Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

collar and gazed again at the great cathedral. She slipped her arm through Burke’s.
    “It’s beautiful,” she said reverently. “It’s almost blue in this light.”
    He nodded, pulling her closer.
    “Why do I feel so creepy, Burke?”
    He turned and smiled at her. “Because your heritage is the Little Brown Church in the Dell.” He rose suddenly, taking her with him. “C’mon, you heathen. Let’s go get religion.”
    The irony of the turnabout did not escape her.
    Now she was the one who wanted to back out.

Showdown
    M RS. MADRIGAL SAT DOWN ON THE EDGE OF HER red velvet sofa, momentarily stunned. The horrid part, the part that made her knees weak and her throat dry, was that Betty was clearly enjoying herself.
    “She wouldn’t even be here,” snarled the realtor, “if she didn’t think your blood was flowing in her veins.”
    “That’s not true,” said Mrs. Madrigal ineffectually. “Anybody can tell you that’s not true.”
    Betty’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t we ask Mona? Hmmm?”
    “What point is there in doing that? What would you gain, Betty?”
    Betty’s lip curled. “Not as much as you’d lose, I suppose.”
    “No. You’re wrong. Mona would be the loser, Betty. She needs a family now. She needs to feel kinship. The last thing she needs is to hear about your long-dead little escapade with an oversexed plumber.”
    “He was a contractor. And I find it very odd, Andy, that you don’t think the identity of Mona’s real father might be of some interest to her.”
    “It was of no interest to him. Then or now. It was a one-night stand, for heaven’s sake!”
    “And you have more claim on her, I suppose? You who left her completely fatherless!”
    Mrs. Madrigal’s eyes grew moist. “I’ve tried to make good on that, Betty. Can’t you see?” She gestured feebly around the room, as if 28 Barbary Lane might somehow testify to the purity of her intentions. “Can’t you see what I’ve tried to do for her?”
    “It’s too late for that, Andy. Thirty years is too late.”
    “Do you want me to beg you, is that it?”
    “I’m telling you, Andy. You’re not going to stop me.”
    “She won’t come back to Minneapolis. I can promise you that.”
    “I don’t care.”
    “Then what can you gain, other than hurting Mona? In the long run, it won’t make any difference to her. She’ll love you less, Betty, not more.”
    The realtor’s features were rigid. “We’ll see.”
    “No,” said Mrs. Madrigal firmly. “No, we won’t.”
    “What?” The landlady’s tone had jolted her.
    “You will leave town, Betty. You will leave town tomorrow or I will tell all parties concerned about what you’ve been doing in that building at Leavenworth and Green.”
    Betty sensed the shift in power. It hung in the air like ozone after a thunderstorm. “What,” she said testily, “are you talking about?”
    “I mean,” said Mrs. Madrigal, sipping her sherry, “that you’ve been in town a lot longer than you told Mona.”
    “And what if I have?”
    “More like a month than a few days,” smiled the landlady.
    “Look, Andy. I knew something was wrong. Norman Williams had disappeared, for God’s sake!” She paced the room frantically, casting angry sideways glances at her ex-husband. “I had to do something.”
    “Mmm. So you thought you’d do a little poking around on your own.”
    “What else could I do?”
    “Indeed,” said Mrs. Madrigal calmly. “So how’s the view from the eleventh floor?”
    Silence.
    “I did get the floor right, didn’t I? I believe Mona said it was the eleventh.”
    “Andy, I haven’t the slightest idea what—”
    “There must be a lovely view of this place from the eleventh floor.” Mrs. Madrigal’s eyes locked on her prey. “Particularly at midnight.”
    Betty stopped pacing. Her determinedly pursed mouth went slack. “Did Mona tell you that?”
    The landlady smiled. “I have many more children than Mona.”
    Betty stood there staring. Finally, she said, “Jesus.” It came out like the hiss of a snake.
    “So,” said Mrs. Madrigal cheerily, “I think you will agree with me that there are lots of things that Mona would be better off not knowing. Besides, Betty, she needs that boy, almost as much as he needs her.”
    “She … doesn’t know about … me?”
    Mrs. Madrigal shook her head. “Nor does he. He thinks you’re a veritable Salome, a siren on the rocks!” She winked at the realtor. “I won’t tell him, if you