were privy now to the age-old mysteries of the lane?

  He realized, too, that he was slightly jealous of Polly in her newfound role as junior lieutenant at 28 Barbary Lane. This was irrational, of course—it was he, after all, who had chosen to move away—but the feeling gnawed at him just the same.

  When he and Thack left that evening, Mrs. Madrigal took their arms like a dowager duchess and walked them down the foggy lane to the top of the steps. The very smell of this ferny place, pungent with earth and eucalyptus, released a torrent of memories, and Michael felt perilously capable of tears.

  “Now listen,” said the landlady, as she released them for their descent. “Let’s do something fun before I leave.”

  “You bet,” said Thack.

  Mrs. Madrigal tugged on Michael’s sleeve. “How about you, young man?”

  “Sure.” Michael avoided her gaze.

  “Make him call,” she told Thack. “He’ll forget.”

  “I won’t forget,” said Michael, and he hurried down the steps before she could see his face.

  Well Enough Alone

  SO FAR, BRIAN REALIZED, A WHOLE DAY HAD PASSED without a peep out of Mary Ann about her lunch date with Burke Andrew. He had almost brought it up himself the night before, but something about her skittery, overpolite demeanor told him to leave well enough alone. If there was still something left between her and Burke, he didn’t want to know about it.

  This was paranoia, of course, but what could you do?

  It was a clear blue evening, and he was heading home in his Jeep. The ivory towers of Russian Hill had gone golden in the sunset. All things considered, he had plenty to feel golden about himself, so this nagging insecurity would have to stop.

  If anything, he decided, he should feel reassured by her behavior. The reunion had obviously been so uneventful that she had simply forgotten to mention it. What’s more, if something had clicked between the two of them, she would have known better than to draw attention to the situation by keeping quiet; she would have mentioned it casually and let the subject drop.

  He had put the matter behind him when he arrived at the twenty-third floor of The Summit.

  “Yo,” he hollered, coming into the living room. The slanting sun cast a sherry-colored light on the carpet, where several dozen of Shawna’s dolls were arrayed face-down in pristine rows. “I’m home, people.”

  His daughter emerged from the bedroom and stood scratching her butt. “Hi, Daddy.” In her other hand she held the left foot of another doll.

  “Hi, Puppy. What’s this?”

  “I’m giving them away.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes.” She knelt and placed the doll next to the others, solemnly arranging its limbs. “To the homeless.”

  “Was that your idea?” He was impressed.

  “Mostly. Mostly mine and partly Mary Ann’s.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful. Only not all of ’em, O.K.?”

  “Don’t worry.” She patted the doll’s dress into place. “I’m only giving away the ugly ones.”

  He nodded. “Good thinking.” Then he touched the tip of her nose. “You’re a regular Mother Teresa.”

  In the kitchen his wife was shelling peas, looking raw-boned and Sally Fieldish in her Laura Ashley apron. When he kissed the nape of her neck, he caught a whiff of her ripe six o’clock smell and felt totally, stupidly, in love with her.

  “Would you please tell me,” he said, “what our daughter is doing?”

  “I know.” She gave him a rueful look over her shoulder. “It looks like Jonestown out there.”

  He popped one of the raw peas into his mouth and munched on it as he leaned against the counter. “You sure it’s a good idea?”

  She shrugged. “Why not?”

  “I dunno. What if she misses one? Remember how she was when we threw out her banky?”

  “She wants to do this, Brian. It’s a rite of passage. She’s getting off on it.”

  “I know, but if she…”

  “If we’d listened to you, she’d still be sucking on that damn banky”

  “O.K. You’re right.”

  “She’s keeping her nice dolls, anyway.”

  “Fine.”

  “Whatcha want for potatoes?” she asked. “Sweet or new?”

  “Uh…sweet.”


  “With baby marshmallows?”

  He gave her a skeptical glance. “Since when have you bought baby marshmallows?”

  She shrugged. “If you don’t want ’em…”

  “Oh, I want ’em. I just thought you said they were gross and middle American.”

  She gave him a feisty glance and continued shelling.

  “Want me to help with that?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I like having something to do with my hands. It soothes me.”

  He moved behind her and nuzzled her neck again. “Do you need soothing?”

  “No,” she said. “I just meant…it gives me something manual to do.”

  “Mmm.” He nipped at her flesh. “I know something manual you can do.”

  She giggled. “Go set the table.”

  “Let’s eat in front of the set.”

  “O.K. Nothing’s on, though.”

  “Sure there is. Cheers. Two shows in a row.”

  “What else?”

  “Well…Michael loaned us The Singing Detective.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s Dennis Potter.”

  “Brian, I don’t wanna watch some old guy having psoriasis while I’m having dinner.”

  “You did a show on it last month.”

  “All the more reason.”

  “You’re hard, woman,” he said, and pinched her butt.

  She gave him a push toward the door. “Go play with Shawna. Maybe after she’s in bed…”

  “Well, not if you don’t…”

  “Scoot. I’ve got shrimp to stuff.”

  “You do?”

  “Hey,” she said, mugging at his amazement. “I’m a Total Woman.”

  She hadn’t stuffed shrimp for years.

  In the living room he sat on the floor and listened as Shawna recited—a little too cheerfully, perhaps—the deficiencies of her soon-to-be-homeless dolls.

  “This one doesn’t talk anymore.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “And this one has dumb hair. And this one I hate.”

  “You don’t hate it, Puppy.”

  “Yes I do. And this one has a really funny smell.”