Further Tales of the City

by Armistead Maupin

  “But he has friends,” said the doctor.

  “Plenty,” said the landlady.

  “That’s good.”

  “Friends,” smiled the landlady, “but no capital F Friend. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

  The doctor reddened. “I guess it was.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s been a long time, though … almost two years.”

  “And you think you can pick up where you left off.”

  “No,” said Jon, “I just …”

  “It’s all right, dear. I think you can, too.”

  He smiled at her almost timidly. “I’m not sure either one of us could handle it at this point.”

  “Why not?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Things change.”

  “Do they now? Do you know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think you should stop beating around the bush, because you came here to get him back.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Uh-huh. And I think I’m going to help you.” Her big blue eyes flowed into his.

  Embarrassed, the doctor looked down.

  “I’m a cranky old hen,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “I like all my eggs in one basket.”

  To Russia with DeDe

  ANDY OMIAK’S PROPOSAL STRUCK MARY ANN AS EXCEPTIONALLY foolhardy, and she told DeDe so as soon as they were alone.

  “What choice do we have?” countered DeDe.

  “Well … we could notify the mainland police, and they could conduct the search.”

  “And go charging in there with guns and bullhorns, loaded for bear. If we tell them who he is, my children will be the last thing they’ll worry about.”

  “Then we won’t tell them. We’ll just say … well, we could tell them the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “That a man from the ship kidnapped your children in Sitka … and we think he brought them up here.”

  “Do you seriously believe he’ll think that’s what we told them? Look … there’s no reason for you to go with me, really. Andy’ll be there, with a gun and all. It isn’t fair to ask you …”

  “Forget that,” said Mary Ann. “I’m going.”

  “I’d feel awful if …”

  “Don’t. This is my decision.”

  DeDe squeezed her hand. “Thanks.”

  “Besides,” added Mary Ann. “I’ve never been to Russia.”

  They napped for several hours, after which Andy returned.

  “Have you had a chance to think it over?” he asked.

  “We’re game,” said DeDe. Mary Ann nodded her agreement.

  “O.K.,” said Andy. “We should leave about an hour from now.”

  Mary Ann made a face. “In broad daylight?”

  The Eskimo grinned. “We don’t have much else.”

  “Oh … right.”

  “Anyway,” continued Andy, “this’ll be almost as safe as darkness. Between eight and ten o’clock the whole town’s at the schoolhouse.”

  “Everybody?” asked DeDe.

  “All eighty-two of ‘em,” smiled Andy.

  “For classes or what?”

  The Eskimo shook his head. “We get a movie from the mainland once a week.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tonight they’re showing Superman II. I think we’re safe.”

  “At least as far as Ingaluk is concerned.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Andy.

  “The Russians,” said DeDe. “Don’t tell me they’re watching a movie, too?”

  “Oh,” said Andy drily. “Don’t worry about them.”

  As predicted, Ingaluk looked like a ghost town when the trio left the dock in Andy’s fifteen-foot motor launch. Mary Ann stared up in awe at the dark cliffs above the village, the sun-bleached coffins flecking the rocks like seagull droppings. Then she turned her attention to the Russian island, only two miles away.

  “What about that sentry shack?” she asked the Eskimo. “Won’t he see us cross the strait?”

  “He usually does,” said Andy. “Every week at this time.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Andy smiled. “Neither would my C.O. That’s why I’d appreciate it if you kept this under your hat.”

  “Of course.”

  “A friend of mine lives on Big Diomede.”

  “I see.”

  “My girlfriend, actually.”

  DeDe and Mary Ann cast quick glances at each other. It was Mary Ann who sought further details. “You mean she …?”

  “She’s a radar technician. The guy in the lookout shack is her brother-in-law. We’re kind of a family operation out here. If your kidnapper made it to Big Diomede, Jane will know about it.”

  Half-an-hour later, Andy docked the boat on the far side of the big island, out of sight of Little Diomede.

  “Wait here,” he told the women. “You’ll be O.K. If there’s any news, you can come ashore with me later.” He leaped out of the boat and bolted down the dock to the shore.

  Presently, a female figure appeared on the rocky ridge above the harbor, jumping from boulder to boulder until she reached the sand. Then Andy and Jane were in each other’s arms, spinning like a couple in a corny commercial.

  Mary Ann felt a curious kinship with them, seeing herself suddenly as Deborah Kerr in The King and I.

  Cling very close to each other tonight—I’ve had a love of my own, like yours …

  As usual, Brian was there when she needed him, nestled cozily in her heart.

  The Eskimo lovers talked for several minutes, well out of earshot of DeDe and Mary Ann. When Andy returned, his face conveyed the news. “I’m sorry,” he told DeDe.

  “Nothing?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he replied. “They just haven’t been here.”

  “Could she let us know if …”

  “Of course. She’ll keep an eye out.”

  There was a long agonizing silence. Then Mary Ann turned to DeDe. “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  A single tear rolled down DeDe’s face. “I want to go home,” she said.

  “We will, then,” said Mary Ann. She searched in her windbreaker for a Kleenex, handing it to her friend. “We won’t give up on this, DeDe. I promise you we’ll find them.”

