Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

krauts, huh?”
    “You bet,” said Michael.
    “They have blueberry pancakes today, Mouse.”
    Melba sighed. “Isn’t Liza Minnelli just darling! ”
    “O.K.,” said Michael, as soon as they had left the dining room. “Gimme the dirt.”
    Mary Ann sulked.
    “C’mon. Did he ravish you on the poop deck?”
    Silence.
    “Brutalize you in the bilge? Suck your toes? Buy you a cup of coffee?”
    “Mouse, you ruined breakfast for me!”
    “You could have asked Burke to join you.”
    “Right. And play footsy with him while you’re telling Arnold and Melba snappy stories about the little woman?”
    “Hey, look: the young marrieds routine was your idea, remember?”
    “Lower your voice.”
    “Lower your own goddamn voice! What the hell do you think I am, anyway? Rent-a-Hubby?”
    Mary Ann glared at him for a split second, groaned in exasperation, and strode past him down the passageway. Michael cooled off on the Promenade Deck, walking laps under the lifeboats until his thoughts were clear. Fifteen minutes later he returned to the stateroom.
    Mary Ann was seated at the desk, writing postcards. She didn’t turn around.
    “Guess what?” said Michael.
    “What?” She had drained her voice of expression.
    “I’m jealous.”
    “Mouse, don’t—”
    “I am. I’m one jealous little queen. I’m jealous of Burke because he’s taken away my playmate, and I’m jealous of you because you’ve found a lover.”
    Mary Ann turned around with tears in her eyes.
    “You’ll find somebody, Mouse. I know you will. Maybe even in Acapulco.”
    “Maybe this time, huh?”
    She smiled and hugged him, holding him tight. “I love you for that, Michael Mouse.”
    “What?”
    “Turning everything into song lyrics.”
    “Yeah,” said Michael. “Isn’t Liza Minnelli just darling?”
    Later, it was her turn to apologize. “I’ve been crabby too, Mouse. I mean … well, I’m a little edgy, I guess.”
    “About what?”
    She hesitated, then said: “Burke.”
    “He wasn’t …?”
    “He’s perfect, Mouse. He’s sensitive, strong, considerate. We’re—you know—sexually whatever. He’s protective, yet he treats me like an equal. He doesn’t crack his knuckles. He’s perfect.”
    “But not perfect?”
    “He’s afraid of roses, Mouse.”
    “Uh … pardon me?”
    “This dwarf at Las Hadas tried to give us a rose and Burke took one look at it, turned white and threw up in the bushes.”
    “Maybe he’s from Pasadena.”
    “It worries me, Mouse. That’s not normal, is it?”
    “You’re asking me?”
    “I tried to talk to him about it, and he changed the subject. I don’t think he has the slightest idea why he reacted that way.”

The Mysteries of Pinus
    E VERYTHING ABOUT HELENA PARRISH WAS SMART BUT safe. She wore a navy blue fedora, a navy blue Mollie Parnis suit, and navy blue, medium-height, T-strap calf shoes from Magnin’s. She looked, to Frannie, like the kind of woman who would never miss a Wednesday night travelogue at the Century Club.
    “More tea?” asked Frannie, wondering where her guest had her hair streaked so beautifully.
    “No, thanks,” smiled Helena Parrish, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin.
    “Bourbon balls?”
    “No. They’re lovely, though. May I call you Frannie, by the way?”
    “Of course.”
    “How much do you know about Pinus, Frannie?”
    The hostess flushed, startled by this abrupt approach to the subject. “Oh … well, most of it’s just hearsay, I suppose.” Discretion seemed wise at this point. Helena could do the talking.
    The visitor nodded solemnly. “Word-of-mouth, we find, is our best safeguard.” She smiled thinly. “Discrimination seems to be a nasty word these days, doesn’t it?”
    “Isn’t it dreadful?”
    “We prefer to think of it as quality control. And of course, the less publicity we receive, the more we’re able to … cater to the needs of our members”
    “I understand.”
    “Aside from the social criteria, the only other requirement for membership is the attainment of one’s sixtieth birthday.” She spoke the last two words in a stage whisper, as if to apologize for an embarrassing, if necessary, invasion of privacy.
    Frannie’s smile was sheepish. “Your timing is close to perfect.”
    “I know,” said Helena.
    “Vita?”
    Helena nodded and continued. “Our philosophy is that women of our mature station in life are entitled to carve out any lifestyle we can afford. We have, after all, played by the rules for forty