Brian frowned, then sniffed the doll. The odor nipped his nostrils like tiny fangs.
“Pedro peed on her,” Shawna explained.
“Who?”
“The Sorensens’ iguana.”
“Great.” He returned the doll to its resting place.
“Can we get a iguana?”
“No way.”
“I’d take care of him.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“I would.”
He thought for a moment, then picked up the reeking doll. “I think we’d better retire this one, O.K.?”
“What do you mean?”
“Throw it out.”
“Why?”
“Because, Puppy, if it smells bad to us, it’ll smell just as bad to some other little girl.”
“Uh-uh.” Shawna, miraculously, shook her head and scratched her butt at the same time. “Not if she’s homeless.”
“Yes she would. Trust me on this, Puppy.”
His daughter gave him a blank look. “Whatever.”
“C’mon,” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s go help Mommy set the table.”
The first time he’d seen The Singing Detective, Mary Ann had been off networking at a cocktail party.
“It’s amazing,” he told her now, back in the kitchen. “This ugly of guy is in bed in the hospital, with like crooked teeth and this craggy-ass face, and he opens his mouth to sing and out comes ’It Might As Well Be Spring.’ Only with like a crooner’s voice—you know, whoever sang it originally—and with all the orchestration and everything.”
“I don’t get it,” said Mary Ann.
“Me either,” said Shawna.
“You will when you see it,” he told his wife.
She wasn’t convinced. “Not if it takes six hours.”
“Well…we can watch it a little bit at a time.”
“Forget it,” said Shawna.
He turned to his daughter and tickled her under the arms. “You’re not watching it, anyway.”
The child squirmed, giggling. “Yes I am.”
“Nope. You’re watching Cosby in your room.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. And Freddy!” He stiffed his fingers into a claw and clamped it on the back of her head, getting a squeal out of her.
Mary Ann frowned at him. “Brian…”
“What?”
“That isn’t funny.”
“Oh…O.K.” He let the claw wilt, then winked at Shawna. “Mommy’s making us sweet potatoes with teeny marshmallows.”
“Yummy,” said Shawna.
“Why do you think she did that?”
Shawna shrugged.
“He’s a child-molester, you know,” his wife said.
He glanced at her. “Who?”
“Freddy. In that movie.”
“Yeah. O.K.” He turned back to Shawna. “You think it was because we were good all week?”
“They’ve made a total hero of him. He’s got his own posters, even. It’s disgusting.”
“I guess it is,” he said.
“We’re doing a show on it, actually.”
He nodded, having guessed as much already.
“I like him,” said Shawna.
Mary Ann frowned at her. “Who?”
“Freddy.”
“No you don’t,” she said. “You do not like him.”
“Yes I do.”
“Shawna.” Mary Ann shot him a rueful look. “See?” she said.
“I think he’s funny,” said Shawna.
Brian gave his wife a glance that said: Lighten up. “She thinks he’s funny.”
“Right.” Mary Ann dumped a handful of peas into a sauce-pan. “A child-molester.”
“You want wine with the meal?” he asked.
“Sure. Whatever.”
He went to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of sauvignon blanc, transferring it to the freezer so it would chill the way they liked it. Seeing Shawna wander off again, he sat down on the stool at the butcher-block island. “I meant to ask you,” he said as nonchalantly as possible. “How was your lunch with Burke yesterday?”
“Oh.” It took her a moment. “Fine.”
He nodded. “Get all caught up?”
“Mmm. More or less.”
“He still…married and all?”
She studied him a moment, then gave him a slow, honeyed smirk. “You’re a silly man.”
On its own, his eyebrow did something suggestive of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. “Oh, yeah?”
Her eyes returned to the sweet potato she was slicing. “I knew you were gonna get like this.”
“Hey,” he said, shrugging. “What way have I gotten? It was a simple question.”
“O.K., then…Yes, he is still married. Yes, he still has two kids.”
“How does he look?”
“What do you want me to say?” she said. “Something really disparaging so you won’t be insecure?”
“That would be good.”
She smiled. “You’re such a mess.”
“C’mon. Give it a shot. Has his ass gone froggy on him?”
She hooted, so he sidled up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You used to like him a lot.”
“How do you know?”
“Hey,” he said, “I was there, remember? I saw you guys together all the time.”
She rotated in his arms and raked the hair above his ears with her fingertips. “Did Michael make a big deal about this lunch or something?”
“I didn’t tell him,” he said. “Did you?”
“No. Why would I do that?”
He shrugged.
“And what could possibly make you think that after eleven years I would even…?”
“Nothing,” he said. “You’re right. I’m a silly man.”
Her eyes surveyed his with optometrical attention to detail. She gave him a dismissive rap on the butt and turned back to her sweet potatoes.
“If you wanna know the truth,” she said, chopping away, “he’s gotten kind of prosaic.”
“How so?”
“I dunno. Too serious and dedicated. Wrapped up in his career.”
“Which is?”
“Television,” she replied. “Producing.”
