Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

could think of.
    It was also far enough away from the Halloween madness of Polk Street that roller-skating nuns were not likely to invade the family circle again.
    The nuns, he explained as cavalierly as possible, were “some crazy friends of Mona’s.” And, yes, they were men.
    “Fruits?”
    “Herb!” Michael’s mother dropped her fork and glared at her husband.
    “Well, what the hell do you want me to call them?”
    “That’s not a very nice word, Herb.”
    “Why not? I’m a citrus grower, Alice. We raise fruits!” He laughed raucously.
    “You just shouldn’t talk that way about people who can’t help themselves.”
    “Can’t help themselves! Who the hell can’t help skatin’ down the middle of the street dressed up like a goddamn nun?”
    “Herb … don’t raise your voice. There might be Catholics in the room.”
    Michael looked up from his plate, speaking as offhandedly as possible. “It’s kinda like Mardi Gras, Papa. There’s lots of crazy stuff going on. A lot of people do it.”
    “A lot of fruits.”
    “Not just … them, Papa. Everybody.”
    His father snorted and reattacked his steak. “I don’t notice you out there making a goddamn fool of yourself.”
    “He’s with us, Herb. Maybe he’d like to be out there … going to a party or something. It sounds like a lot of fun to me.”
    “Well, you two go right ahead. I’ll just sit here and finish my steak with the normal people.”
    A waiter refilling Herbert Tolliver’s water glass caught the remark and rolled his eyes in pained forbearance.
    Then he winked at Michael.
    Back at 28 Barbary Lane, Alice Tolliver recapped the social history of Orlando for the past six months.
    A new shopping mall had been built. The Henleys’ daughter, Iris, was addicted to pot and living with a professor in Atlanta. A colored family had bought the McKinneys’ split-level down the road. Aunt Miriam was doing fine, despite her overlong recovery from a female operation, and everybody in central Florida agreed that Earl Butz would never have been fired if he had made that remark about an Irishman.
    They weren’t expecting an early frost.
    Herbert Tolliver sat quietly through the telling of this saga, embellishing only occasionally with a chuckle or a nod of his head. He was mellower now, softened by the wine at dinner, and he beamed at his son in open affection.
    “Is … everything goin’ O.K. for you, Mike?”
    “Pretty good, Papa.”
    “Don’t you worry about your ladyfriend, you hear?”
    “I won’t, Papa.”
    “Your mama and I are gonna miss you at Christmas.”
    “Now, Herb, he’s grown up now, and he’s got friends of his …”
    “I know that, goddammit! I just said we’d miss him, didn’t
    I?”
    His wife nodded. “We will, Mikey.”
    “I’ll miss y’all too. It’s just so expensive to fly back there for …”
    “I know, Mikey. Don’t you worry about that.”
    “Mike … if we can help out a little bit until you can find
    a job …”
    “Thanks, Papa. I think I can manage. I’ve picked up a little on odd jobs.”
    “Well, you let us know, O.K.?”
    “O.K., Papa.”
    “We’re mighty proud of you, son.”
    Michael shrugged. “Not much to be proud of, is there?”
    “Don’t be a damn fool! You’re as good as the best of ‘em! Some things take a little time, son. You’ll work it out before you know it. Hell, I kind of envy you, son. You’re young and you’re single and you’re livin’ in a beautiful town full of beautiful women. You got no sweat at all, son!”
    “I guess you’re right.”
    “Course I’m right. Smooth sailin’ all the way.” He chuckled and grazed his son’s cheek with a playful fist. “Long as you can keep those fruits away.”
    Michael made a manly grin. “I’m not their type, anyway.”
    “Attaboy!” said Herbert Tolliver, tousling the hair of his pride and joy.

DeDe’s Growing Dilemma
    W HEN DEDE CALLED BEAUCHAMP AT WORK, HE was briefing Halcyon’s hottest new model on the Adorable Christmas campaign.
    “Look, I’m right in the middle of …”
    “Sorry, darling. I just … I was afraid you’d forget about Pinkie and Herbert’s opening tonight.”
    “Shit.”
    “You forgot.”
    “What time do we have to be there?”
    “I can meet you after work. We just need to make an appearance.”
    “Six o’clock?”
    “Fine … I love you, Beauchamp.”
    “Me too. Six o’clock, then?”
    “Yeah. Be good.”
    “Always.”
    He hung up and winked at D’orothea.