Frannie looked up to see an enormous gold-haired man who looked for all the world like Joe Palooka. He smiled down at the Birthday Girl and leaped enthusiastically out of the cake.
In a single effortless motion, he scooped Frannie into his arms and ran off with her into the forest.
And the janing began again.
The Last of Beauchamp
WHEN BRUNO FINALLY PHONED, DOUCHEBAG WAS livid.
“Jesus Christ, man! You said eight o’clock!”
“Yeah? Well, I lied. Go home, punk.”
“Watcha mean, go home? I been freezin’ my ass off out here for—”
“I said go home!”
“What about my money?”
“There ain’t gonna be no money, ‘cause there ain’t gonna be no job. The client just got barbecued in the Broadway tunnel.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll explain it to you when you grow up.”
“Wait just a fuckin’—”
“Look, kid, if you want a blue face to go with that green hair, just keep messin’ with me, hear?”
Douchebag composed a hardass reply, then decided against it and hung up. Readjusting the safety pin on her garbage bag, she slammed out of the phone booth and set off in the direction of home. There might be a cat she could kick on the way.
Leaving the Palace of the Legion of Honor, DeDe paused for a moment to watch the Golden Gate Bridge twinkling in the darkness.
“It never fails, does it?”
“What?” asked D’orothea.
“That. I mean … it never gets old. I was born here, and I’ve never stopped catching my breath whenever I see it. Sometimes I think there’s a huge magnet in it that keeps me from leaving.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“I think about it. Everybody thinks about leaving home, don’t they? The problem is, when you’re born at the end of the rainbow, there’s no place to go.” She turned and smiled at her new friend. “It’s not really fair, is it?”
“Maybe there’s a city you haven’t seen.”
“There are lots of cities I haven’t seen. Athens … Vienna …”
“No. I mean here.” D’orothea smiled, arching an eyebrow. “Those Junior Leaguers back there are as alien to me as … Mars. DeDe, there are a surprising number of people in this town whose shoes don’t match their handbags.”
DeDe thought about that in silence all the way back to D’orothea’s house in Pacific Heights. When they reached the cinnamon-and-buff Victorian, D’orothea thanked her for “an edifying evening.”
DeDe smiled apologetically. “Pretty dull, huh?”
“Not with you, hon.” She leaned over suddenly and kissed DeDe on the cheek. “Where are we having the babies, by the way?”
“St. Sebastian’s,” said DeDe. “And thanks for that we.”
D’orothea shrugged. “You can’t do it alone, can you?”
“I thought I might have to.”
“Bullshit.” She bounded out of the car, slammed the door authoritatively and blew a kiss to DeDe from her front steps. “I’ll call you soon,” she yelled.
Forty minutes later, DeDe arrived at Halcyon Hill alone. A police car was parked in the circular driveway. As she locked the Mercedes, she spotted a chunky officer standing next to the cast-iron negro lawn jockey that Mother had painted white after the Watts riots.
“Mrs. Day?” The officer approached her.
“God! Not another burglary?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. We couldn’t find any other members of your family, so they asked me to … There’s been an accident, Mrs. Day.”
“Mother! Is it Mother?”
The officer took her arm. “No, ma’am. It’s gonna be O.K. Why don’t we go sit down?”
Inside, she took the news more stoically than the officer might have expected.
“When did it happen?” she asked.
“Several hours ago. His car apparently skidded in the Broadway tunnel. There was … a fire.”
“God.”
“Mrs. Day … I’m really sorry. If there’s somewhere you’d like to go, I’d be more than happy to take you.”
“No. Thank you. I’m O.K.”
“Would you like me to stay for a while?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, thank you.”
With obvious discomfort, the officer handed her an envelope. “I’m supposed to give you this. It’s his—your husband’s—personal effects.”
Two Scotches and several hundred M & M’s later, DeDe retreated to her bedroom and worked up the nerve to open the envelope.
All that was left of her husband landed with an ugly clatter on her mirror-topped vanity.
