Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

barely looking at his friends. “They think it’s Guillain-Barré.”
    This time Burke stepped in. “Jon … a translation?”
    “Sorry. Remember those people who were paralyzed by the swine flu shots?”
    Burke shook his head.
    “I do,” said Mary Ann.
    “Well, that was the Guillain-Barré syndrome. I mean, the syndrome caused the paralysis.”
    Mary Ann frowned. “But … I don’t think Michael ever had a swine flu shot.”
    “That’s just one cause. They don’t know what causes it, really.”
    “But … what does it do?”
    “It’s an ascending paralysis. It starts in the feet and legs usually, and it … well, it climbs.” He looked down at his hands, tapping his fingertips gently against each other. “Lots of times it goes away completely.”
    “Jon, he’s not …?”
    “The only real danger is to the respiratory system. If the paralysis becomes advanced enough to impede breathing, they have to perform a tracheotomy in order to …” He brought his hands up to his face and pressed his fingertips against his eyes. For a moment, Mary Ann thought he might cry, but his face retained the same masklike expression. “That poor little fucker,” he said softly.
    Mary Ann resisted the urge to touch him, to stroke him. He looked like a man about to explode. “Jon, he won’t …? Did the doctors …?”
    “Fucking doctors!”
    “What … did they tell you?”
    “Nothing! Not a goddamn thing!” The rage in his voice made Mary Ann flinch, so he reached out and squeezed her shoulder apologetically. “I think he could die, Mary Ann. We’ve gotta get ready for that.”

Inside Pinus
    T HE LONG DRIVE UP TO PINUS CAME TO AN ABRUPT END at an imposing steel security gate. Helena Parrish stopped the Mercedes and spoke into an intercom. “A cheeseburger, an order of fries and a chocolate shake—and step on it.”
    Laughter. A young man’s laughter. “Mrs. Parrish … you’re back!”
    “Six whole hours. You miss me, Bluegrass?”
    “The Pope Catholic?”
    “You’re sweet. Open up, Blue. We’ve got the new girl with us.”
    “You bet!”
    The gate swung open. Helena smiled at Frannie as she maneuvered the car along yet another tree-lined road. “You’re gonna like Bluegrass,” she winked. “Under normal circumstances, he’s assigned to me, but … well, I like you, Frannie. I’d like you to have him.”
    “Helena! I couldn’t!”
    “No … please. I’d like you to. Really.”
    “You’re a dear.”
    “Pish.”
    “Goodness, I feel just … I feel so marvelous.”
    The hostess smiled. “We’re inside now. You can jane, if you like.”
    “What?”
    “Scream. We call it janing here—as in ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane.’ It’s sort of a Tarzan yell for women—like primal screaming, but a lot more fun. Go ahead, give it a whirl.”
    Frannie felt inhibited. “Oh, Helena!”
    “Go on! You’re at Pinus now.”
    “Now? In the car?”
    “Now and any other time you please, darling.”
    Frannie grinned sheepishly, then stuck her head out the window and made a noise that sounded like: “Eeeeeiiiiii!”
    “Nice,” said Helena unexcitedly, “but you’re not janing, darling.”
    “Well, how do you …?”
    “Like this.”
    The hostess extended her swanlike neck and opened her mouth to the fullest. “Aaaahhhhaaaahhhheeeeaaaahhhh!”
    Somewhere in the depths of the pine forest an identical sound reverberated.
    “An echo!” exclaimed Frannie.
    “No,” smiled Helena. “Sybil Manigault. She’s into nature.”
    The hostess parked the car next to the reception building, a rambling, chalet-style structure with leaded glass windows. Lady Banksia roses trailed along the dark wooden eaves.
    Frannie clucked her tongue admiringly. “Lovely … absolutely lovely.”
    “The cottages are of the same design. They’re all Julia Morgan—perhaps her greatest triumph.”
    “Incredible! Edgar was intrigued by Julia Morgan’s architecture, but I never heard a word about this.”
    “Naturally. There was a clause in Morgan’s contract with Pinus that forbade publicity. Originally, the founders had hired Bernard Maybeck as architect, but he backed out when he discovered … well, you know.”
    Helena led Frannie into the spacious lodge, allowing the newcomer to soak up the atmosphere in silence: the parchment-shaded lamps, the dusty-rose velvet upholstery, the copper pots brimming with wild-flowers.
    “I feel funny without luggage,” said Frannie.
    “Why? Everything you need is here. Two days