  As Andy shoved off from the dock, Mary Ann cast a final glance at the shores of the Soviet Union.

  Jane was still standing there. Seeing Mary Ann, she smiled shyly, then lifted her hand and waved.

  Mary Ann, of course, waved back.

  Eden Revisited

  ATHICK SUMMER FOG HAD SETTLED OVER GOLDEN Gate Park by the time Prue arrived at the tree ferns. Shuddering slightly at the eerie familiarity of it all, she turned up the collar of her Montodoro trench coat and plunged into the wilderness.

  Vuitton ran ahead of her up the path, chasing a squirrel to the edge of the U-shaped ridge. When she called to him, he made a rapid decision to ignore her altogether.

  “Vuitton!” she called. “Come back here this second!” She was terrified of being left alone.

  The wolfhound turned, wagged a cursory greeting to her, and bounded into the green-black depths of the rhododendron dell.

  She ran after him, yelling. “Vuitton! COME BACK, GODDAMNIT!”

  It was pointless, of course. Vuitton knew where he wanted to go. He even knew where she wanted to go. He would simply get there before she did. Why should that strike such fear in her heart?

  She found the familiar path through the rhododendron dell and maintained a brisk pace, catching occasional glimpses of Vuitton’s champagne-colored fur amid the foliage. As she searched for the bush that marked the entrance to Luke’s secret enclave, a foghorn bleated mournfully in the distance.

  Vuitton, as usual, led the way. Barking deliriously, the wolfhound doubled back, burst through the gateway shrub and danced in circles around his mistress.

  “Stay here!” she ordered him. “Heel, Vuitton, heel!”

  But he was off again, scam
pering down the crumbly slope that led to the shack. When Prue caught sight of the dwelling, she had second thoughts about the search she had planned to conduct. She was reminded of a summer years ago in Grass Valley when she had explored her father’s bedside table and found a package of Trojans there. Some mysteries were better left alone.

  Vuitton, however, was outside the door of the shack, yapping his silly head off.

  When no one responded to his bark, Prue stumbled down the slope and listened outside the door. Trying the latch, she found that the door wasn’t locked.

  Inside, it seemed that nothing had been touched. The big chunk of foam rubber was still there. Likewise, the army cot, the map of the city, and Luke’s beloved motto hanging on the wall.

  There weren’t that many places to search, she realized. Her first choice was the handmade wooden box where Luke had stored his gear for Vuitton. Only now it wasn’t on the floor; it was on the shelf above the foam rubber.

  When Prue reached for it, her hand touched something cold and slimy. She screamed hysterically and dropped the box, thereby crushing a large banana slug that had affixed itself to the box’s backside.

  She stood there shaking, wiping her fingers frantically against her coat. Vuitton-crouched at her feet and whimpered in sympathy. “It’s O.K., baby,” murmured Prue. “We’re gonna leave in a minute.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Prue’s eyes shot to the door of the shack, where she was confronted by a uniformed policeman, staring down at her from the back of a large chestnut stallion.

  “Oh … officer,” she said. “I … uh … my dog ran in here, and I …”

  The policeman smiled at her. “Pretty dog.”

  “Oh … well, thank you. He’s such a nuisance sometimes.”

  The officer leaned forward in the saddle, peering into the shack. “Some place, huh?”

  Prue nodded wordlessly. How long had he been watching her?

  “It used to be a tool shed for the park, until a bum moved in about a year ago. I sort of keep an eye on things for him.”

  Prue sidled out of the shack with Vuitton by her side. If Prue was intimidated by the policeman, the wolfhound was more intimidated by the horse.

  “I apologize, officer,” said the columnist. “It’s just so … fascinating.”

  The policeman smiled. “Isn’t it?” He seemed much less foreboding now that Prue could see that he was young and darkly handsome, Latino probably.

  And he was wearing a Walkman.

  A Man Called Mark

  HE’S QUITE A CHARACTER,” SAID THE MOUNTED policeman.

  Prue drew a momentary blank, still flushed with guilt over being caught in the act of searching Luke’s shack. “Uh … I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  The officer smiled forgivingly. “The guy who lives here. He’s something else. One of those characters you find only in San Francisco.”

  “I suppose so,” she said.

  “You know him?”

  “No,” she replied hastily. “I mean … I assume he’s a character … judging by this place. It’s so … quaint. And he seems to keep it fairly neat.”

  “I’m surprised it hasn’t been vandalized,” said the policeman.

  “Oh?”

  “He’s been gone for a couple of weeks … the longest time yet. I guess he’s coming back, though; he left his stuff here. He was weird, but domestic, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think so,” said Prue.

  “Maybe I’d better take a look.” The officer dismounted, tethering his horse to a tree. As the stallion shifted, Vuitton whimpered nervously to his mistress. The policeman reached down and petted the wolfhound. “What’s his name?”

  “Vuitton,” answered Prue.

  “Uh … French?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Prue saw no point in explaining it. “It’s just a proper name.”

  “He looks a lot like a dog that used to hang out with Mark.”

  “Who’s Mark?” asked Prue.

