BABYCAKES
Armistead Maupin
For Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy
and in loving memory of
Daniel Katz
1956–1982
and
once again
for Steve Beery
When you feel your song is orchestrated wrong,
Why should you prolong
Your stay?
When the wind and the weather blow your dreams sky-high,
Sail away—sail away—sail away!
NOËL COWARD
Contents
Cover
Title Page
A Royal Welcome
Mrs. Halcyon’s Scoop
The Baby Thing
Volunteer
A Hard Time Believing
Anna’s Family
Hello Sailor
Campmates
Mona Revisited
Private Collection
The Return of Connie Bradshaw
Simon’s Proposition
Settling Up
This Terrific Idea
Pumping the Lieutenant
44 Colville Crescent
Time on His Hands
Enter Miss Treves
A Good Match
Mirage
Off the Record
English Leather
Cross Purposes
The Kid Upstairs
Her Little-Girl Things
That Woman Again
The Jesus Tortilla
Death at the Door
All She Gets
Outfoxed
The Rock Widow Awaits
Phantom of the Manor
Ethelmertz
Mo
A Theory
Mad for the Place
Unholy Mess
Guilt Trip
Undoing the Damage
Sack Time
Nanny Knows Best
Red-handed
A Name for This
Nuptials
The Longest Easter
Weirding Out
Familiar Mysteries
Requiem
In the Pink
About the Author
Praise for Babycakes
BY ARMISTEAD MAUPIN
MEMO TO LORD JAMIE NEIDPATH
Copyright
About the Publisher
A Royal Welcome
SHE WAS FIFTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD WHEN SHE SAW SAN Francisco for the first time. As her limousine pulled away from the concrete labyrinth of the airport, she peered out the window at the driving rain and issued a small sigh over the general beastliness of the weather.
“I know,” said Philip, reading her mind, “but they expect it to clear today.”
She returned his faint smile, then searched in her handbag for a tissue. Since leaving the Reagans’ ranch she’d felt a mild case of the sniffles coming on, and she was dashed if she’d let it get the best of her.
The motorcade veered onto a larger highway—a “freeway,” she supposed—and soon they were plunging headlong into the rain past lurid motels and posters of nightmare proportions. To her left loomed a treeless hillside, so unnaturally green that it might have been Irish. There were words on it, rendered in white stones: SOUTH SAN FRANCISCO—THE INDUSTRIAL CITY.
Philip saw the face she made and leaned forward to study the curious hieroglyphic.
“Odd,” he murmured.
“Mmm,” she replied.
She could only hope that they had not yet arrived in the city proper. This tatty commercial district could well be the equivalent of Ruislip or Wapping or one of those horrid little suburbs in the vicinity of Gatwick Airport. She mustn’t imagine the worst just yet.
Her original plan had been to arrive in San Francisco on board the Britannia—an operation that would have entailed the pleasant prospect of sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge. The sea had become quite treacherous, however, by the time she reached Los Angeles, and the same storms that had brought six California rivers to flood level would almost certainly have played havoc with her undependable tummy.
So she had settled on this somewhat less than majestic entrance via aeroplane and automobile. She would spend the night in a local hotel, then reinstate herself on the Britannia when it arrived in the harbor the following day. Since she was almost sixteen hours ahead of schedule, this evening’s time was completely unclaimed, and the very thought of such gratuitous leisure sent surprising little shivers of anticipation down her spine.
Where would she dine tonight? The hotel, perhaps? Or someone’s home? The question of whose home was a sticky one at best, since she had already received feverish invitations from several local hostesses, including—and here she shuddered a bit—that dreadful petrol woman with all the hair.
She dismissed the issue of dinner for the moment and once more turned her attention to the passing scene. The rain seemed to have slacked a tiny bit, and here and there in the slate-gray skies a few dainty patches of blue had begun to make themselves known. Then the city materialized out of nowhere—a jumble of upended biscuit boxes that reminded her vaguely of Sydney.
