“Bourgeois paranoia.”
“I know … but you’re really close to her, and I thought you might be able to tell me … you know … her quirks.”
“She’s decent. That’s her quirk. She also makes a fabulous rack of lamb.”
Mona left work at four o’clock, deliberately skirting Mary Ann’s alcove near the elevator. When she got home, she found Mrs. Madrigal in the garden.
The landlady was wearing plaid slacks, a paint-smeared smock and a straw hat. Her face was ruddy from exertion. “Well … home so early from the fields, dear?”
“Yeah.”
“Just so many things you can say about pantyhose, eh?”
Mona smiled. “I wanted to tell you something. It’s no big deal, really.”
“Fine.”
“Mary Ann’s been asking me about you.”
“Have you told her anything?”
“I figure that’s your business.”
“You think she’s too green, don’t you?”
Mona nodded. “Right now, yeah.”
“We’re having dinner tonight.”
“She told me. That’s why … well, I didn’t want you to be embarrassed, that’s all.”
“Thank you, dear.”
“I should mind my own business, shouldn’t I?”
“No. I appreciate your concern. Would you like to come tonight?”
“No, I … no, thank you.”
“You’re very special to me, dear.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Madrigal.”
Anguish in Bohemia
AFTER WORK, EDGAR SWILLED A DOUBLE SCOTCH AT the Bohemian Club.
The rules of a well-ordered life were never enough when other people refused to obey them. Beauchamp was only one of many.
The Cartoon Room was crowded. Edgar sat alone in the Domino Room, preferring silence. The dread had begun to grow again.
He rose and went to the telephone. His hands grew slippery around the receiver.
The maid answered.
“Halcyon Hill.”
“Emma … is Mrs. Halcyon available?”
“Just a moment, Mr. Halcyon.”
Frannie’s mouth was full. “Uhhmm … darling … marvelous cheese puffs I doggy-bagged from Cyril’s party! And Emma’s whipped up a divine blanquette de veau! When are you coming home?”
“I have to pass tonight, Frannie.”
“Edgar! Not those damn pantyhose again?”
“No. I’m at the club. There’s a … committee meeting.”
Silence.
“Frannie?”
“What?” She was icy.
“I have to do these things. You know that.”
“We do what we want, Edgar.”
Blood rushed to his face. “All right, then, goddammit! I want to go to this meeting! That make you happy?”
Frannie hung up.
He stood there, holding the phone, then put it down and mopped his face with a handkerchief. He took several deep breaths. He reached for the directory and looked up Ruby Miller’s phone number.
He dialed.
“Evening. Ruby here.” She sounded more grandmotherly than ever.
“Edgar Halcyon, Mrs. Miller.”
“Oh … how nice to hear your voice. Gracious, it’s been a long time.”
“Yes … you know … business.”
“Yes. Busy, busy.”
His brow was drenched again. “Can I see you tonight, Mrs. Miller? I know it isn’t much notice.”
“Oh … well, just a minute, Mr. Halcyon. Let me check my book.” She left the phone. Edgar could hear her rummaging around. “All right,” she said at last. “Eight o’clock, O.K.?”
“Thank you so much.”
“Not at all, Mr. Halcyon.”
He felt much better now. Ruby Miller meant hope to him, however vague. He decided to have a drink at the bar in the Cartoon Room.
“Edgar, you old bastard, why aren’t you home pruning the rosebushes?”
It was Roger Manigault, senior vice president of Pacific Excelsior. The Manigault tennis courts bordered on the Halcyon apple orchard in Hillsborough.
Edgar smiled. “Past your bedtime too, Booter.” The nickname was a hangover from Stanford days, when Manigault had been beatified on the gridiron. Nothing since then had pleased him.
He was currently angered by the demise of the Stanford Indian.
“Everybody’s so goddamn sensitive nowadays! Indians aren’t Indians anymore … oh, no! They’re Native Americans. I spent ten years learning to say ‘Negroes’ right, and now they’ve turned into Blacks. Goddammit, I don’t know what to call the maid anymore!”
