“I don’t know. Soon.”
“He won’t be ready, you know.”
She blotted her eyes with the wadded Kleenex, feeling a twinge of anxiety. “You won’t tell him, will you?”
“Of course not, but…he loves you a lot, Babycakes.”
“No,” she said. “It’s a habit. It’s something that just happened to us because we didn’t have anywhere else to go. He knows that himself. Deep down.”
“C’mon.”
“I mean it. It’s the truth.”
“You and I just happened,” he said.
“No we didn’t. We’ve always chosen each other, Mouse. From the very beginning.” She looked at him but didn’t touch him, knowing it would be too much. “We’re gonna be friends when we’re both in rockers at the old folks’ home.”
A tear slicked his cheek. He swiped at it with the back of his palm, then smiled at her. “Did you pick this spot on purpose?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where we met. The Marina Safeway.”
“Oh, yeah.” It was down at the end of the green. She hadn’t been there in years, she realized. How like him to think that she had brought him here for commemorative purposes.
“Remember Robert?” he asked. “The guy I was with that day?”
“Do I! He was the one I was trying to pick up!”
“Well, thanks a lot.”
She smiled. “What about him?”
“I saw him the other day,” he explained. “I couldn’t believe how boring he was.”
“Of course.”
“All I could think was: What if he hadn’t dumped me? I’d be living in some tract home in Foster City. And I never would’ve met Thack.”
She didn’t know exactly what to say to that, so she gazed out at the water. Angel Island squatted in the distance like a dusty shrub in the midst of a wide blue prairie. She and Michael used to picnic there, years ago. They would spread a blanket on one of the old gun emplacements and talk about men for hours on end.
“I want you to come visit me,” she told him.
“O.K.”
“Promise?”
“Of course.”
“If you do,” she said, “I’ll introduce you to everybody in the world.”
“It’s a deal. And you’ll call me every week?”
“With dish like you won’t believe!”
When he laughed, she knew that the worst was over. Ten minutes later they strolled to the Marina Safeway in quest of lunch. Out on the seawall, another bewildered couple knelt in homage to the Wave Organ, listening for the music that wasn’t there.
Interrogations
ON MONDAY MORNING, IN THE GREENHOUSE AT Plant Parenthood, Brian turned to Michael and said: “Mary Ann says you guys had a good time catching up.”
Michael was thrown, but he tried not to show it. She had been right, of course, to tell him about their outing at the marina. Why harbor any more secrets than absolutely necessary? “Oh, yeah,” he replied as breezily as possible. “It was nice. We bought pasta salad at the Marina Safeway.”
His partner’s sandpaper cheeks dented in a smile. “Is that place as cruisy as it used to be?”
“Got me. I was too busy lusting over the pasta.”
“I hear that.”
Polly burst into the greenhouse, looking less collected than usual. “It’s for you, Michael. The cops.”
“What?”
“On the phone. Sounds important.”
Shit. His-parking tickets. How many were there, anyway?
“He says he knows you.”
Brian chuckled. “An old boyfriend, probably.”
“What’s his name?” Michael asked.
“Rivera, it sounded like.”
Michael looked at Brian. “He is an old boyfriend.”
“What did I tell you?” Brian looked pleased with himself. “I know you better than you do.”
He took the call in the office. “Bill. How’s it going?”
“You remember, huh?”
“Of course. Good to hear your voice.” How long had it been, anyway? Six years? Seven?
“Same here.”
“What’s up?” He half wondered if he was about to be asked for a date. For all Bill knew, Michael was still single, still looking for somebody to play with.
“I’m down at Northern Station. We’ve got a friend of yours. At least, he gave us your name. He’s not making much sense, I’m afraid.”
“What’s his name?”
“Joe something. He won’t tell us anything else.”
He thought for a moment. Joe Webster. The guy Ramon Landes was looking after. The one with dementia.
“He’s got no ID on him, but I didn’t wanna turn him over to a hospital unless…”
“Real tall and skinny? About thirty, with brown hair?”
“That’s him,” said Bill. “You know him, then?”
“Not very well. I took an AIDS workshop with him. We have some friends in common. I’m surprised he even remembered my name.”
“Do you know where he belongs?”
“Well, I know his Shanti buddy…”
“Could you call him, tell him to come pick him up?”
“Sure. Did he…uh…do anything wrong?”
“Well,” said Bill, “he kind of…accosted someone. It was nothing serious. We haven’t charged him with anything.”
“I see.”
“We just need to get him home safely.”
“O.K. Thanks a lot, Bill. I’ll take care of it.”
As luck would have it, Ramon wasn’t at home, so he left a terse message on his machine and took off for Northern Station on his own. When he announced himself, the sergeant at the desk hollered “Rivera” over his shoulder and buried his beefy face in the pages of Iacocca.
Bill was there in a matter of seconds. “Hey…long time, buddy.”