“Look!” crowed Philip.
He was pointing to a dazzling rainbow that hovered like a crown above the city.
“How perfectly splendid,” she murmured.
“Indeed. Their protocol people are more thorough than I thought.”
Feeling giddier by the minute, she giggled at his little joke. It seemed appropriate to commemorate the moment by a cheery wave to the citizenry, but public assembly was quite impossible along this major artery, so she ignored the impulse and set about the task of repairing her lipstick.
The rain had diminished to a drizzle by the time the motorcade descended from the highway into a region of low-lying warehouses and scruffy cafés. At the first intersection, the limousine slowed dramatically and Philip signaled her with a nod of his head.
“Over there, darling. Your first well-wishers.”
She turned her head slightly and waved at several dozen people assembled on the street corner. They waved back vigorously, holding aloft a black leather banner on which the words GOD SAVE THE QUEEN had been imprinted in silver rivets. It was not until she heard them cheer that she realized they were all men.
Philip smirked sleepily.
“What?” she asked.
“Poofs,” he said.
“Where?”
“There, darling. With the banner.”
She glanced back at them and saw that they were standing outside a building called the Arena. “Don’t be silly,” she replied. “They’re sportsmen of some sort.”
Mrs. Halcyon’s Scoop
TO COMMEMORATE THE COMING OF ELIZABETH II, THE Marina Safeway had run specials all week on English muffins, Imperial margarine and Royal Crown Cola. The Flag Store on Polk Street had reported a rush on Union Jacks, while no less than three bars in the Castro had set about the task of organizing “Betty Windsor” look-alike contests.
All this and more had been painstakingly documented by Mary Ann Singleton—and a thousand reporters like her—in the grueling days that preceded the royal visit. Mary Ann’s own quest for queenly minutiae had led her from tearooms on Maiden Lane to Irish bars in North Beach to storefront bakeries in the Avenues where rosy-cheeked Chicanas made steak-and-kidney pies for “Olde English” restaurants.
It was little wonder that Her Majesty’s actual arrival had come as both a profound relief and a disappointing anticlimax. Tormented by the incessant rain, Mary Ann and her cameraman had waited for almost an hour outside the St. Francis, only to discover (after the fact) that the royal limousine had ducked discreetly into the hotel’s underground parking garage.
Mary Ann salvaged the story as best she could, telecasting a live report from the entrance to the ga
rage, then dragged herself home to 28 Barbary Lane, where she kicked off her shoes, lit a joint and phoned her husband at work.
They made a date to see Gandhi later that night.
She was warming up a leftover pot roast when the phone rang.
“ ’Lo,” she muttered, through a mouthful of cold roast.
“Mary Ann?” It was the crisp, patrician voice of DeDe Halcyon Day.
“Hi,” said Mary Ann. “Don’t mind me. I’m eating myself into oblivion.”
DeDe laughed. “I saw your newscast on Bay Window.”
“Great,” said Mary Ann ruefully. “Pretty insightful, huh? I figure it’s all over but the Emmy.”
“Now, now. You did just fine.”
“Right.”
“And we all loved your hat. It was much prettier than the mayor’s. Even Mother said so.”
Mary Ann made a face for no one’s benefit but her own. That goddamn hat was the first hat she had worn in years, and she had bought it specifically for the royal visit. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said blandly. “I thought it might have been a bit much for a parking garage.”
“Look,” said DeDe, “why aren’t you down here? I thought for sure you would be.”
“Down where? Hillsborough?”
DeDe uttered an exasperated little sigh. “Trader Vic’s, of course.”
Most rich people are annoying, Mary Ann decided, not because they are different but because they pretend not to notice the difference. “DeDe,” she said as calmly as possible, “Trader Vic’s is not exactly a hangout of mine.”
“Well, O.K., but … don’t you want to see her?”
“See who?”
“The Queen, you ninny.”
“The Queen is al Trader c’s?” This was making no sense whatsoever.