Edgar took a slug of his drink and nodded. He had heard it all before.
“Now, you take the word ‘gay,’ Edgar. That used to be a perfectly normal word that meant something wholesome and fun, goddammit! Jesus God! Look at it now!” He polished off his scotch and slammed the glass down. “A decent young couple is almost embarrassed to mention they’ve been to the Gaieties!”
“Good point,” said Edgar.
“Damn right! Say … speaking of that, Roger and Suzie say they bumped into Beauchamp and DeDe at the Gaieties. Beauchamp’s a damn good dancer, Suzie says … hustling or whatever they call it.”
Hustling is probably the word, Edgar thought. He had wondered about Beauchamp and Suzie on several occasions. “Excuse me, Booter. I promised Frannie I’d be home early tonight.”
For the lies she required, Ruby Miller might as well have been Edgar’s mistress.
Up the hill at the University Club, Beauchamp sought solace from Peter Cipriani, heir to a fabled San Mateo flower fortune.
“I’m getting paranoid, I guess.”
“The Old Man again?”
“Yeah. He put the screws to me about DeDe.”
“He’s suspicious?”
“Always.”
“What does DeDe think?”
“You’re assuming she knows how to.”
“She’s a tad thick, but she does pay for your Wilkes Bashford addiction … and she’s got a nice box.”
Beauchamp frowned.
“At the opera, Beauchamp.”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so.”
“I didn’t come here to talk about my wife, Peter.”
“Hmm … that’s funny. Everybody else did.”
Silence.
“Sorry. Cheap shot. Wanna hear about the Bachelors Ball?”
“Do I look like I do?”
“Well, we missed you, anyway. Actually, we missed your Navy dress whites. They were always just the right touch. Very Gilbert and Sullivan.”
“Thank you.”
“The Prune Prince wore his great-uncle’s opera tails this year.”
“John Stonecypher?”
“The one. Are you ready for this? He spilled a bottle of amyl in the breast pocket.”
“C’mon!
“While he was dancing with Madge!”
“What did she do?”
“Oh … she just kept waltzing around like a Cotillion deb, presumably pretending that all her dance partners smell like dirty sweat socks…. You’re going to her do tonight, aren’t you?”
“Shit!”
“Forgot, huh?”
“DeDe will shit a brick!” He downed his drink. “I’m off.”
“More than likely,” said Peter.
The Wrath of DeDe
DEDE WAS SITTING AT HER LOUIS QUINZE ESCRITOIRE making notations in her Louis Vuitton checkbook.
“You forgot about Madge’s party, didn’t you?”
“I hauled ass to get here.”
“It starts in half an hour.”
“Then we’ll be late. Pull in your claws. Your old man’s been bitching at me all day.”
“Did you make the Adorable presentation?”
“No. He did.”
“Why?”
“Why don’t you tell mei”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
> “He was pissed, DeDe. Royally.”
Silence.
“You know why, of course.”
DeDe looked down at her checkbook.
Beauchamp persisted. “He was pissed because his darling daughter called him up last night and told him I was a son-of-a-bitch.”
“I didn’t do anything of …”
“Bullshit!”
“I was worried, Beauchamp. It was after midnight. I tried the club and Sam’s and Jack’s. I … panicked. I thought Daddy might know where you were.”
“Of course. Little Beauchamp doesn’t make a fucking move without checking with the Great White Father!”
“Don’t talk about Daddy like that.”
“Oh … fuck him! I don’t need his permission to breathe. I don’t need him for a goddamn thing!”
“Oh? Daddy would be interested to hear that.”
Silence.
“Why don’t we call him up and tell him?”
“DeDe …”
“Me or you?”
“DeDe … I’m sorry. I’m tired. It’s been a bitch of a day.”
“I’ll bet.” She moved to the hall mirror and made last-minute adjustments to her makeup. “How’s Little Miss Whatshername?”