A golden belt buckle, composed of interlocking G’s.
Burke’s Bad Dream
FOR DIFFERENT REASONS, MARY ANN AND BURKE BOTH slept fitfully on the night of Beauchamp’s death. When she awoke, Mary Ann called St. Sebastian’s and checked on Michael’s condition. Nothing had changed, Jon told her. Mona and Mrs. Madrigal were expected at the hospital later that morning.
Then the secretary called Halcyon Communications and asked for Mildred in Production. It was not yet eight-thirty; the spinster’s voice sounded tired and far away.
“When did you hear?” she asked.
“Last night,” said Mary Ann, consciously injecting a funereal note into her voice. “A friend called me.”
“It’s awful. The media is eating it up. I’m dreading Van Amburg and his Happy Talk news tonight.”
“Should I come in, Mildred?” The real question, of course, was whether Beauchamp had told Mildred—or anyone else in power—that he had fired Mary Ann.
“No,” replied Mildred. “We’ve shut down, actually. I’m just handling the calls … and the press. Oh, one thing?”
“Uh huh?”
“I talked to DeDe Day this morning. She’s holding up just fine, all things considered. It must be terrible for her, with the babies due any day now, and—worst of all—her mother missing.”
“Mrs. Halcyon is missing?”
“Well, not exactly missing. They just haven’t been able to locate her. She told DeDe she was going up to their house in Napa, but so far she hasn’t turned up there. I suspect—this is just my theory, mind you—you know, she’s a deeply religious woman, and she may just be touring the missions like Angelina Alioto.”
“Does the press know she’s—”
“Heavens, no! DeDe told me in strictest confidence! She’s making a few discreet inquiries with her mother’s friends. I think she expects her to turn up any minute now. Keep it under your hat, will you, Mary Ann?”
“Of course. Mildred … have there been any arrangements made about the funeral?”
“Oh …” Mildred’s voice faltered. “That’s the sad part, I’m afraid. Beauchamp had a provision in his will for cremation. But considering the … nature of the accident, the family felt that cremation might be in bad taste.”
“I see.”
“I think there’ll be a memorial service of some kind. DeDe talked to Beauchamp’s parents in Boston this morning.”
“Thanks, Mildred. I won’t keep you.”
“I know you must be wondering about your job at this point … so don’t you worry about that, dear. I’m sure there’ll be a place for you when the dust settles. In the meantime, why don’t you take a little time off?”
“Thank you, Mildred.”
“Not at all, Mary Ann. I’m sure that’s the way Beauchamp would have wanted it.”
If Mary Ann had so much as a moment’s speculation about what to do with her leisure time, the question was settled in the middle of breakfast.
“I dreamed about our friend last night,” said Burke.
Mary Ann set down her mug of Orange Cappuccino. “Michael?”
“No. The man with the transplant … at the flower market.”
“Ick.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“No. You sho
uld talk about it, Burke.”
“It was only a dream.”
“It could have been a memory, Burke. Tell me about it.”
He looked at her skeptically. “I don’t want to be … your favorite hobby, Mary Ann.”
“Is that what you think?”
He hesitated. “No. Not really.”
“Then tell me.”
“Well, there was a walkway in it, the kind that I’ve told you about. There was a metal railing on it, and I think I was walking on concrete—only it was really high up.”
“From what?”
“I don’t know. People, maybe—but I couldn’t see anybody down below. There were people with me on the walkway—people I knew.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I just know that I knew them.”
“Great.”
“Then the man with the transplant came up—I mean, walked up beside me—and suddenly there was this rose, this horrible rose.”
“Why was it horrible?”
“I … don’t know.”
“Did he give you the rose? The man with the transplant.”
“No, not exactly. It was just there. And then he leaned over and said, ‘Go ahead, Burke, it’s organic’ … and then I started to run.”
“And?”
“That’s it. I woke up.”
