Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

won’t.”
    Betty glared at her in silence.
    “I won’t tell anyone, Betty. Not if you leave. Tomorrow.”
    “I can’t trust you.”
    “Yes, you can. I was a weasel of a man, but I’m one helluva nice woman.”
    “You’re a bastard is what you are!”
    “Please,” smiled Mrs. Madrigal. “Call me a bitch.”

The Man Who Wasn’t There
    A S BURKE AND MARY ANN ENTERED THE CATHEDRAL , their shoes clattered angrily on the stone floor, betraying their presence to the handful of worshipers scattered throughout the great room.
    “I feel like such a tourist,” Mary Ann whispered.
    Burke smiled, squeezing her hand. “It’s all right. No one would ever take you for a Presbyterian.”
    “Shouldn’t we sit down or something?”
    He shrugged. “If you want.”
    They ducked into a pew next to an awesome stone pillar. Above them to the left, the Technicolor grandeur of a stained-glass window was fading into black. Mary Ann sat down and fumbled in her purse for a Dynamint.
    “Want one?” she asked.
    Burke shook his head. “Let’s just sit quiet for a while.”
    Complying, Mary Ann scanned the room, wondering uneasily if she and Burke were registering the same impressions. Two pews in front of them, an old woman was saying her prayers, a pink floral hanky pinned to the back of her gray bun. Across the aisle, a man wearing a T-shirt that said “the pines 75” was crossing himself with great aplomb.
    These people weren’t Catholics, Mary Ann reminded herself. They were Episcopalians, High Church presumably, but ordinary Protestants who had come to this echoing chamber so that wine could turn to blood in their mouths.
    She shuddered and popped another Dynamint. Then she caught Burke’s eye.
    “Anything?” she asked.
    He shook his head.
    “Do you even remember this space?”
    “Not really. It’s a lot like St. John the Divine’s in New York.”
    “It’s so huge,” Mary Ann observed vacantly.
    Burke peered around the pillar. “I guess the choir sits up by the altar. Maybe we should go up there.”
    “Uh … why?”
    He smiled at her. “Are you scared, Mary Ann?”
    “No. I just … Well, we’ll be so … obtrusive, won’t we?”
    He took her hand. “C’mon. Just for a minute. Maybe I’ll recognize the choir loft or something.”
    So they walked down the aisle together. Mary Ann forgot her anxiety for a moment, secretly amused at the symbolism of this action. Was this how a wedding rehearsal felt?
    As they passed the communion rail, he slowed down to read the message inscribed in needlepoint on the kneeling pads: IF ANY MAN EAT OF THIS BREAD HE SHALL LIVE FOREVER. She tugged at Burke’s elbow. “Look,” she whispered. “Transubstantiation.”
    He couldn’t hide his amusement. “You act like you’re visiting an Incan ruin or something.”
    The organist was positioned just beyond the communion rail near the enclosure for the choir. He was the only person in that part of the cathedral. He adjusted his sheet music gravely, without looking up. Then he began to play.
    Mary Ann flinched as the music rolled thunderously through the cathedral. “Burke, maybe they’re starting.”
    “He’s just practicing,” explained Burke. “Let’s go. I don’t need to see the choir loft.”
    “If you’d really like to—”
    He shook his head. “None of this is familiar. I’d know by now if it was.”
    They turned in their tracks and made a dignified exit down the aisle. The old lady in the pink hanky looked up as they passed her pew. Mary Ann smiled at her apologetically, then gazed heavenward at the great rose window. Its brilliance was gone now; it was black as the night outside.
    “Burke?”
    “Mmm?”
    “Let’s do something mindless and cheerful tonight. Like a Burt Reynolds movie, or maybe that country-western sing-along place in the—Oh, God, stop! Don’t look, Burke!” She grabbed his hand and jerked him unceremoniously into a pew, pulling him down to the prayer bench. “Don’t move,” she whispered. “Don’t turn around.”
    “What in the hell are …?”
    She kept her head bowed in pseudo piety. “Shhh! Mr. Tyrone is here.”
    “Who?”
    “The man with the transplant.”
    “Where?”
    “By the door. He was standing by the door, Burke.”
    Burke’s tone accused her of overdramatizing. “If he sings in the choir, Mary Ann, he has every reason in the world to—”
    “Burke, he had something with him.”
    Burke peered over his shoulder.
    “Don’t, he’ll see