“Wait a minute,” said DeDe. “You didn’t know?”
“DeDe, for God’s sake! Is she there?”
“Not yet. But she’s on her way. I thought for certain the station would’ve told you….”
“Are you sure?”
“Somebody’s sure. The streets are crawling with cops, and the Captain’s Cabin looks like opening night at the opera. Look, Vita Keating told Mother, and Vita heard it from Denise Hale, so it must be the truth,”
Mary Ann’s disbelief lingered like an anesthetic. “I didn’t think the Queen ever went to restaurants.”
“She doesn’t,” DeDe laughed. “Vita says this is her first time in seventeen years!”
“God,” said Mary Ann.
“Anyway,” DeDe added, “we’ve got a ringside seat. I’m here with Mother and D’or and the kids, and we’d love for you to join us. You and Brian, that is.”
“He’s at work,” replied Mary Ann, “but I’d love to come.”
“Good.”
“Are there other reporters, DeDe? Do you see any television people?”
“Nope. If you haul ass, she’s all yours.”
Mary Ann let out a whoop. “You’re an angel, DeDe! I’ll be there as soon as I can grab a cab!”
Seconds after hanging up, she phoned the station and alerted the news director. He was understandably skeptical, but assured her that a crew would be dispatched immediately. Then she called a cab, fixed her face, strapped her shoes back on, and scrawled a hasty note to Brian.
She was striding through the leafy canyon of Barbary Lane when she realized what she had forgotten. “Shit,” she muttered, hesitating only slightly before running back home to get her hat.
As she climbed from the cab at the entrance to Cosmo Place, she marveled anew at the enduring mystique of Trader Vic’s. When all was said and done, this oh-so-fashionable Polynesian restaurant was really only a Quonset hut squatting in an alleyway on the edge of the Tenderloin. People who wouldn’t be caught dead amidst the Bali Hai camp of the Tonga Room on Nob Hill would murder their grandmothers for the privilege of basking in the same decor at Trader Vic’s.
The maître d’ seemed particularly formidable tonight, but she placated him with the magic words—“Mrs. Halcyon is expecting me”—and made her way to the banquettes near the bar, the holy of holies they called the Captain’s Cabin. DeDe caught her eye with a sly Elizabethan wave.
Striding to the table, Mary Ann slipped into the chair they had saved for her. “I hope you went ahead and ordered,” she said.
“Just drinks,” answered DeDe. “Is this a zoo or what?”
Mary Ann looked around at the neighboring tables. “Uh … who exactly is here?”
“Everybody,” shrugged DeDe. “Isn’t that right, Mother?”
Mrs. Halcyon detected the irreverence in her daughter’s voice and chose to ignore it. “I’m delighted you could join us, Mary Ann. You know D’orothea, of course … and the children. Edgar, don’t pick your nose, dear. Cangie has told you that a thousand times.”
The six-year-old’s lip plumped petulantly. His delicate Eurasian features, like those of his twin sister, seemed entirely appropriate in a room full of quasi Orientalia. “Why can’t we go to Chuck E. Cheese?” he asked.
“Because,” his grandmother explained sweetly, “the Queen isn’t eating at Chuck E. Cheese.”
D’orothea rolled her eyes ever so slightly. “It was her first choice, actually, but they wouldn’t take a reservation for a party of sixty.”
Mary Ann let out a giggle, then squelched it when she saw the look on Mrs. Halcyon’s face. “I would think,” said the matriarch, casting oblique daggers at her daughter’s lover, “that a little decorum might be in order for all of us.”
D’orothea’s eyes ducked penitently, but contempt flickered at the corner of her mouth. She realigned a fork, waiting for the moment to pass.
“So,” said Mary Ann, a little too brightly, “what time does she get here?”
“Any minute,” DeDe replied. “They’re putting her in the Trafalgar Room. That’s upstairs and it’s got its own entrance, so I guess they’ll sneak her in the back way and …”
“I have to piss.” Little Anna was tugging at DeDe’s arm.