“Small world.”
“He’s nice, though. He was really concerned when I told him Michael was positive.” She paused. “Actually, we spent most of the time talking about that.”
“They were close, huh?”
“Well, fairly. He asked if we could all get together sometime this week.”
“Oh, yeah? With Michael, you mean?”
She nodded. “If you don’t want to, of course…”
“No. That’s fine.”
“I think you’d get along with him great.”
“I thought you said he was prosaic.”
She rolled her eyes. “I meant…about his work. Is Wednesday a good night?”
“I dunno,” he said. “I haven’t checked the book lately.” By this he meant their book, of course, as opposed to his or hers. For years now, at her instigation, they had maintained three appointment books at home. It had saved them a world of trouble.
“We’re free,” she said. “Nguyet’s available too.” Moments later she added: “Probably.”
Hauling in the maid sounded a little too grand to him. “We can do it without her, can’t we?”
“We could,” she said. “But it’s five for dinner…six counting Puppy…and somebody’s gotta dish it out. I just thought it would be more convenient.”
“I’ll cook, then. I’ll make my paella.”
“That’s sweet, but…”
“Hey,” he said. “It was a big hit last time.”
“I know that, but I want us all to be together. What’s the point in doing this if you’re holed up in the kitchen with the clams?”
“O.K.,” he said.
“You wanna ask Michael, or shall I?”
“Why don’t you?” he said. “He s
ees me all day. I think it would mean more. He hasn’t heard from you for a while.”
She nodded and lifted the receiver of the wall phone.
His paranoia raged away in silence.
Dance with Me
MICHAEL HUNG UP THE PHONE AND WENT TO THE bathroom, where Thack sat naked in the empty tub, shampooing Harry. Sleek as a sewer rat in his coat of lather, Harry crooned softly in protest as Thack turned on the hand spray and rinsed the poodle’s rump.
“Yes,” said Michael, talking to Harry. “You’re a good boy. What a good boy you are!”
“You should see the fleas,” said Thack.
“I bet.”
“We’ll have to bomb the house, I’m afraid.”
Michael had expected this. As much as he pretended otherwise, Thack loved nothing better than “bombing the house.” This adamant antimilitarist turned into Rambo incarnate when there were fleas to be annihilated.
“Who was that on the phone?”
“Mary Ann.”
Predictably, Thack winced.
Michael lowered the toilet seat cover and sat down. “We’re invited to dinner on Wednesday.”
Thack lifted Harry’s head and sprayed around his neck. “What brought this on?”
The implication was that Mary Ann had been keeping her distance lately. Fearing the truth of this, Michael didn’t bother to argue. “An old boyfriend’s back in town. I think she thinks it might get heavy if it was just the three of them.”
“Which old boyfriend is this?”
“The one she met on the Pacific Princess. Who broke the story about the cannibal cult at Grace Cathedral.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“He’s O.K., actually. I mean, he was ten years ago.”
“He’d have to be,” said Thack. “He got the hell away from her.”
Michael was tired of this kind of sniping. “He didn’t get away from her. He got a job offer in New York. He asked her to come with him, but she didn’t want to leave San Francisco.”
Thack nodded. “Too busy conquering it, no doubt.”
Michael stood up. “I’ll call her and cancel.”
“No.”
“If there’s gonna be a scene…”
Thack flicked water at him. “Sit down. Don’t be such a prima donna.”
Michael sat down.
“Can’t I just piss and moan a little?”
“If you pick a fight…”
“Who says I’m gonna pick a fight? Brian’ll be there. I like him.”
Harry made a scramble for the side of the tub, his nails clicking frantically against the porcelain. Thack scooped him up and resumed rinsing.
“He doesn’t like it too warm,” said Michael.
“I know.”
“And don’t hit his balls with the spray. He hates that.”
Thack laughed. “Yes, Alice.”
Michael gave him a dirty look.
“Well, you sounded like her,” said his lover. “Just for a minute there.”
“Great.”
“Everybody’s gotta sound like somebody.”
“Well, tell me what I’m doing, so I can fix it.”
Thack smiled. “That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
The hell it wouldn’t. Homebody or not, he was damned if he was going to turn into is mother.
“Hand me Harry’s towel,” said Thack.
This was a frayed blue beach towel bearing the logo of All-Australian Boy, a sentimental relic of Michael’s tanning days at Barbary Beach. When his heart had still been hungry, he could spend an entire afternoon just getting his body ready for the night.
He snatched the towel off the shelf above the toilet and gave it to Thack. “Let’s go somewhere,” he said.
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Like where?”
“I dunno. The Rawhide II?”
“Fine by me.” Thack wrapped the towel around Harry, then set him down on the floor and gave him a brisk rubdown under the terry cloth. “What brought this on?”
“Nothing,” said Michael. “I just thought it might be fun.”
“Oh.”
“We hardly ever go out.”
Thack peered up at him wryly. “That’s what I get for calling you Alice.”