Mary Ann took a sip from her mug. “Well, I suppose we shouldn’t make too much of the guy with the transplant. I mean, we’ve both been talking about him, and you could’ve, like, superimposed him on your existing memories.”
“Mmm. Except for one thing.”
“What?”
“He didn’t have a transplant in my dream. He was bald as an egg.”
The Proposal
MICHAEL’S NIGHT NURSE WAS A FELLOW FLORIDIAN named Thelma. Sometimes she would sit and talk to him after giving him his eight o’clock injection of pentazocine.
“Thelma?”
“What, hon?”
“Is this my fourth day here?”
“Uh … your fifth, I think.”
“If I’m completely paralyzed, how come it hurts? I mean … I can feel it hurt.”
“Where?”
“My legs … my thighs … and my arms a little bit. It’s freaky. I can see my leg lying still down there, but it feels exactly like somebody’s bending it up toward the ceiling. I almost asked you to push it down for me.”
She stroked his brow. “It’ll go away, hon.”
“Last night I woke up and I was positive I was propped between two pews.”
“Like in a church?”
“Uh huh. I could feel the edge of—you know—the plank behind my ankles and up behind my neck. God, I could almost see it.”
“That’s normal, believe it or not. Dr. Beery says there’s almost always some sensory disturbance with Guillain-Barré.”
“Can’t I be wacko, Thelma? I’d love to be wacko.”
“Go on!”
“I would. Just a little bit. A mild schizoid, maybe, with traces of melancholia and occasional drooling.”
Thelma smiled. “You’re not crazy, hon. You might as well face it. You’re normal.”
“Not in Florida I ain’t.”
Thelma reddened. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“You know what?” said Michael.
“What, hon?”
“You’re cute as pie.”
She tucked in his sheet with nervous efficiency. “I wasn’t even cute in Florida.”
“I’ll bet you were, Thel. I’ll bet you made those good ol’ boys horny as hell.”
“You hush up!”
“I’ll bet they used to wait outside in their Chevy pickups and bay at the moon like hound dogs and … take you downtown for an RC and a Moon Pie … and I’ll bet you loved every minute of it.”
“I bet you’re gonna get another shot in about two seconds.”
“I don’t care if you give me a lobotomy. I know cute when I see it.”
“Get some sleep.”
“You won’t leave, will you, Thel?”
“No, hon. Not until your friend comes.”
His friend came shortly after nine. Thelma excused herself as soon as she saw Jon in the doorway. “Hi,” said Michael sleepily.
“Hi. I won’t stay long. You sound tired.”
“No, please. I need the company.”
“Good.” Jon pulled up a chair next to the bed. “I had a great idea today.”
“What?”
“We’re gonna paint your apartment!”
“Swell. I’ll be the stepladder.”
Jon smiled. “Look: I brought you some paint samples from Hoot Judkins.” He held one of the cardboard strips in front of Michael’s eyes. “I kind of like this putty color.”
“Mmm. Faggot fawn.”
“Cut it out.”
“Well, it is the color of the year. Three years ago it was chocolate brown, then forest green. It was handy, anyway. If you woke up in a strange bedroom, at least you knew what year it was…. Look, Dr. Kildare, painting my apartment is definitely above and beyond the—”
“Bullshit. If I’m gonna live there, that cosmic orange of Mona’s has gotta go!”
The impact of Jon’s words registered in Michael’s face instantly. “Uh … isn’t this a little premature, Jon?”
“Haven’t you always wanted to shack up with a doctor?”
“Jon, I’m so fuckin’ flattered I could—”
“I’m not flattering you, asshole. I’m asking you to marry me.”
Silence.
“So?”
“Jon, you can’t … haul me to the toilet.”
“Says who?”
“This isn’t Magnificent Obsession. It doesn’t work like that. You’re gonna take all the mystery out of our unnatural relationship.”
“I’ll risk it. What about it?”
Michael hesitated. “When will … I get out of here?”
“I … I don’t know. It depends on a lot of things, Michael.”
“Ahh.”