  “The guy who lives here. I don’t know his last name.” He smiled at the columnist. “For all I know, he doesn’t know his last name.”

  Prue tried not to show her confusion. “You don’t know very much about him, I take it?”

  The officer shrugged. “What’s to know? He’s a drifter. Decent enough guy. Says he used to live in Hawaii. Ate mangoes on the beach, scrounged a lot. Same as here.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. There are lots of guys like that in San Francisco. Sleeping in packing crates, bumming free food when the restaurants close. It’s been going on since Emperor Norton.”

  Prue frowned. “But this man … well, he seems to be sort of intelligent.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Well … that motto on his wall, for one thing … and those pencils and the map.”

  The policeman grinned. “He’s probably trying to take over the world or something.”

  “You think he’s crazy?”

  The officer shrugged. “Maybe we’re the crazy ones.”

  “Yeah,” Prue replied vaguely. “Maybe so.”

  “He’s educated, I know that. He studied at Harvard before he moved to Australia.”

  “Australia?”

  The policeman enjoyed her amazement. “That came before Hawaii. He was foreman of a sheep ranch. Then he moved to Sydney and opened a travel agency. He hasn’t had a bad life, I guess … all things considered.”

  “No,” said Prue, “I guess not.”

  The officer made a quick inventory of the shack’s contents. “Most of his stuff seems O.K. I guess I’d better finish my rounds. It was nice talking to you, Miss Giroux.”

  Prue was flabbergasted. “How did you know my name?”

  “C’mon,” smiled the policeman. “You’re a star. I saw you on TV once.”

  “Oh,” said Prue feebly.

  The officer mounted his horse, then leaned down and offered her his hand. “I’m Bill Rivera, by the way. Have a nice day.”

  Then the stallion and his rider were gone.

  Prue stood there for a moment in mild shock.

  When the silence had engulfed her again, she reentered the shack for a final appraisal of its contents. She had come this far, she decided, so she might as well play out the drama to the end.

  The slug-smeared box lay on its side on the earthen floor. To avoid touching it, Prue poked it with her toe, but the latch was firmly secured. So she knelt beside it and prodded it with one of Luke’s pencils until the lid creaked open.

  Inside were two lumps of grayish fur.

  Two little rabbit skins.

  Behind, oblivious to this discovery, Vuitton spotted an old friend approaching through the underbrush and ran out into the fog to greet him.

  Catching Up

  WHEN JON AND MRS. MADRIGAL RETURNED TO Barbary Lane, they sat on the bench on the courtyard and smoked a joint.

  “Just like old times,” said the doctor.

  The landlady gave him a drowsy smile. “Almost.”

  He smiled back, knowing what she meant.

  “His light’s still on,” she said.

  “Yeah. I see.”

  The joint was so resinous that it went out. Mrs. Madrigal relit it and handed it to Jon. “Am I pushing too much?” she asked.

  “A little,” he said.

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll bet,” he grinned.

  She tugged his earlobe affectionately. “I want what’s best for my children.”

  A long pause, and then: “I didn’t know I was still part of the family.”

  The landlady chuckled. “Listen, dear … when you get this old lady, you get her for life.”

  “That’s good to know,” said the doctor.

  “Funny thing,” added Mrs. Madrigal, nodding towards the lighted window. “That one’s the same way.”

  Jon turned and looked at her in silence.

  “He is,” she said soft
ly. “I’m sure of it. He just has to be reminded of it sometimes … by the people who love him. If you catch my drift.”

  “If I didn’t,” smiled Jon, “you’d rent a sound truck and broadcast it.” He rose, pecking her on the cheek. “Are you sure he doesn’t have company?”

  “I’m sure,” said the landlady.

  “You don’t miss a trick, do you?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “Not one. And I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way.”

  Michael stood in the doorway, dumbfounded. “Jon … my God … I didn’t even hear you ring.”

  “I didn’t. Mrs. Madrigal let me in. We just had dinner together.”

  “Oh … great.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure … of course. It’s great to see you.”

  “Thanks. Same to you.”

  “Great … great.”

  “I think we’ve agreed on that,” smiled Jon. He stepped across the threshold and embraced Michael clumsily. “It’s rotten notice. I’m sorry.”

  “No problem. It’s great to see you.” Michael winced and slapped his own face. “I promise the patter will improve.”

  Jon laughed and looked around the room. “I like this color.”

  “Can I get you a drink or something? Or a Diet Pepsi? I’m out of grass, but I’m sure I could bum one off …”

  “I just did,” grinned Jon. “I’m ripped to the tits.”

  “No wonder you like this color.”

  Another laugh, more nervous than the first. “No … really.”

  “You’ll hate the bedroom,” said Michael. “I got rid of the eggplant.”

  Jon made a mock-fierce expression. “What color is it now?”

  “Crayfish.”

  “What color is that?”

  “Sort of … cream.”

  “Crayfish are cream-colored?”

  Michael laughed and pointed to a chair. “Sit down. God, where do we start?”

  “Well … I know about Mary Ann and Brian. Mrs. M. told me. She invited me to the wedding, in fact.”

  “Great.”

  “Are you sure? This isn’t exactly … my territory anymore. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, Michael.”