They’d been talking about going for ages. Charlie Rubin had been there several times in the month before his death and had sent back glowing reports. Michael and Thack had planned on going with Polly and Lucy, but Polly had dumped Lucy—only hours before the date, in fact—for the first runner-up in the Ms. International Leather competition. The new girlfriend preferred S & M to C & W, so Polly renounced the faith, and the boys were left dateless for the hoedown. To Michael’s unending glee, Polly had spent the next three weeks being plied with jewelry for her clitoris.
When they arrived at the Rawhide II, a dance class was in progress. The participants were in street clothes, pleasant looking but unextraordinary, as if the commuters on a BART train had acted on a sudden urge to waltz with one another. Fat and skinny, short and tall, couples of every configuration swirled around the room in a counterclockwise tide to the music of Randy Travis.
I’m gonna love you forever—
Forever and ever, Amen:
As long as old men live to talk about the weather—
As long as old women live to talk about old men.
Grinning uncontrollably, Michael found a stool at the bar and sat down. “What do you want?” he asked, since Thack was undoubtedly headed for the john. He peed about as often as a dog in a palm grove.
“Beer,” said Thack. “Miller’s, I guess.”
“O.K.”
“Do you see it?” He meant the men’s room.
“It’s the one marked Studs.” Michael rolled his eyes. “As opposed to Fillies.”
“How sexist,” said Thack.
When he had gone, Michael ordered the drinks. As providence would have it, his beeper went off just as his Calistoga arrived. The bartender smiled at him. “Another bionic man.”
Michael mugged ruefully. “It usually goes off on a coatrack somewhere.” He dug out his pillbox and popped two, chasing them with the Calistoga. When he was done, the man on the stool next to him gave him a knowing look, then tapped the pocket of his Pendleton.
“I’m set to go off any second.”
Michael smiled. “Last night at Big Business, there were enough to start a symphony.”
The man had dark, expressive eyes and the sweet E.T.ish quality Michael had come to associate with guys who’d been sick for a long time.
“Do you take the middle-of-the-night dose?” Michael asked.
The man shook his head.
“Me either. Double doses at seven and eleven?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s it going?”
The man shrugged. “I’ve got six T-cells.”
Michael nodded and counted his own blessings in silence. The last time he checked, he had three hundred and ten.
“I’m feeling real possessive about them,” said the man. “I may start giving them names.”
Michael chuckled. “You’ve said that before.”
“Not tonight,” said the man.
Thack returned and leaned against Michael’s stool, beer in hand. They watched the dance floor in silence as couple after couple revolved into view. This time the song was called “Memories to Burn.”
“Look at her,” said Thack. “Get a load of her.”
The object of his amazement was pantsuited, plump, and seventysomething. A tiny, pink-sequined sombrero was affixed to the side of her lilac hair, and she seemed to be enjoying herself no end. Her partner was a man about forty years her junior.
“She’s a stitch,” said Michael.
“She’s all yours,” said the man with six T-cells.
Michael turned and smiled at him. “You know her?”
“I guess so. She’s my mother.”
“Well…” Michael reddened. “She’s sure havi
ng a good time.”
“Isn’t she?”
Thack laughed. “She looks like a regular.”
The man grunted. “A regular what, we won’t say.”
“Does she live here?” Michael asked.
“She does now. She came out here five years ago from Havasu City. When I got sick.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I guess she thought I didn’t have too long, but…surprise, surprise.”
“She lives with you, then?” asked Thack.
“Oh, Lord, no. She lives with a friend of hers from Havasu City. The friend has a son here too.”
“Oh.”
“The two of ’em are real party animals.” He smiled dimly. “She knows more queers than I do.”
Thack laughed. The old lady twirled into view for a moment, waggled her fingers at her son, and twirled off again.
“She’s subdued tonight,” he said. “She’s got a whole outfit that goes with that hat.”
“You know…” Michael’s brow furrowed. “I think I’ve seen her before.”
The man looked at him. “You play bingo at Holy Redeemer?”
“No.”
“How ’bout the Bare Chest Contest at the Eagle?”
Michael laughed. “She goes to that?”
“Never misses one,” said the man.
“It must’ve been somewhere else,” said Michael.
The music ended, and the dance floor cleared. The old lady made a beeline for her son, dragging her partner by the hand.
“Ooowee,” she declared, patting her lilac wisps.
“How ’bout a Bud?” asked her son.
“Don’t mind if I do. George, this is Larry. Larry, George.”
“Hi. Uh…this is…” The man turned to Michael and Thack, looking apologetic. “We didn’t actually get each other’s names.”
“Michael.” He raised his hand in a sort of generalized greeting to all and sundry. “This is Thack.”
Nods and murmurs.
The old lady cocked her head. “Either of you boys feel like a go at it?”
“Oh, Lord,” said her son. “She’s worn out one and workin’ on another.”
“You hush up,” said the old lady.
“You don’t have to,” the man told Michael.
“I’d like to,” said Michael.