“Michael, look …”
“You know how to cheer a person up, anyway. I’ll give you credit for that, Babycakes.”
Ashes to Ashes
THE MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR BEAUCHAMP TALBOT DAY was held on a Tuesday at 11 A.M. in St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church, San Mateo.
The front pew was occupied by members of the immediate family, including Mr. and Mrs. Richard Hamilton Day of Boston, Massachusetts; Miss Allison Dinsmore Day of New York City; Mrs. Edgar Warfield Halcyon (nee Frances Alicia Ligon) and the widow, Mrs. Beauchamp Talbot Day (nee Deirdre Ligon Halcyon).
Accompanying the widow and her mother were the family maid, Miss Emma Ravenel; Miss D’orothea Wilson of San Francisco; and a young man of unidentifiable origin who answered to the name of Bluegrass.
Seated four rows behind the family were Miss Mary Ann Singleton, secretary to the deceased; her escort, Mr. Burke Christopher Andrew; and Dr. Jon Philip Fielding, the widow’s gynecologist.
Friends of the deceased in attendance included Mr. Archibald Anson Gidde, Mr. Richard Evan Hampton and Mr. Peter Prescott Cipriani.
The Reverend Lindsey R. McAllister of Boston conducted the service.
At the request of the deceased’s family, there were no floral offerings at the ceremony, with the exception of the single red rose that adorned the processional cross.
Shortly after the commencement of the service, Mr. Burke Christopher Andrew clutched his stomach suddenly, dropped his hymnal, and vomited onto the pew in front of him.
There was no eulogy.
Voice from the Past
AFTER THE MEMORIAL SERVICE, JON DROVE MARY Ann and Burke back to 28 Barbary Lane. The couple was unusually quiet, he noticed, presumably because of the mishap involving the rose on the processional cross.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” the doctor said at last.
“I should have brought more Wash’n Dris,” said Mary Ann.
Jon shook his head. “He
was a horse’s ass. I thought it was entirely appropriate.”
“Who?” asked Burke.
“Beauchamp. He was a gaper from way back.”
Mary Ann looked puzzled. “I thought you just knew DeDe.”
“Yeah. Mostly. But I met him once or twice.”
There was no point in telling them about his brief affair with Beauchamp. He had never even told Michael, because he had never been proud of that interlude in his life.
Back at Michael’s apartment, he checked the bedroom for closet space. As soon as Mona’s stuff could be shifted downstairs—she had already expressed her intention of moving in with Mrs. Madrigal—there would be plenty of room for his clothes and furniture. Michael’s possessions were minimal.
He stood at Michael’s dresser for a moment and examined the items decorating the perimeter of the mirror.
Polaroids of Mona mugging in the nude at Devil’s Slide. Others of Mary Ann posing demurely in the courtyard. A gold pendant charm shaped like a pair of jockey shorts—obviously Michael’s prize from The Endup’s dance contest. A photo, torn from a magazine, of a shirtless Jan-Michael Vincent.
There was nothing of Jon, nothing of the two of them. They had not been together long enough. The only evidence of their relationship was a cocktail napkin from the Sans Souci, tucked jauntily at an angle behind Jan-Michael Vincent.
Suddenly, sinking to the edge of Michael’s bed, Jon began to cry.
Michael, as usual, had been right. The fuss over the paint chips had been premature. There was no indication—none whatsoever—that Michael’s condition was improving. And that flip little romantic perched on the brink of death could not be bullshitted when it came down to the end.
Jon rose, rubbing his eyes, just as the phone rang.
“Hello,” he said, answering the phone in the kitchen.
“Who is this?” A woman’s voice. Brassy.
“Jon Fielding. A friend of Michael’s.”
“Isn’t this Mona Ramsey’s apartment?”
“Oh … well, sort of. She’s—”
“Sort of?” Not brassy, actually. Bronze.
Jon gave up any effort at cordiality. “She’s in the process of moving right now. You can reach her downstairs at her … at the landlady’s apartment.”