Free Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin Page B

Coward and Gertie Lawrence. Eccentric dowagers and rakish gigolos and steamer trunks stuffed with stowaways …
    Romantic self-delusion, all of it. Like his hope for a lover, really. A futile, if harmless, fantasy that did little more than distract him from the imperturbable, central fact of his life: He was alone in this world. And he would always be alone.
    Some people—the happy ones, probably—could deal with that knowledge the way they dealt with the weather. They skimmed along the surface of life exulting in their self-sufficiency, and because of it, they were never alone. Michael knew about those people, for he had tried to mimic them.
    The ruse, however, rarely worked. The hunger always showed in his eyes.
    Back in the stateroom, he smoked a joint and worked up the nerve to push the steward’s button on the telephone. The steward appeared five minutes later.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Hi, George.”
    “Good evening, Mr. Tolliver. What can I do for you?”
    “Yes. Well, I’d like … I mean, if you don’t mind …” He reached for his wallet. “George, I’d like you to have this.” He handed the steward a ten-dollar bill.
    “Very kind, sir.”
    “George, would you …? I understand it’s possible for you to make arrangements…. Do you think you could bring me some ice cream?”
    “Certainly, sir. What flavor?”
    “I don’t … Chocolate, I guess.”
    The steward smiled, pocketing the bill. “One of those late-night cravings, eh?”
    “Yeah,” said Michael. “The worst.”

Vita Saves the Day
    T HE ARTIFACTS OF DEDE’S MAIDENHOOD STILL HAUNTED her old bedroom at Halcyon Hill. A tattered Beatles poster. A Steiff giraffe from F. A. O. Schwarz. A swizzle stick from the Tonga Room. A jar of dried rose petals from Cotillion days.
    Nothing had been altered, nothing touched, as if the occupant of this artless little pink-and-green room had perished in a plane crash, and a grieving, obsessive survivor had preserved it as a shrine for posterity.
    In a way, of course, she had died.
    In Mother’s eyes, at least.
    “Darling, I’m sorry. None of it makes any sense to me.”
    “It’s between me and Beauchamp, Mother.”
    “I could help, if you’d just let me.”
    “No, you can’t. Nobody can.”
    “I’m your mother, darling. Surely there’s—”
    “Just drop it.”
    “Have you told Binky?”
    DeDe’s anger rose. “What the hell’s that got to do with it?”
    “I just wondered.”
    “You just wondered if any of those leathery old bitches at the Francisca Club are gonna be gossiping about your precious, darling daughter!”
    “DeDe!”
    “You think the separation’s gonna hit Carson Callas’s column tomorrow, and you won’t be able to hold your head up at the Cow Hollow Inn. Well, too bad, Mother! Too goddamn bad!”
    Frannie Halcyon sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed and stared numbly at the wall. “I’ve never heard you talk this way, DeDe.”
    “No. I guess not.”
    “Is it the pregnancy? Sometimes that can—”
    “No.”
    “You ought to be radiant, darling. When I was expecting you, I felt so—”
    “Mother, please don’t start on this again.”
    “But why now, darling? Why would you leave Beauchamp only weeks before—”
    “Look, I can’t help it. I can’t help it if I don’t feel radiant. I can’t help a goddamn thing about Beauchamp. I’m having the babies. I want them. Isn’t that enough, Mother?”
    Frannie’s brow wrinkled. “Why on earth shouldn’t you want them?”
    Silence.
    “DeDe?”
    “I’ve got a headache, Mother.”
    Frannie sighed, kissed her on the cheek and stood up. “I love you, but you don’t seem like my child anymore. I think I know … how Catherine Hearst must feel.”
    The matriarch of Halcyon Hill was mixing a Mai Tai when the phone rang.
    “Mrs. Halcyon?”
    “Yes.”
    “My name is Helena Parrish. I was referred to you by Vita Keating.”
    Frannie braced herself for another well-bred pitch to join the board of another museum.