“Anna, didn’t I tell you to take care of that before we left home?”
“And,” added Mrs. Halcyon, with a look of genuine horror, “little girls don’t use such words.” Anna looked puzzled. “What words?”
“Piss,” said her brother.
“Edgar!” The matriarch gaped at her grandson, then spun around to demand reparation from her daughter. “For heaven’s sake, DeDe … tell them. This isn’t my job.”
“Oh, Mother, this is hardly …”
“Tell them.”
“The French say piss,” D’orothea put in. “What about pissoir?”
“D’or.” DeDe discredited her lover’s contribution with a glacial glance before turning to her children. “Look, guys … I thought we settled on pee.”
“Oh, my God,” groaned the matriarch.
Mary Ann and D’orothea exchanged clandestine grins.
“Mother, if you don’t mind …”
“What happened to tinkle, DeDe? I taught you to say tinkle.”
“She still does,” said D’or.
Another glare from DeDe. Mary Ann looked down at the tablecloth, suddenly afraid that D’or would try to enlist her as a confederate.
“Come along,” said Mrs. Halcyon, rising. “Gangie will take you to the little girls’ room.”
“Me too,” piped Edgar.
“All right … you too.” She took their tiny hands in her chubby, bejeweled ones and toddled off into the rattan-lined darkness.
D’orothea let out a histrionic groan.
“Don’t start,” said DeDe.
“She’s getting worse. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she is actually getting worse.” She turned and addressed her next remarks to Mary Ann, shaking a rigid forefinger in the direction of the restrooms. “That woman lives with her dyke daughter and her dyke daughter-in-law and her two half-Chinese grandchildren by the goddamn delivery boy at Jiffy’s …”
“D’or …”
>
“… and she still acts like this is the goddamn nineteenth century and she’s … goddamn Queen Victoria. Grab that waiter, Mary Ann. I want another Mai Tai.”
Mary Ann flailed for the waiter, but he wheeled out of sight into the kitchen. When she confronted the couple again, they were looking directly into each other’s eyes, as if she weren’t there at all.
“Am I right?” asked D’orothea.
DeDe hesitated. “Partially, maybe.”
“Partially, hell. The woman is regressing.”
“All right … O.K., but it’s just her way of coping.”
“Oh. Right. Is that how you explain her behavior out there in the street?”
“What behavior?”
“Oh, please. The woman is obsessed with meeting the Queen.”
“Stop calling her ‘the woman.’ And she isn’t obsessed; she’s just … interested.”
“Sure. Uh-huh. Interested enough to hurdle that barricade.”
DeDe rolled her eyes. “She didn’t hurdle any barricade.” D’orothea snorted. “It wasn’t for lack of trying. I thought she was going to deck that secret service man!”
The air had cleared somewhat by the time Mrs. Halcyon returned with the children. Mary Ann submitted to polite chitchat for a minute or two, then pushed her chair back and smiled apologetically at the matriarch. “This has been a real treat, but I think I’d better wait out front for the crew. They’ll never get past the maître d’ and I’m not sure if …”
“Oh, do stay, dear. Just for one drink.”
DeDe gave Mary Ann a significant look. “I think Mother wants to tell you about the time she met the Queen.”
“Oh,” said Mary Ann, turning to the matriarch. “You’ve met her before?” Her fingers fussed nervously with the back of her hat. Being polite to her elders had been her downfall more times than she cared to count.
“She’s perfectly charming,” gushed Mrs. Halcyon. “We had a nice long chat in the garden at Buckingham Palace. I felt as if we were old friends.”
“When was this?” asked Mary Ann.
“Back in the sixties,” said DeDe. “Daddy used to handle the BOAC account.”
“Ah.” Mary Ann rose, still gazing solicitously at Mrs. Halcyon. “I guess you’ll be seeing her later, then. At the state dinner or something.”