Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

Beauchamp! I don’t want to … talk to Oona.”
    It was too late. The Rileys were next to them now, radiating marital bliss. DeDe forced a smile. Her gown felt like a sausage casing.
    “So where’s the diva?” Splinter asked cheerfully. “That’s the right word, isn’t it?”
    Oona smiled and squeezed her husband’s arm. “He’s such an oaf! How did you manage to marry an intellectual, DeDe?”
    The message came through loud and clear. An impotent intellectual.
    Splinter had told Oona about the phone call. DeDe was sure of it.
    Beauchamp broke the silence. “Well, this intellectual needs to kill a few brain cells. Join me at the bar, Splinter?”
    The men walked off together.
    Oona remained, smiling at DeDe, but only around the mouth.
    “I’m sorry, DeDe.”
    “About what?.”
    “Your ordeal.”
    “What ordeal?”
    “Oh … I see. I’m sorry. I guess we should talk opera or something.”
    “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
    “Forget it. You must think me terribly insensitive.”
    “Oona, will you please …”
    “The grocery boy, darling. The Chinese grocery boy.”
    Silence.
    “Shugie told me about The Forum, and we all feel for you dreadfully. It must have been awful.” Oona smiled diabolically. “It was awful, wasn’t it?”
    “I have to go, Oona.”
    “I won’t say a thing, darling. We Sacred Heart girls have to stick together, don’t we?”
    “Besides,” she added, tucking DeDe’s bra strap back under her dress, “a girl has to make do somehow .”

Frannie Freaks
    F RANNIE HAD BEGUN WOBBLING SLIGHTLY, “EDGAR, what am I gonna do ?”
    “I’d say it was in the lap of the gods.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous! We can’t just stand here and let things … go to hell.”
    “They look like they’re having a good time.”
    “Of course they’re having a good time! They’re crucifying me, Edgar. Look at Viola! She hasn’t stopped giggling with Carson all evening!”
    “Frannie … look … if you need entertainment or something, I could call the accordionist who plays at the club. It’s late notice, but maybe he’d …”
    Frannie groaned. “You don’t just swap an accordionist for the greatest soprano in the world, Edgar!”
    “I didn’t know she was going to sing.”
    “She doesn’t have to sing, Edgar! God! Do you do that on purpose?”
    “What?”
    “Act like such a philistine.”
    “I am a philistine.”
    “You are not a …”
    “My father ran a department store, Frannie.”
    “He bought a box at the opera!”
    “He ran a department store.”
    Beauchamp chatted with Peter Cipriani on a quiet corner of the terrace.
    “So what’s your theory on La Grande Nora?”
    Peter shrugged. “Who cares? I didn’t come for that. My new passion is Troyanos.”
    “Your pupils are dilated.”
    “They’d better be. Psilocybin.”
    “Jesus.”
    “I’m dating Shugie Sussman, for Christ’s sake.”
    “Is that your excuse for an altered consciousness?”
    “Got a better one?”
    “I pass.”
    “I hope the little darling can drive. I had two drinks at The Mill before I picked her up.”
    “I’m so bored,” said Margaret van Wyck Montoya-Corona.
    DeDe fish-eyed her. “Mother will be so glad to hear that.”
    “Oh, no, DeDe … not here … I mean, in general. Jorge’s been in Madrid for three weeks. It’s no fun being married to a contraceptive czar, lemme tell you.”
    “I can imagine.”
    “It’s the company I miss mostly.”
    “Get a dog, then.”
    Muffy smirked. “I’ve thought about getting a Samoan.”
    “You mean a Samoyed.”
    “No. I mean a Samoan. Penny and Trinka have both got Samoans. Matching Samoans. They’re mechanics in the Mission … and, my dear, they are big .”
    DeDe grimaced. “I don’t like fat men.”
    “Not fat.” She held her hands up. “Big.”
    “Oh. I see.”
    “Well, it’s a helluva lot better than sending away for one of those plastic doohickies.”
    Edgar pulled his daughter aside. “I need your help,” he whispered.
    “What?”
    “Your mother’s locked herself in the john.”
    “Again?”
    “Would you mind, DeDe. She’s upset over … that singer.”
    Upstairs, DeDe bellowed at her mother through the bathroom door. “Mother!”
    Silence.
    “Mother, goddammit! You are not Zelda Fitzgerald. This act gets real old.”
    “Go away.”
    “If you’re freaked over Nora Cunningham … I talked to Carson Callas. He says she does this all the time.”
    “It doesn’t