Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

can see my leg lying still down there, but it feels exactly like somebody’s bending it up toward the ceiling. I almost asked you to push it down for me.”
    She stroked his brow. “It’ll go away, hon.”
    “Last night I woke up and I was positive I was propped between two pews.”
    “Like in a church?”
    “Uh huh. I could feel the edge of—you know—the plank behind my ankles and up behind my neck. God, I could almost see it.”
    “That’s normal, believe it or not. Dr. Beery says there’s almost always some sensory disturbance with Guillain-Barré.”
    “Can’t I be wacko, Thelma? I’d love to be wacko.”
    “Go on!”
    “I would. Just a little bit. A mild schizoid, maybe, with traces of melancholia and occasional drooling.”
    Thelma smiled. “You’re not crazy, hon. You might as well face it. You’re normal.”
    “Not in Florida I ain’t.”
    Thelma reddened. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
    “You know what?” said Michael.
    “What, hon?”
    “You’re cute as pie.”
    She tucked in his sheet with nervous efficiency. “I wasn’t even cute in Florida.”
    “I’ll bet you were, Thel. I’ll bet you made those good ol’ boys horny as hell.”
    “You hush up!”
    “I’ll bet they used to wait outside in their Chevy pickups and bay at the moon like hound dogs and … take you downtown for an RC and a Moon Pie … and I’ll bet you loved every minute of it.”
    “I bet you’re gonna get another shot in about two seconds.”
    “I don’t care if you give me a lobotomy. I know cute when I see it.”
    “Get some sleep.”
    “You won’t leave, will you, Thel?”
    “No, hon. Not until your friend comes.”
    His friend came shortly after nine. Thelma excused herself as soon as she saw Jon in the doorway. “Hi,” said Michael sleepily.
    “Hi. I won’t stay long. You sound tired.”
    “No, please. I need the company.”
    “Good.” Jon pulled up a chair next to the bed. “I had a great idea today.”
    “What?”
    “We’re gonna paint your apartment!”
    “Swell. I’ll be the stepladder.”
    Jon smiled. “Look: I brought you some paint samples from Hoot Judkins.” He held one of the cardboard strips in front of Michael’s eyes. “I kind of like this putty color.”
    “Mmm. Faggot fawn.”
    “Cut it out.”
    “Well, it is the color of the year. Three years ago it was chocolate brown, then forest green. It was handy, anyway. If you woke up in a strange bedroom, at least you knew what year it was…. Look, Dr. Kildare, painting my apartment is definitely above and beyond the—”
    “Bullshit. If I’m gonna live there, that cosmic orange of Mona’s has gotta go!”
    The impact of Jon’s words registered in Michael’s face instantly. “Uh … isn’t this a little premature, Jon?”
    “Haven’t you always wanted to shack up with a doctor?”
    “Jon, I’m so fuckin’ flattered I could—”
    “I’m not flattering you, asshole. I’m asking you to marry me.”
    Silence.
    “So?”
    “Jon, you can’t … haul me to the toilet.”
    “Says who?”
    “This isn’t Magnificent Obsession. It doesn’t work like that. You’re gonna take all the mystery out of our unnatural relationship.”
    “I’ll risk it. What about it?”
    Michael hesitated. “When will … I get out of here?”
    “I … I don’t know. It depends on a lot of things, Michael.”
    “Ahh.”
    “Michael, look …”
    “You know how to cheer a person up, anyway. I’ll give you credit for that, Babycakes.”

Ashes to Ashes
    T HE MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR BEAUCHAMP TALBOT DAY was held on a Tuesday at 11 A.M . in St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church, San Mateo.
    The front pew was occupied by members of the immediate family, including Mr. and Mrs. Richard Hamilton Day of Boston, Massachusetts; Miss Allison Dinsmore Day of New York City; Mrs. Edgar Warfield Halcyon (nee Frances Alicia Ligon) and the widow, Mrs. Beauchamp Talbot Day (nee Deirdre Ligon Halcyon).
    Accompanying the widow and her mother were the family maid, Miss Emma Ravenel; Miss D’orothea Wilson of San Francisco; and a young man of unidentifiable origin who answered to the name of Bluegrass.
    Seated four rows behind the family were Miss Mary Ann Singleton, secretary to the deceased; her escort, Mr. Burke Christopher Andrew; and Dr. Jon Philip Fielding, the widow’s gynecologist.
    Friends of the deceased in attendance included Mr. Archibald Anson Gidde, Mr. Richard Evan Hampton and Mr. Peter Prescott Cipriani.
    The Reverend