Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

Lindsey R. McAllister of Boston conducted the service.
    At the request of the deceased’s family, there were no floral offerings at the ceremony, with the exception of the single red rose that adorned the processional cross.
    Shortly after the commencement of the service, Mr. Burke Christopher Andrew clutched his stomach suddenly, dropped his hymnal, and vomited onto the pew in front of him.
    There was no eulogy.

Voice from the Past
    A FTER THE MEMORIAL SERVICE, JON DROVE MARY Ann and Burke back to 28 Barbary Lane. The couple was unusually quiet, he noticed, presumably because of the mishap involving the rose on the processional cross.
    “I wouldn’t worry about that,” the doctor said at last.
    “I should have brought more Wash’n Dris,” said Mary Ann.
    Jon shook his head. “He was a horse’s ass. I thought it was entirely appropriate.”
    “Who?” asked Burke.
    “Beauchamp. He was a gaper from way back.”
    Mary Ann looked puzzled. “I thought you just knew DeDe.”
    “Yeah. Mostly. But I met him once or twice.”
    There was no point in telling them about his brief affair with Beauchamp. He had never even told Michael, because he had never been proud of that interlude in his life.
    Back at Michael’s apartment, he checked the bedroom for closet space. As soon as Mona’s stuff could be shifted downstairs—she had already expressed her intention of moving in with Mrs. Madrigal—there would be plenty of room for his clothes and furniture. Michael’s possessions were minimal.
    He stood at Michael’s dresser for a moment and examined the items decorating the perimeter of the mirror.
    Polaroids of Mona mugging in the nude at Devil’s Slide. Others of Mary Ann posing demurely in the courtyard. A gold pendant charm shaped like a pair of jockey shorts—obviously Michael’s prize from The Endup’s dance contest. A photo, torn from a magazine, of a shirtless Jan-Michael Vincent.
    There was nothing of Jon, nothing of the two of them. They had not been together long enough. The only evidence of their relationship was a cocktail napkin from the Sans Souci, tucked jauntily at an angle behind Jan-Michael Vincent.
    Suddenly, sinking to the edge of Michael’s bed, Jon began to cry.
    Michael, as usual, had been right. The fuss over the paint chips had been premature. There was no indication—none whatsoever—that Michael’s condition was improving. And that flip little romantic perched on the brink of death could not be bullshitted when it came down to the end.
    Jon rose, rubbing his eyes, just as the phone rang.
    “Hello,” he said, answering the phone in the kitchen.
    “Who is this?” A woman’s voice. Brassy.
    “Jon Fielding. A friend of Michael’s.”
    “Isn’t this Mona Ramsey’s apartment?”
    “Oh … well, sort of. She’s—”
    “Sort of?” Not brassy, actually. Bronze.
    Jon gave up any effort at cordiality. “She’s in the process of moving right now. You can reach her downstairs at her … at the landlady’s apartment.”
    The caller muttered under her breath. “Bloody idiot.”
    “Would you like the number?”
    “Yes. Please.”
    Jon gave it to her.
    The call came while Mrs. Madrigal and Mother Mucca were shopping in North Beach. Mona was alone in the apartment.
    “Yeah?”
    “Mona?”
    “Hello, Betty.”
    “I thought you were dead.”
    “Oh, yeah? Well … surprise!”
    “That’s no bloody way to talk to your mother!”
    “I sent you a postcard from Nevada.”
    “I was worried sick. What were you doing in Nevada?”
    “Just … stuff.” Mona thought it best to change the subject. “How’s the weather in Minneapolis?”
    “The winter was horrid.”
    “Too bad. Hope it didn’t hurt your property values. Hey … how did you get this number?”
    “I called your apartment. A young man there told me.”
    “That must’ve been Jon.”
    “Mona, listen to me … I have to talk to you.”
    “Fine. Go ahead.”
    “No. In person. You’re making a serious mistake, Mona.”
    “About what?”
    “I can’t talk about it over the phone. I’m coming to see you.”
    Silence.
    “Did you hear me, Mona?”
    “It won’t work, Betty. There’s not enough room.”
    “I can stay at a friend’s apartment. I’ve already … worked that out. You can give me two hours of your time, Mona. I’m not asking your permission … I’m coming. You owe me that, at least.”
    “Yeah,” said Mona resignedly. “I guess I do.”

Minor Miracles
    J ON RETURNED TO ST.