Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

the—”
    “Did you talk to him? Did you ask him about me? Did he recognize you?”
    She was surprised at the urgency in his voice. “I didn’t ask him, Burke. I was afraid to.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I think he did recognize me. He acted like he didn’t, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew who I was.”
    “What if he did? Look, Mary Ann, I don’t mind approaching him, if you’re squeamish about it. Anything is better than this constant speculation and anxiety. This man could be the key to it all.”
    “I know that, Burke. I’m sure of it. I just don’t think we should risk the …” She reached across the table and took his hand. “Something horrible may have been the cause of your amnesia, Burke. This man may have been a part of it.”
    “You’ve seen too many movies. Maybe I worked for him or something.”
    She shook her head. “I asked Jon to check the hospital records for me. You were never on the payroll at St. Sebastian’s, and you were never a patient there. There’s no evidence that you ever set foot in the place before this month.”
    He smiled at her affectionately. “You have been the little sleuth, haven’t you?”
    “I want to help,” she said quietly.
    “Good,” He reached in the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket and produced an index card which he placed in front of her. “Tell me what that means, then.”
    She picked up the card. On it Burke had written a verse of four lines:
High upon the Sacred Rock
The Rose Incarnate shines,
Upon the Mountain of the Flood
At the Meeting of the Lines.
    “What is it?” she asked.
    “I dreamed it. Pretty nifty, huh?” His tone was much too flip, a defense mechanism that Mary Ann had learned to recognize. He was more frightened now than ever.
    “Did you hear it in your dream, Burke?”
    “Yep. Up on that damned walkway thing with the railing. The rest of the dream is the same. It’s dark and the transplant man is there and there are people just beyond me in the darkness and the transplant man says, ‘Go ahead … it’s organic.’ ”
    “So how did you hear it? The poem.”
    “They were chanting it. Over and over again.”
    “How many people?”
    “I don’t know. They were whispering, sort of … as if someone nearby could hear.”
    Mary Ann looked down at the index card, then fingered the little key around her neck. Did any of this fit together? Was she exorcising Burke’s demons or simply helping to create new ones?
    “You dreamed this last night?”
    He nodded. “So what now, my love?”
    “I’m … not sure.”
    “I think we should talk to the man with the transplant.”
    “No. Please. Not yet. Let’s give it a little longer, Burke.”
    He agreed to that begrudgingly. Mary Ann was about to restate her argument, when a familiar figure moved into her line of vision.
    “Burke, we’ve gotta go.”
    “I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”
    “Please, Burke, leave some money!”
    He complied, looking peeved. He pushed his chair back noisily and stood up.
    Mary Ann took his arm and propelled him down Grant Avenue, only seconds before Millie the Flower Lady descended upon her regular customers with a basketful of roses.

Penance
    O N THE DAY AFTER HIS DINNER DATE WITH MONA , Brian sailed smoothly through his shift at Perry’s. He felt comfortable about Mona now, confident he had stumbled onto something more real, more fulfilling—and infinitely more sensual—than he had ever known before.
    He also felt guilty as hell about Lady Eleven.
    How could he have forgotten her so easily? He had seen her—yes, that was the only word for it—for almost a month now. Every night for a month. She had blessed their relationship with predictability, if nothing else. Surely that counted for something?
    He had planned, of course, on phasing her out eventually. The fantasy aspects of their liaison had all but vanished, and he had recently found it impossible to achieve orgasm with her without thinking of someone else. Still, he had treated her shabbily; he had broken their unwritten pact on the strength of a little Maui Zowie and a simpatico bird in the hand.
    So that night at midnight he sat penitently in his chair by the window and watched the eleventh floor of the Superman Building.
    Her window, however, remained dark.
    She’s punishing me, he thought. She’s making me suffer for my transgressions. Or perhaps—just perhaps—she’s in torment herself, torturing herself needlessly over her failure to