“Who?”
“Daddy’s secretary. Your little … after-work amusement.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding!”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Mary Ann Singleton?”
“Is that her name? How quaint.”
“Christ! I hardly know her.”
“Apparently that hasn’t stopped you before.”
“She’s your father’s secretary!”
“And she’s not exactly an eyesore.”
“I can’t help that, can I?”
DeDe pursed her lips to blot her lipstick. She looked at her husband. “Look … I’ve had it with this. You dropped off the face of the earth last night.”
“I told you. I was at the club.”
“Well, quelle coincidence! You were at the club when you stood me up for the reception at the de Young last Wednesday and last Friday when we missed the Telfairs’ party at Beach Blanket Babylon.”
“We’ve seen it five times.”
“That isn’t the point.”
Beauchamp laughed bitterly. “You are too much. You really are…. Where in God’s name did you dig this one up?”
“I’ve got eyes, Beauchamp.”
“Where? When?”
“Last week. I was shopping with Binky at La Remise du Soleil.”
“How very chic of you.”
“You were crossing the street with her.”
“Mary Ann?”
“Yes.”
“That is incriminating.”
“It was lunchtime, and you were looking very chummy.”
“You missed the good part. You should have been there earlier when I ravaged her in the redwood grove behind the Transamerica Pyramid.”
“You’re not gonna smartass your way out of this one, Beauchamp.”
“I’m not even trying.” He snatched the keys to the Porsche from the hall table. “I stopped with you a long time ago.”
“Tell me,” said DeDe, following him out the door.
The Landlady’s Dinner
MARY ANN STOPPED BY MONA’S ON HER WAY TO Mrs. Madrigal’s for dinner.
“Wanna mellow out?” asked Mona.
“It depends.”
“Coke?”
“I’m on a diet. Have you got a Tab or Fresca?”
“I don’t believe you.” Mona placed a hand mirror on her cable spool table. “Even you must have seen Porgy and Bess?”
“So?” Mary Ann’s voice cracked. Mona was spading white powder from a vial with a tiny silver spoon. The handle of the spoon was engraved with an ecology emblem.
“Sportin’ Life,” said Mona. “Happy dust. This stuff is an American institution.” She made a line of powder across the surface of the mirror. “All the silent film stars snorted. Why do you think they looked like this?” She moved her head and arms spastically, like Charlie Chaplin.
“And now,” she continued, “all we need is a common, ordinary, all-purpose food stamp.” She flourished a ten-dollar food stamp like a magician, presenting both sides for Mary Ann’s examination.
“Do you get food stamps?” asked Mary Ann. She makes four times what I do, thought the secretary.
Mona didn’t answer, absorbed in the operation. She rolled the food stamp into a little tube and stuck it in her left nostril. “Stunning, eh? Verry sexy!”
She went after the powder like an anteater on the rampage. Mary Ann was horrified. “Mona, is that …?”
“It’s your turn.”
“No, thank you.”
“Aw … go ahead. It’s good for social occasions.”
“I’m nervous enough as it is.”
“It doesn’t make you nervous, dearheart. It …”
Mary Ann stood up. “I have to go, Mona. I’m late.”
“God!”
“What?”
“You make me feel like such … an addict.”
Mrs. Madrigal looked almost elegant in black satin pajamas and a matching cloche.
“Ah, Mary Ann. I’m grinding the gazpacho. Help yourself to the hors d’oeuvres. I’ll be right back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
The “hors d’oeuvres” were arranged symmetrically on two plates. One held several dozen stuffed mushrooms. The other, half a dozen joints.
Mary Ann chose a mushroom and gave the apartment a once-over.
Two rather gross marble statues flanked the fireplace: a boy with a thorn in his foot and a woman holding a jug. Silk fringes dangled everywhere, from lampshades, coverlets, curtains and valances, even from the archway that led to the hall. The only photograph was a picture of the 1915 Panama-Pacific Exposition.