Resisting the urge to hug him, Michael shook the cop’s hand with exaggerated heartiness. “Hey, kiddo. You’re look-in’ great.” Bill had thickened a little around the waist, but he wore it well in his uniform. His civilian clothes of yesteryear—Qiana shirts and overstitched designer jeans—had never done justice to his sex appeal.
“You still over there…what’s it called?”
“Barbary Lane.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Damn.” He shook his head, seemingly lost in memory. “I haven’t been there for a long time.”
“Actually, I moved away a few years ago. I’m over in Noe Valley now.”
“Take a load off,” said Bill, pointing toward a row of plastic chairs. “I’ll get him.”
“Wait.” Michael grabbed his arm.
“Yeah?”
“What exactly did he do?”
“Oh…well, he kind of…harassed some Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
Michael repressed the first comment that came to mind. At the moment his job was to look responsible. “He assaulted them, you mean?”
“Not really.” Bill made a notation on his clipboard. “Just waved something around for a while.”
“What?” Michael scanned the room guiltily, as if there were Jehovah’s Witnesses present, or grownups who might overhear them. “You mean his…?”
The cop shook his head with a dry smile. “Somebody else’s.” Reaching below the desk, he retrieved a plastic shopping bag and handed it to Michael. “Check it out.”
Inside the bag was a box bearing a glossy likeness of Jeff Stryker, the porn star.
“What the hell?”
“Read it,” said the cop.
The label said: The Realistic Jeff Stryker Cock and Balls. Incredibly awesome in size! Molded directly from Jeff’s erect cock! Looks and feels amazingly realistic!
He opened the end of the box, to reveal a velvet bag with a drawstring.
“I wouldn’t take it out,” said Bill.
“Right.”
“The balls are squeezable.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
�
��What’s the world coming to?” said Michael.
Bill chuckled, but it was a dry, professional chuckle. “Got an address for him?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“Think you could phone it in later? For my report.”
“Sure,” said Michael. “No problem.”
“So.” The cop looked up from the clipboard. “How have you been?”
“Pretty good. I’m alive.”
“Yeah. Really. Are you still…on your own?”
“No. I’ve got a lover now.”
“Hey. All right. Where’d you meet him?”
“Alcatraz, actually.”
This got a smile. “A tourist or a ranger?”
“Tourist.”
“And then he moved here?”
Michael nodded. “About three years ago.”
“Well, good for you.” If Bill was racked with heartbreak, his police training had taught him to conceal it pretty well.
“How ’bout you?” asked Michael.
“Same as always. Bachelor Number Three.”
“Well…it suits you.”
“You got that right. What would I do with a lover at Pigs in Paradise?”
Michael drew a blank.
“You know, the big party. Gay and lesbian law enforcement. I took you to one, didn’t I?”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “I would’ve remembered, Bill. Trust me.”
“Come to the next one, then. Bring your lover.”
“Thanks. Maybe we’ll do that.”
“I’ll go get him,” said Bill.
He gave Michael’s shoulder a brotherly shake and ducked into the back room.
Joe Webster emerged looking gaunt and exhausted, his rangy frame slumped into a sullen pterodactyl stance. When his eyes met Michael’s they registered no recognition whatsoever.
“Here’s your friend,” the officer told him.
“He’s not my friend.”
“This is Michael Tolliver. You said to call Michael Tolliver, didn’t you?”
No answer.
Bill smiled indulgently and looked at Michael. “Is this the guy?”
Michael nodded. “He’s right, though. We’re not really friends.”
Bill shrugged. “Well…”
“The bastards wouldn’t give me a room,” said Joe, scowling. “And they’re outa fuckin’ towels.”
“Did you reach his Shanti buddy?”
“Not yet.” Michael turned to Joe and tried to appear as benign as possible. “Why don’t we go see Ramon? O.K.?”
“Where is he? Where’s Ramon?”
“He’s at home. Or he will be soon.” He hoped to hell this was so. “I’m gonna take you there, O.K.?”
“No fuckin’ towels. What the fuck do they think I’m doing? I paid, didn’t I? Didn’t I pay?”
“What’s he talking about?” asked Michael.
“Got me. What’re you gonna do if you can’t find his buddy?”
“I dunno.”
“You have a work number for him?”
“He works out of his house. He must be out shopping or something.”
“No fuckin’ towels, no fuckin’ rooms…”
“Maybe you should call again,” said Bill.
This time Ramon was home. Michael told him what had happened and offered to drive Joe to Ramon’s house in Bernal Heights. Ramon thanked him profusely and was waiting on his front steps when they arrived half an hour later.
“Sorry about this.”
“No problem,” said Michael.
Joe unfolded his lanky frame from the VW and headed up the steps without a word. “Hey,” Ramon called after him. “Say thank you to Michael.”
Joe stopped and looked down at them. “Why?”
“Because I asked you to.”
Michael felt uncomfortable. “That’s O.K. Really.”
Ramon lowered his voice. “He’s been losing it a lot lately. Last week he set fire to a trash can at a Louise Hay seminar.”
“I see.”
“He must really like you, or he wouldn’t have given them your name.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Michael.
