Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

players.
    Beauchamp, she realized, was probably home at the penthouse, and that was only four blocks up the hill. While she dreaded the prospect of a confrontation with her husband, she also drew a kind of perverse pleasure from the knowledge that she was stalking the old neighborhood on her own.
    What puzzled her now was why her mother hadn’t protested this unorthodox trek into town. She had barely looked up from the suitcase she was packing for the trip to Napa. She had seemed curiously distracted.
    But by what?
    “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in one of the booths?”
    DeDe looked up from her sweetbreads at the kind brown eyes that had posed the question. The woman was very pretty, with dark curly hair and cheekbones that Veruschka would have killed for.
    “Thanks. I like watching the show,” she replied, motioning to the chefs behind the counter.
    “Oh, God, isn’t it marvelous? I think it’s the best therapy there is, watching them fling that zucchini in the air. You expect all hell to break loose, but it never does.”
    “Unlike life.”
    The woman laughed. “Unlike life.”
    A waiter set a huge plate of pasta in front of the woman. “Well,” she sighed, with a grin, “oink, oink, oink.”
    “You look fine,” said DeDe “I’m the one who ought to be watching it.”
    “Well, you’re eating for two, honey!”
    “Three.”
    The woman whistled. “You get dessert, then.”
    They both laughed. The woman was quite fair-skinned, DeDe observed, but there was something almost negroid about the warmth and earthiness of her mannerisms. DeDe liked her immediately.
    Setting her fork down, the woman smiled at her. “You’re not married, are you?”
    Silence.
    “Oh, God,” said the woman. “If you’re a tourist, forgive me. We’re a little too liberated for our own good in this town.”
    “No … I mean, yes, I’m married, but I’m separated … I mean, we’re separated. I live here, though. I’m a native.”
    “Mmm. Me too. If you count Oakland, that is.”
    “I have lots of friends in Piedmont.”
    “That’s not what I meant.” She appeared to understand the East Bay caste system all too well.
    “Why did you think I wasn’t married?”
    The woman turned and scrutinized DeDe’s face, as if to reconfirm something. “I don’t know. You just look … independent.”
    “I do?”
    The woman smiled. “No. But I thought you’d like to hear it.”
    DeDe looked down at her food, fascinated by this stranger’s insight, and a little afraid of it. “Do you think it’s too late for me to … do something about it?”
    An elfin grin spread over the woman’s face. “What would you like to do—I mean, right this very minute—if you could do anything you wanted and … you didn’t have friends in Piedmont who might not approve of it?”
    DeDe smiled uneasily. “Oh … you mean, in the neighborhood?”
    “If you like.”
    “I’d like to see that topless dancer across the street who turns into a gorilla.”
    “Why?”
    “Just to see how they do it. With mirrors, I guess.”
    The woman shook her head soberly. “It’s actually a gorilla in a girl mask with a flesh-colored body stocking.”
    “You mean they …?” When the light dawned, DeDe laughed. “You see how gullible I am?”
    “There’s only one way to find out for sure.”
    “You’re joking!”
    “There’s nothing I’d rather do than take a pregnant friend to a topless lady gorilla act.”
    DeDe thought for a moment, then extended her hand. “It’s a deal. I’m DeDe Day … or DeDe Halcyon. Take your pick.”
    A flicker of recognition seemed to pass over the woman’s face. “Have we met before?” asked DeDe.
    “I … read the social columns.”
    “Oh, God!”
    “It’s O.K. I like you anyway. I’m D’orothea.”
    “That’s a pretty name,” said DeDe.

Mama’s Boy
    W HEN SHE OPENED THE DOOR, MRS. MADRIGAL was wearing a red satin cloche with her plum-colored kimono. Her makeup was better than Mona had ever seen it.
    The landlady smiled at her daughter. “Do I get a hug or don’t I?”
    Mona flushed. “Oh, yes … oh, yes, you do!” She stepped gracelessly into the apartment, dropped her Persian saddlebag on the floor and threw herself into Mrs. Madrigal’s arms. The landlady patted Mona’s head for a moment, then gently removed herself.
    “Isn’t there someone you’d like me to meet, dear?”
    “Oh … God, I’m sorry.” She turned and confronted Mother Mucca, still standing in the