“Well, what do you think of my little bordello?” Mrs. Madrigal was posing dramatically under the archway.
“It’s … very nice.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s depraved!”
Mary Ann laughed. “You planned it that way?”
“Of course. Help yourself to a joint, dear, and don’t bother to pass it around. I loathe that soggy communal business! I mean … if you’re going to be degenerate, you might as well be a lady about it, don’t you think?”
There were two other guests. One was a fiftyish, red-bearded North Beach poet named Joaquin Schwartz. (“A dear man,” Mrs. Madrigal confided to Mary Ann, “but I wish he’d learn to use capital letters.”) The other was a woman named Laurel who worked at the Haight-Ashbury Free Clinic. She didn’t shave under her arms.
Joaquin and Laurel spent dinner discussing their favorite years. Joaquin believed in 1957. Laurel felt 1967 was where it was at … or where it had been at.
“We could have kept it going,” she said. “I mean, it had a life of its own, didn’t it? We shared everything … the acid, the music, the sex, the Avalon, the Family Dog, the Human Be-In. There were fourteen freaks in that flat on Oak Street, fourteen freaks and six sleeping bags. It was fucking beautiful, because it was … was, like, history. We were history. We were the fucking cover of Time magazine, man!”
Mrs. Madrigal was polite. “What do you think happened, dear?”
“They killed it. Not the Pigs. The Media.”
“Killed what?”
“Nineteen sixty-seven.”
“I see.”
“Nixon, Watergate, Patty Fucking Hearst, the Bicentennial. The Media got bored with 1967, so they zapped it. It could have survived for a while. Some of it escaped to Mendocino … but the Media found out about it and killed it all over again. Jesus … I mean, what’s left? There’s not a single fucking place where it’s still 1967!”
Mrs. Madrigal winked at Mary Ann. “You’re being awfully
quiet.”
“I’m not sure I …
“What’s your favorite year?”
“I don’t think I have o
ne.”
“Mine’s 1987,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “I’ll be sixty-five or so … I can collect social security and stash away enough cash to buy a small Greek island.” She twirled a lock of hair around her forefinger and smiled faintly. “Actually, I’d settle for a small Greek.”
After dinner, on the way to the bathroom, Mary Ann lingered in the landlady’s bedroom. There was a photograph on the dresser in a silver frame.
A young man, a soldier, standing beside a 1940s car. He was quite handsome, if a little awkward in his uniform.
“So you see, the old dame does have a past.”
Mrs. Madrigal was standing in the doorway.
“Oh … I’m prying, aren’t I?”
Mrs. Madrigal smiled. “I hope it means we’re friends.”
“I …” Mary Ann turned back to the photograph, embarrassed. “He’s very good-looking. Is that Mr. Madrigal?”
The landlady shook her head. “There’s never been a Mr. Madrigal.”
“I see.”
“No you don’t. How could you? Madrigal is … an assumed name, as they say in the gangster movies. I cleaned up my act about a dozen years back, and the old name was the first to
go.”
“What was it?”
“Don’t be naughty. If I’d wanted you to know it, I wouldn’t have changed it.”
“But …?”
“Why the Mrs.?”
“Yes.”
“Widows and divorcees don’t get … what’s Mona’s word? … hassled. We don’t get hassled as much as single girls. You must have figured that out by now.”
“Who’s hassled? I haven’t had so much as an obscene phone call since I moved to San Francisco. I could use a little hassling, frankly.”
“The town is full of charming young men.”
“To each other.”
Mrs. Madrigal chuckled. “There’s a lot of that going around.”
“You make it sound like the flu. I think it’s terribly depressing.”
“Nonsense. Take it as a challenge. When a woman triumphs in this town, she really triumphs. You’ll do all right, dear. Give it time.”
“You think?”
“I know.” The landlady winked and put her arm across Mary Ann’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go join those tedious people.”
Rendezvous with Ruby
Tales of the City Page 4