“He gets these periods when he’s just a different person.”
Michael nodded. “He kept talking about towels at the police station.”
“He does that at the hospital too. The post office, for that matter. He thinks he’s at the baths.” Ramon shrugged. “It must be the little window or something.”
Joe was watching them from the top of the steps. “You know,” he yelled down, “you don’t get points for this. Nobody’s keeping score in heaven. If you get it, you get it.”
Michael ignored him as he handed Ramon the bag with the rubber cock. “I’d keep an eye on this.”
Ramon winked at him. “I owe you one.”
“That’s O.K.”
“Did you hear me?”
“I better go,” said Michael.
Ramon nodded. “Yeah.”
“It’s time to get mad, Michael. Niceness doesn’t count for shit!”
“Believe it or not,” said Ramon, “he has moments when he’s really clear.”
Michael had the creepy feeling that this was one of them.
A Blind Item
SO ANYWAY,” POLLY WAS TELLING BRIAN IN THE GREENHOUSE, “Madonna and Sandra Bernhard are there on Letterman, their arms totally draped around each other. And they’re like giggling and making jokes about the Hole, which is the Cubby Hole, this famous dyke bar in New York, and the whole damn thing is going straight over Letterman’s head…the stupid pig.”
Brian didn’t buy this at all. “You’re not gonna tell me Madonna…”
“Why not? Get real.” She was scraping out plastic pots, stacking them in the corner. “Just because you can’t stand the thought of it…”
He chuckled.
“What?”
“I like the thought of it.”
“Yeah. Well, O.K. That figures, doesn’t it?”
He looked at her sideways. “Which am I supposed to do? Like it or not like it?”
“Hand me that pot, please.”
He complied, grinning.
“The real question is: What the fuck does Madonna see in Sandra Bernhard? If I were Madonna, I’d be going for the serious stuff. Jamie Lee Curtis, at the very least.” She stood up and dusted off her hands. “Shouldn’t Michael be back by now?”
“Seems like it, doesn’t it?”
“How long does it take to bail somebody out?”
“He didn’t need bail,” Brian said.
“Oh, yeah.”
“I guess he could’ve had trouble finding the Shanti volunteer.”
“Was that Mary Ann in the paper this morning?”
The change of subject threw him. “What do you mean? Where?”
“In Herb Caen’s column.”
“She was there? What did it say?”
“It might not have been her,” said Polly. “It was a…you know. What do they call it when they don’t use the name?”
“A blind item,” said Brian, feeling queasy already. What the hell were they saying about her now? “Is there a paper in the office?”
“Yeah,” she said, and followed him out of the greenhouse.
Five minutes later, when Polly had left the office, he collected himself and called Mary Ann at the station.
“Was that you?” he asked without announcing himself.
No answer.
“Was it?”
“Brian.” Her voice assumed its most businesslike armor. “This is as much a surprise to me…”
“I didn’t figure there could be that many perky morning girls being wooed by New York producers.”
“It wasn’t even supposed to be there.”
“Oh. Well, then.”
“I want to talk to you about this,” she said, “but I don’t want to do it on the phone.”
“Shall I plant an item somewhere?�
�
She sighed. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?.”
“All wounded and alienated. I was going to tell you about it.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Wrong. We’re talking now. Right this minute.”
“No,” she said quietly. “Not on the phone.”
“Then meet me somewhere.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Do you have to be wooed some more?”
She made him pay for this with a long silence. Finally, she asked: “Where do you want to meet?”
“You name it.”
“O.K., then. Home.”
He gathered from this that she was afraid of risking a public scene.
When he arrived, she was standing by the window, dressed in her traditional garb of apology—jeans and the pink-and-blue flannel shirt he liked so much. It was an obvious gesture, but it soothed him just the same. He was already beginning to feel as if he’d overreacted.
“I sent Nguyet home,” she said:
“Good.” He sat on the sofa.
“I’m really sorry about this, Brian. I don’t know how it got into Herb Caen.”
He didn’t look at her. “Is it for real?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wanna do it?”
“Very much.”
“How long have you known about it?”
“A while.”
“Since that lunch, right?”
She nodded.
“And what did you think? That I would be so jealous of some old burned-out boyfriend…?”
“No. Never. You know there’s nothing there.”
“Well, O.K. Then what?”
“What do you mean, what?”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me? This is what you’ve been working toward. Didn’t you think I’d be happy for you?”
“Brian…”
“Am I that much of a self-centered bastard?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you think I’d be so attached to the nursery that I’d try to stand in your way?”
“Well…”
“You did, didn’t you? That’s exactly what you thought.”
“I know how much you love it,” she replied somewhat feebly.
“I love you, sweetheart. Your victories are my victories. That’s always been enough for me. What do I have to do to convince you of that?”
She left the window and sat down on the chair across from him, tucking her legs neatly under her butt. “I don’t think bad things of you, Brian. I really don’t. I know how much you have to put up with.”
Sure of You Page 13
