Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

rabbit, for Burke smiled suddenly and patted the bed next to him. She came to him and sat down, peering at him balefully. “Am I a pain in the ass?” she asked.
    He kissed the tip of her nose. “So you think that Burke Andrew, boy reporter, stumbled onto some sinister goings-on at Grace Cathedral?”
    She smiled sheepishly. “It’s only today’s theory.”
    “An Episcopal cult, huh?”
    She goosed him. “Don’t rub it in.”
    “Actually,” he smiled. “I kinda like it.”
    Scurrying back to her own apartment, Mary Ann encountered Mrs. Madrigal, who was vacuuming the hallway. The landlady’s hair was up in curlers.
    “Trying out a new do?” asked Mary Ann.
    “We’ll see. I may end up looking like Medusa. Where are you off to in such a hurry.”
    “Burke’s taking me to church.”
    “How very sweet,” said Mrs. Madrigal earnestly.
    “I’m expecting lightning bolts. This is the first time I’ve been to church since I came to San Francisco ten months ago.”
    The landlady smiled. “Well, say one for me.”
    “You don’t need it.”
    “I do tonight .”
    “Why?”
    Mrs. Madrigal leaned forward furtively. “Tonight, my dear child, I have a heavy date with my ex-wife.”

Questions and Answers
    H ELLO, BETTY.”
    Mrs. Madrigal spoke the words with a warmth and self-assurance that astounded Mona. Furthermore, the landlady had never looked more beautiful. Smooth, glowing skin. Shining eyes. A pale green kimono that fluttered about her like butterfly wings.
    And tonight she wasn’t wearing her usual cloche. Her hair fell about her face in soft, romantic ringlets. Betty was visibly stunned.
    “Hello. I hope this isn’t … How are you?”
    Mrs. Madrigal smiled like a benign Hindu goddess. “Call me Andy, if you like. I know Anna must be a little hard to get out.”
    “No, that’s perfectly … This is a darling neighborhood. I see why Mona’s so mad for it.”
    Mrs. Madrigal took her guest’s coat. “I understand you’re just a few blocks away.”
    “Yes. Well, that’s a high-rise. This is just … precious. Those steps up from the street are straight out of … I don’t know where.” She stepped into the living room, nervously appraising everything in sight. Except, of course, the person who had once been her husband.
    Mrs. Madrigal brought sherry from the kitchen. “There’s not one for you, Mona, dear. I think your mother and I should have a little talk.”
    Mona rose like a shot. “O.K. Fine. I’ll take a walk or something.”
    “We won’t be long,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “Why don’t you go to the Tivoli. Perhaps we can join you later.”
    “Fine,” said Mona lamely, heading out the door.
    Mrs. Madrigal sat sipping her sherry in silence, her eyes glued on Betty Ramsey’s rapidly wilting smile. “My goodness,” she said at last, “you’ve certainly held up well. Your figure’s as good as it was thirty years ago.”
    Betty tugged at her skirt, assuring that her knees were covered. “Yoga helps,” she said flatly.
    “Mmm. And a few snips here and there.”
    Betty stiffened. “I don’t see what that—”
    “I’m not being bitchy, Betty.” She laughed heartily. “I’m the last person to denigrate the value of surgery!” Her merriment vanished as rapidly as it had come. “So what can I do for you?”
    The realtor looked down at her glass. “I have a right to see my daughter,” she said quietly, measuring her words, as if on the verge of exploding. “I have a right to know what you’re doing with her.”
    A faint smile rippled across the landlady’s face. “It’s monstrously perverse. I’m giving her a home. And love.”
    “And I didn’t. Is that what you’re saying?”
    “This is silly, Betty. Mona’s over thirty.”
    A large vein began to pulse in Betty’s sinewy neck. “I know what you’re doing. You’re deliberately poisoning her against me. You’re using her to satisfy some sick maternal urge that will make you feel like a real woman! God! That’s so bloody twisted I can’t even—”
    “I’m sorry you resent me so much. It may help you to know that I think there’s some justification for the way you feel.”
    “Some justification! Listen to me, Andy! I want more than a bloody glass of sherry and a few weak-kneed apologies. I want some answers, goddammit!”
    Mrs. Madrigal set down her glass and folded her hands in her lap.
    “Fine,” she said quietly. “I’ll do my best.”
    Her composure rattled Betty. “For one thing, I