Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

were laughable next to his.
    DeDe was in the library, curled up on the camel-back sofa with a copy of Rosemary Rogers’ Sweet Savage Love. Her free hand was partially submerged in a cloisonné bowl full of M & M’s. Beauchamp glared at her from the doorway.
    “Behold! The Total Woman!”
    “I’ve had a long day, Beauchamp.”
    He dropped his attaché case and headed for the bar. “I’ll bet you have.”
    “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
    He kept his back to her as he filled a shot glass with J & B. “It must be murder finding a super jumbo bag of M & M’s. You drive all the way to Woolworth’s?”
    “Very funny.”
    “If fat amuses you, go right ahead and yuck.”
    “May I remind you I’m carrying two babies!”
    “I know,” he said, downing his Scotch. “Plain and Peanut.”
    Dinner that evening was cold quiche and salad. They ate in glacial silence, avoiding each other’s eyes, waiting petulantly for the moment they both knew would come.
    “We have to talk,” Beauchamp said finally.
    “About what?”
    “You know goddamn well about what!”
    “Beauchamp … I’m tired of talking about it. I don’t blame you for being upset. I really don’t. But I’m having these babies and I can’t take this … harassment anymore.” She looked him squarely in the eyes. “I’ve thought about this a long time. I’ve decided to move to Mother’s.”
    “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
    “I don’t know whether it’s brilliant or not, but at least I’ll be—”
    “Look, goddammit! You’ve got some explaining to do. You’re not running home to Mommy until I get a few answers.” He fumbled in his pocket for the letter, thrusting it into her hands. “This charming anonymous missive came to me at the office today!”
    DeDe’s hands shook as she removed a sheet of notebook paper from the envelope. The message, printed in yellow with a felt-tip pen, consisted of eight words: WHY DON’T YOU NAME THEM YIN AND YANG?
    “Now,” said Beauchamp ominously, “will you please tell me what the hell that means?”
    DeDe stared at the horrible note for several seconds, stalling for time, commanding herself to stay calm. The cycle, she realized, was complete. From her best friend Binky, to Carson Callas the gossip columnist, to the city at large, the ignominious truth had spread: She was bearing the children of a Telegraph Hill grocery boy!
    She laid the letter on the table, face down. “That’s disgusting,” she said quietly.
    “Answer the question, DeDe.”
    “Beauchamp, please …”
    He was poised like a cobra.
    “Oh, fuck it, Beauchamp! The babies’ father is Chinese!”

The Landlady’s Lesson
    W HEN HE HAD FINISHED HIS SHIFT AT PERRY’S, Brian went straight home to Barbary Lane. Mrs. Madrigal was perched on a stepladder in the hallway, replacing a light bulb. Up there, in her sixty-watt aura, she shone like a B-movie madonna about to descend on an unsuspecting French village.
    “Welcome to Manderley,” she mugged. “I’m Mrs. Danvers. I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.”
    Brian laughed. “Feeling gothic tonight?”
    “My dear! Aren’t you? This place is a veritable tomb, what with Mary Ann and Michael in Mexico and Mona God knows where —and you out there terrorizing half of the female population.”
    “I was working.”
    “Mmm. It is work, isn’t it?”
    He bridled at her teasing, but let it go. She had cast him as the aging Don Juan of her Barbary Lane family, and the label seemed as apt as any at this point. “Well,” he sighed, “I guess I’d better go confront my kitchen sink. It’s beginning to grow penicillin, I think.”
    “Brian?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Would you care to smoke a quick joint with an old lady?” Her huge blue eyes blinked at him unembarrassedly.
    “Sure,” he smiled. “I’ll bring the joint, if you bring the old lady.”
    Her apartment seemed fussier than ever, as if the doilies and tassels had taken to breeding in their unguarded moments. Still flanking the archway to the dining room were the two marble statues that had fascinated Brian on his very first visit to the landlady’s home: a boy with a thorn in his foot and a woman with a water jug.
    Mrs. Madrigal sat on the ancient velvet sofa, curling her feet up under her kimono in a movement that seemed surprisingly girlish. She took a short toke off the joint and handed it to her tenant. “So who is she, dear?”
    “Who?”
    “The creature who’s driving my carefree boy to utter