Sure of You

by Armistead Maupin

  He looked at her blankly and said: “Your life.”

  “Yes. O.K. My life. Whatever. Just don’t accuse me of running away from…his illness.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I would be back in a second if…”

  “You can’t. How could you?”

  She hated thinking about this. He knew it too. Michael was his last card, and he was determined to play it. “This is the lowest, Brian. If Michael knew you were using him to…”

  “Talk to him. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “No it isn’t. You’re laying this big guilt trip on me.”

  “I can’t help how you take it.”

  “You don’t know what goes on between me and Mouse. You don’t know how much we understand each other.”

  He gave her a dim, mournful smile. “No,” he said, “I guess not.”

  She could see the effect this had and tried to undo it. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Just call him, O.K.?”

  “Sure.”

  He rose.

  “Don’t go yet,” she said.

  He smiled faintly. “I’m getting my shirts.”

  She stood by the window and stared out at the bay. He was back in less than a minute, his laundry flung over his shoulder like a cavalier’s cape.

  “You could sleep on the couch,” she said, “if the bed bothers you.”

  He leaned over and pecked her on the top of her head. “That’s O.K.”

  At the door, for some stupid reason, she touched his arm and said, “Drive carefully.”

  Another Letter to Mama

  Dear Mama,

  When you were talking about Papa’s headstone the other day I noticed you mentioned there was room at the plot for the entire family.

  No. Awkward. Start again.

  Dear Mama,

  It was wonderful talking to you the other day. Thack says you and I should talk more, and I guess he’s right, since it always makes me feel better.

  Stop lying and get to the point.

  Dear Mama,

  I’m glad we talked the other day. There was something you mentioned, though, that concerned me. You seemed to think that someday the whole family would be buried at the cemetery there. I know how you meant this, but frankly, the idea of Christian burial strikes me as unnecessary and a little ghoulish.

  Real subtle, Tolliver.

  Keep writing. You can change it later.

  I don’t know how much time I have left—whether it’s two years or five or fifty—but I don’t want to be taken back to Orlando when it’s over. This is my home now, and I’ve asked Thack to make arrangements for my cremation here in San Francisco.

  This wouldn’t be so important to me if I didn’t believe in families just as much as you do. I have one of my own, and it means the world to me. If there are goodbyes to be said, I want them to be here, and I want Thack to be in charge. I hope you can understand.

  If you still want to do a memorial service in Orlando (assuming you can’t come here), Thack can send you part of the ashes. I think you know I’d prefer not to have a preacher involved, but do whatever makes you comfortable. Just make sure he doesn’t pray for my soul or ask the Lord’s forgiveness or anything like that.

  Please don’t get the wrong idea. I’m fine right now. I just wanted this out of the way, so we don’t have to think about it again. I’m not too worried about how you’ll take it, since I know how much you like Thack. He sends his love, by the way, and promises to send pix of the new chairs as soon as we get them painted.

  I’ll try to call more often.

  All my love,

  MICHAEL

  P.S. My friend Mary Ann Singleton (you met her once years ago) has a new syndicated morning talk show. It starts in March, so watch for it. She’s a good friend of mine, and we’re all really happy for her.

  Relief

  WITH WINTER CAME PRECIPITATION, BUT NOT nearly enough. The puny mists and drizzles drifting in from the ocean barely dented the parched reservoirs of the East Bay. Michael watched the nightly forecasts with a sense of mounting dread for the nursery. By the end of February the weatherman was leading off the news again, speaking darkly of the stringent water rationing to come.

  Then, on the day after Saint Patrick’s Day, huge flannel-gray clouds appeared over the city like dirigibles, hovering there forever, it seemed, before dumping their cargo on a grateful population. The rain came with sweet vengeance, making things clean again, sluicing down the hills to whisk away the dog shit like logs in a flume.

  It kept up like this all week, until Harry’s running meadow in Dolores Park had become a bog, impenetrable to man or beast. When the skies cleared temporarily on Saturday morning, Michael stuck to the concrete route along Cumberland as he gave Harry his first real exercise in twenty-four hours. The blue rip in the clouds was about to be mended again, so they would have make it quick—a fact that even Harry seemed to grasp.

  At the top of the Cumberland stairs, while the dog squatted ingloriously in the wet weeds, Michael sat on the rail and looked out over the rain-varnished valley. There were lakes beginning to form on the flat roofs of the non-Victorians.

  A tall, thin man with a little blue backpack came toward him up the stairs, taking his time. When he reached the landing, Michael recognized him as the guy from the Rawhide II. Eula’s son. With the six T-cells. “How’s it going?” he asked, recognizing Michael.

  “Pretty good. Isn’t this air great?”

  The man stopped next to him and filled his lungs. “Beats pentamidine.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Michael smiled. “How’s your mother?”

