Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

years. Raising children, tolerating husbands, joining the right clubs, supporting the correct charities.” She leaned forward and looked Frannie straight in the eye. “We have paid our dues, Frannie, and we will not piddle away the rest of our days as long-suffering Mary Worths!”
    Frannie was mesmerized. Helena Parrish had begun to assume the aura of a guru.
    “There are alternatives, of course. Pinus is not the only solution. It’s simply the only fulfulling one. And if we have the money for it, why on earth should we squander it on face-lifts and body tucks and youth injections?
    “Fortunately,” continued Helena, “people like us can afford to indulge in this sort of … luxury. And what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with demanding our piece of the pleasure pie?”
    She handed Frannie a brochure. It was printed in brown ink on heavy cream stock with hand-torn edges. There were, of course, no pictures.
PINUS
For gentlewomen who are 60. And Ready.
Nestled snugly in the rolling hills of Sonoma, Pinus is unquestionably the most remarkable resort of its kind in the world. Resort, perhaps, is an ill-chosen word, for Pinus is a Way of Life. Pinus is a Flight of Fancy, a mature woman’s idyll, a Dream of Wild Abandon. Once you have experienced Pinus, nothing is quite the same again.
    “I’ll leave it with you,” Helena said quietly. “I’m sure you’d like to mull over it alone.”
    “Yes. Thank you.”
    “As you may know, Frannie, admission depends ultimately on our board of directors. In your case, however, I’m sure there won’t be any …” She finished the sentence with a little wave of her hand. Frannie’s social acceptability had never been at issue.
    “The decision is yours to make, Frannie. If you feel you’re ready, please give me a call at Pinus. The number’s on the brochure.”
    “Thank you. Uh … Helena, when would I … how soon?”
    “On your birthday, if you like.” The visitor smiled cordially. “We even provide a very interesting cake.”
    “What fun.”
    “Yes,” said Helena. “It’s about time, isn’t it?”

Mona Times Two
    I N A HOUSE WITH TEN BEDROOMS, MONA HAD NEVER EXPECTED to encounter the biggest shocker in the kitchen. But there she stood—immobilized by fear— reading her own name in the flyleaf of a cookbook.
    Her own name! Why? Why?
    She dropped the book and lunged at the others, already certain of what she would find. Mona Ramsey … Mona Ramsey … Mona Ramsey! All of them the same, all of them inscribed in the halting, primitive hand of a child—or perhaps a semi-literate adult.
    A flashback. That was it. This was the LSD flashback they had warned her about. She sank into a chair, moaning softly, waiting with patient resignation for large purple caterpillars to crawl up out of the sink drains.
    Minutes passed. No caterpillars. Only the distant, pervasive whine of the desert wind and the insistent drip of the faucet. Out in the parlor, a trucker was laughing raucously with Marni, who kept saying, “Gross me out! Gross me out!” in her tinny Modesto accent.
    Rising on wobbly legs. Mona went to the sink and doused herself with water. Then she blotted her face with a JFK– Bobby Kennedy–Martin Luther King dish towel and lurched through the back door into the blackness.
    She counted the doors from the end of the building until she found the one that was hers.
    The light was still on.
    Bobbi looked up with a smile. “No milk, huh?”
    “No.”
    “I think there’re some Dr. Peppers in the bar, if you … Judy, what’s the matter?”
    “I don’t know.” Mona sank to the edge of the bed and stared glassily at the Autograph Hound the room’s former occupant had left on the vanity.
    “Bobbi … what’s my name?”
    “Huh?”
    “What’s my name?”
    “Are you …?”
    “Please, answer.”
    “It’s Judy.”
    “Judy what?”
    “I don’t know. You never told me.”
    “If I … if I had another name, and you knew about it, would you tell me so? Or would you tease me about it, Bobbi? Do you think Charlene would …?” She couldn’t finish. It was all so paranoid. If Charlene wanted to torment her about her real name, why the hell would she write it in a goddamn cookbook?
    Bobbi smiled forgivingly. “Lots of us have fake names, Judy. Marni’s real name is Esther. I don’t give a hoot if your name isn’t—”
    “How long have you worked here, Bobbi?”
    “Off and on?”
    Was there any other way to work at a whorehouse?