Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

“We’re having omelets. And some of those marvelous French sausages from Marcel & Henri.” She smiled faintly. “I … worry about things too much, Beauchamp, and today I … well, I heard those silly parrots in the eucalyptus tree outside the window, and I just thought … well, we’re a lot luckier than most people.”
    He massaged his temples, still trying to wake up. “I hate those fucking parrots.”
    DeDe simply stared at him.
    He turned away and began to fiddle with the Mr. Coffee machine. Her face was positively suffused with that idiotic, imploring look she used to make him feel guilty. He refused to deal with it this early in the morning.
    “Beauchamp?”
    He kept his back to her. “This goddamn thing hasn’t been cleaned in at least—”
    “Beauchamp! Look at me!”
    He turned very slowly, keeping a thin smile plastered on his face. “Yes, my sweet?”
    “Will you at least tell me … you’re happy?”
    “About what?”
    She laid her hands on her swollen belly. “About this, dammit!”
    Silence.
    She stood firm. “Well?”
    “I’m delirious.”
    She moaned melodramatically and turned away from him.
    “DeDe … there are grave responsibilities attached to parenthood.” He kept his voice calm. “I’ve accepted the responsibility of raising one child, but with great reluctance. Forgive me, won’t you, if I’m not exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of—”
    “Oh, shut up!”
    “There you go. Being witty again.”
    “I don’t need your goddamn thesis on parenthood. I need your support. I can’t do this alone, Beauchamp. I just can’t!”
    He smirked and motioned toward her belly. “You sure as hell didn’t do that alone.”
    “No,” she replied instantly, “but I sure as hell didn’t do it with you!”
    They stood there over the Cuisinart, eyes locked and fangs bared. Beauchamp broke the silence with a short sardonic laugh, then slammed the counter with the flat of his hand and sank down into a Marcel Breuer chair.
    “That wasn’t bad, actually. For you.”
    “Beauchamp …”
    “There are better ways to get my attention, but all in all it wasn’t half bad.”
    “It’s true, Beauchamp! You’re not the father!”
    Silence.
    “Dammit, Beauchamp! Can’t you even add? Look …” Her voice began to waiver. She pulled a chair up next to him and sat down. “I wanted to tell you a long time ago. I really did. I even considered—”
    “Who?” he said coldly.
    “I don’t think we should—”
    “Splinter Riley, maybe? Or how about the charming but terminally greasy Jorge Montoya-Corona?”
    “You don’t know him, Beauchamp.”
    “How interesting. Do you?”
    She burst into tears and ran from the kitchen. He knew she would lock herself in the bedroom and sulk until he had left the building. Then she would fill her quivering palm with dozens of multicolored tablets and down them in a single gulp.
    In a time of crisis, she could never resist her M & M’s.
    When Beauchamp arrived at Jackson Square, Mary Ann Singleton handed him his messages.
    “Also, D’orothea Wilson called about five minutes ago.”
    That was all. Not Mr. Day. Not even Beauchamp. He didn’t have a goddamn name since this fluffball had become his secretary.
    Beauchamp grunted. “I don’t suppose she bothered to tell you why she didn’t show for that Adorable shooting at The Icehouse? She’s canceled three shootings this month alone.”
    “She says she doesn’t … look right anymore.”
    “What the hell does that mean?”
    The secretary shrugged. “Maybe she gained weight over the holidays or—”
    “Or maybe she just doesn’t give a good goddamn about Halcyon Communications! Maybe she wants to go to Mexico!” The barb stung his secretary exactly the way he hoped it would.
    Her fingers began mangling a paper clip. “Beauchamp … it was Mr. Halcyon who wanted me to—”
    “I don’t need to hear this again.” He stormed into his office and slammed the door.
    Then he raged in silence against the Halcyon family.

Letter from Mama
    D EAR MIKEY,
    Your Papa and I were so glad to hear about your trip to Mexico with Mary Ann. I know it will be a lot of fun for both of you. Please send us a postcard when you get a chance, and remember not to drink too much tequila. Ha ha.
    Orlando has been real cold this winter, but I expect you heard all about that on Walter Cronkite. The grove down by the Bledsoes’ new split-level was hurt the worst. Some of the oranges were frozen clear