  “Fabulous. They asked her to judge the Bare Chest Contest.”

  He chuckled. “She must be in hog heaven.”

  “She is.”

  “You live around here?”

  The man shook his head. “I was just down at the Buyer’s Club.”

  “The one on Church?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Dextran. Some freeze-dried herbs.”

  Michael nodded. “I did Dextran for a while.”

  “No good?”

  “Well, I heard your body can’t absorb enough to make any difference.”

  “I heard that too.” The man shrugged. “Can’t hurt. The Japanese take it like aspirin.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you heard about this new thing? Compound Q?”

  Michael hadn’t.

  “It’s been killing the virus in lab tests. Without damaging the other cells.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “They haven’t tried it on people yet, but there’s a lot of…you know.”

  “Cautious optimism.”

  “Right.”

  Michael nodded. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What is it? A chemical?”

  “That’s the amazing part. It comes from the root of some Chinese cucumber.”

  “No shit.”

  “It’s a natural thing. It’s right here on earth.” The man gazed out over the valley for a while, then looked back at Michael. “I try not to get too hopeful.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I guess you’re right,” said the man.

  They swapped names again. His was Larry DeTreaux, and he was on the way to Metro Video. “My lover told me to get Mother Teresa and Humongous II. Does that tell you about my life or what?”

  Michael smiled. “Which do you watch first?”

  “Good question.”

  “Humongous II is pretty good.”

  Larry nodded. “We just keep the sound off and use it as background.”

  “Yeah. Same here.”

  “The voices are the worst.”

  Harry pawed impatiently at Michael’s leg.

  Larry smiled. “This is yours, huh?”

  “Yeah. It’s hard finding time to walk him in this rain. Mellow out, Harry.”

  “Poodles don’t k
now the meaning of the word.”

  Michael clipped on the leash, peering up at him. “You’re not a poodlephobe, are you?”

  “No. But I know these dogs. Eula’s had a few in her time.”

  I’ll bet she has, thought Michael. “I’ll walk with you,” he said. “My house is just over there.”

  Thack was in the garden when they arrived. He was bent over his trellis, examining the new growth. He did this at hourly intervals, it seemed.

  “You remember Larry from the Rawhide II.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Thack smiled and shook hands with him. “Thack Sweeney.”

  “New trellis?” asked Larry.

  “Fairly.”

  “Interesting shape.”

  “We’re growing clematis on it,” said Michael, “so it’ll be a pink triangle this summer.” He was certain more than ever that it wouldn’t read, but he was trying to be supportive.

  “What a great idea! Who thought of that?”

  Thack puffed visibly. “Me.”

  Larry glanced up at the clouds, which had turned threatening again. “Better haul ass.”

  “Need an umbrella?” Michael asked.

  “Got one here.” He patted his backpack. “You guys take care.”

  “You too,” said Thack.

  Michael added: “Say hi to Eula for us.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Eula,” said Thack, as soon as Larry was out of earshot. “That was her name.”

  Michael let Harry into the house and closed the door. “How could you forget?”

  “We should fix her up with your mom when she visits.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “She could take her to all the piano bars…”

  “Look, if you know what’s good for you…”

  His lover laughed. “You’re just afraid it’ll agree with her.”

  “Damn right.”

  “She’ll move her and we’ll have to drag her out of the Galleon every Sunday afternoon.”

  Michael opened the mailbox. “Hasn’t the mail come yet?”

  “I took it inside.”

  “Anything good?”

  “A postcard from Mona.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “She wants us to visit this summer.”

  “Really? At Easley House?”

  “Yep.”

  Michael caught his breath at the thought of it.

  “Should we do it?”

  “Sure! You won’t believe this place, Thack!”

  “What about you know who?”

  He felt a sudden pang of guilt, vaguely parental. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Dogs have to be quarantined for six months before they’ll let them in.”

  “Forget it,” said Michael.

  “Elizabeth Taylor used to keep hers on a barge in the middle of the Thames. That way it was only subject to maritime law.”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Now there’s travel tip I’ll be sure to remember.”

  “What about Polly?”

  “What about her?”

  “Hasn’t she offered to house-sit?”

  “You’re right,” said Michael. “And Harry loves her.”

  “You don’t think she’d mind?”

  “Are you kidding? She can drag babes home from Francine’s.”

  “Good point,” said Thack, grinning.

  The rain drove them indoors. They made tea and watched the downpour from the kitchen table. Michael thought of his rainy spring at Easley House, over five years before. It was there, at the folly on the hill above the house, that he had finally told Mona about Jon’s death. Now, more than anything, he wanted her to meet the man who had made him happy.

  He picked up her postcard and studied it again. It was a garden view of the great house. A ballpoint-penned arrow on one of the gables was labeled: “Your Room, Gentlemen.”

