Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

her voice. “A friend called me.”
    “It’s awful. The media is eating it up. I’m dreading Van Amburg and his Happy Talk news tonight.”
    “Should I come in, Mildred?” The real question, of course, was whether Beauchamp had told Mildred—or anyone else in power—that he had fired Mary Ann.
    “No,” replied Mildred. “We’ve shut down, actually. I’m just handling the calls … and the press. Oh, one thing?”
    “Uh huh?”
    “I talked to DeDe Day this morning. She’s holding up just fine, all things considered. It must be terrible for her, with the babies due any day now, and—worst of all—her mother missing.”
    “Mrs. Halcyon is missing?”
    “Well, not exactly missing. They just haven’t been able to locate her. She told DeDe she was going up to their house in Napa, but so far she hasn’t turned up there. I suspect—this is just my theory, mind you—you know, she’s a deeply religious woman, and she may just be touring the missions like Angelina Alioto.”
    “Does the press know she’s—”
    “Heavens, no! DeDe told me in strictest confidence! She’s making a few discreet inquiries with her mother’s friends. I think she expects her to turn up any minute now. Keep it under your hat, will you, Mary Ann?”
    “Of course. Mildred … have there been any arrangements made about the funeral?”
    “Oh …” Mildred’s voice faltered. “That’s the sad part, I’m afraid. Beauchamp had a provision in his will for cremation. But considering the … nature of the accident, the family felt that cremation might be in bad taste.”
    “I see.”
    “I think there’ll be a memorial service of some kind. DeDe talked to Beauchamp’s parents in Boston this morning.”
    “Thanks, Mildred. I won’t keep you.”
    “I know you must be wondering about your job at this point … so don’t you worry about that, dear. I’m sure there’ll be a place for you when the dust settles. In the meantime, why don’t you take a little time off?”
    “Thank you, Mildred.”
    “Not at all, Mary Ann. I’m sure that’s the way Beauchamp would have wanted it.”
    If Mary Ann had so much as a moment’s speculation about what to do with her leisure time, the question was settled in the middle of breakfast.
    “I dreamed about our friend last night,” said Burke.
    Mary Ann set down her mug of Orange Cappuccino. “Michael?”
    “No. The man with the transplant … at the flower market.”
    “Ick.”
    “You’re right. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
    “No. You should talk about it, Burke.”
    “It was only a dream.”
    “It could have been a memory, Burke. Tell me about it.”
    He looked at her skeptically. “I don’t want to be … your favorite hobby, Mary Ann.”
    “Is that what you think?”
    He hesitated. “No. Not really.”
    “Then tell me.”
    “Well, there was a walkway in it, the kind that I’ve told you about. There was a metal railing on it, and I think I was walking on concrete—only it was really high up.”
    “From what?”
    “I don’t know. People, maybe—but I couldn’t see anybody down below. There were people with me on the walkway—people I knew.”
    “Who?”
    “I don’t know. I just know that I knew them.”
    “Great.”
    “Then the man with the transplant came up—I mean, walked up beside me—and suddenly there was this rose, this horrible rose.”
    “Why was it horrible?”
    “I … don’t know.”
    “Did he give you the rose? The man with the transplant.”
    “No, not exactly. It was just there. And then he leaned over and said, ‘Go ahead, Burke, it’s organic’ … and then I started to run.”
    “And?”
    “That’s it. I woke up.”
    Mary Ann took a sip from her mug. “Well, I suppose we shouldn’t make too much of the guy with the transplant. I mean, we’ve both been talking about him, and you could’ve, like, superimposed him on your existing memories.”
    “Mmm. Except for one thing.”
    “What?”
    “He didn’t have a transplant in my dream. He was bald as an egg.”

The Proposal
    M ICHAEL’S NIGHT NURSE WAS A FELLOW FLORIDIAN named Thelma. Sometimes she would sit and talk to him after giving him his eight o’clock injection of pentazocine.
    “Thelma?”
    “What, hon?”
    “Is this my fourth day here?”
    “Uh … your fifth, I think.”
    “If I’m completely paralyzed, how come it hurts? I mean … I can feel it hurt.”
    “Where?”
    “My legs … my thighs … and my arms a little bit. It’s freaky. I