  “We should really do this.”

  “Then we will,” said Thack.

  “I know you’ll love her. She doesn’t take shit from anybody.”

  Thack smiled and poured more tea for him.

  That Much in Love

  NOW ROLL IT UP REALLY TIGHT…LIKE SO…THEN take one of those rubber bands and put it on the end there…that’s right, lovely…”

  It was a sunny May Sunday in Mrs. Madrigal’s courtyard. Stretched out on the bricks in his Speedos, Brian listened while the landlady taught Shawna how to tie-dye. To his amazement, his daughter had actually requested this; tie-dyed stuff was cool again, she said. It made him tired just thinking about it.

  “O.K., now put some more rubber bands on.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Point, O.K.?”

  “No, dear. I mean put them anywhere you like. That’s what makes them beautiful. The designs are all different.”

  “But I want one like you just did.”

  “Well, what good would that be? Then it wouldn’t be yours, would it?”

  Silence.

  “Go on, now. You’ll see.”

  Sitting up, Brian shielded his eyes from the sun as he watched the child coax the rubber bands onto the rolled T-shirt. “How’s it going?” he asked the landlady.

  “Beautifully.”

  Shawna rolled her eyes like the great Drew Barrymore. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Well, go to it, then.”

  His daughter donned rubber gloves that were much too big for her, then dunked the trussed T-shirt into Mrs. Madrigal’s big porcelain tub.

  “These are for Michael and Thack,” Shawna volunteered.

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “They can wear them to the May Festival.”

  “Hey…there you go.”

  “Are they both mediums?”

  “Think so, yeah.”

  Shawna turned to Anna. “Told you.”

  “Yes, you did,” said the landlady, turning back to Brian. “How is Michael, by the way?”

  “Fine.”

  “He had strep throat the last time I talked to him.”

  “It’s gone now.”

  “I’m making the green one for Thack and the blue one for Michael.” Shawna raised her voice to get back their attention.

  “Yeah,” said Brian. “I think green looks better on Thack.”

  “Can we take them by there tonight?”

  “If you want to, sure.”

  “Michael says he’ll show me the parrot tree.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Brian warned her. “You can’t be sure of them.”

  “I know.”

  “Anyway, it’s more special when it’s a surprise. When they just swoop down out of nowhere.”

  The child turned back to Mrs. Madrigal. “If we add more salt it makes it brighter?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Let’s add some more, then.”

  “All right, dear. Now watch very closely…”

  Shawna gazed at her mentor with a look of such adoration that Brian felt a brief stab of jealousy.

  Later, while his daughter was inside napping, Mrs. Madrigal sat on the bench and talked to him as he sunned. “How is her new place?” she asked.

  “Didn’t you see People this week?”

  “What people?”

  “The magazine.”

  “Oh. No.”

  “She’s in it. There’s a picture of the apartment.”

  “Ah.”

  “It looks good. Old-fashioned, with high windows.”

  “That does sound nice.”

  “Not much furniture, of course…”

  “No.”

  “They call her the new Mary Hart.”

  “The who?”

  “Just this woman on Entertainment Tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll bring you the article.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble, dear.”

  He smiled a little.

  “You’ve lost weight,” she remarked. “Your tummy looks so flat.”

  “I’ve been workin
g out again.”

  “Where?”

  “At home. I made her old closet into a weight room.”

  She chuckled. “There’s a clever boy.”

  “I thought so,” he said.

  His goal was to be back in shape by the end of summer.

  When Brian arrived at the nursery the next morning, Michael was in the office, watching television in the tie-dyed T-shirt.

  “Hey,” said Brian. “Looks good.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Michael swiveled his chest for an instant, then turned his gaze back to the set. “Guess who she’s got on.”

  Brian looked up and saw a very tanned Russell Rand, arranged with studied elegance on the near end of Mary Ann’s couch. He had just said something funny, apparently, because Mary Ann was laughing merrily.

  “But it was such a natural idea,” she said, composing herself. “Designer wedding rings. You wonder why no one thought of it before.”

  The designer’s expression was appropriately modest.

  “And you and Chloe, of course, are your own best ad.”

  Rand ducked his head. “Well…”

  “I mean it. It’s just so damned nice to see two people that much in love.” There was scattered applause from the studio audience, so she egged them on a little. “Isn’t it? Isn’t it nice for a change?”

  “Gag me,” said Michael.

  Brian smiled. “You think she’s got Chloe behind the curtains?”

  “Probably. So Russell can kiss her on camera.”

  “And let me tell you…” Mary Ann was on a roll now, developing her theme. “Those of us who haven’t had such good luck in matters of the heart…”

  “Fuck me,” Brian said.

  “…can’t help but feel a little envious.”

  “Fuck me fuck me fuck me.”

  Michael gave him a rueful look.