Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

Home and Hearth
    T HERE WERE OUTLANDERS, OF COURSE, WHO CONTINUED to insist that San Francisco was a city without seasons, but Mrs. Madrigal paid no heed to them. Why, the signs of spring were everywhere! Those Chinese schoolboys, for instance, sporting brand new green-and-yellow baseball caps as they careened down Russian Hill on their skateboards.
    And what about old Mr. Citarelli? Only a seasoned San Franciscan could know that this was exactly the time of year he dragged his armchair into his garage and opened the door to the sunshine. Mr. Citarelli was infinitely more reliable than any groundhog.
    Here on Barbary Lane, the vernal equinox was heralded by an ancient scarlet azalea that blazed like a bonfire next to the garbage cans. “My goodness,” said Mrs. Madrigal, stopping to adjust her grocery bag. “It’s you again, is it?” It had also bloomed in August and December, but nature was always forgiven for offering too much of a good thing.
    When Mrs. Madrigal reached the lych gate at Number 28, she paused under its peaked roof to survey her domain—the mossy brick plain of the courtyard, the illegal lushness of her “herb garden,” the ivy-and-brown-shingle face of her beloved old house. It was a sight that never failed to thrill her.
    Dropping the groceries in the kitchen—three new cheeses from Molinari’s, light bulbs, focaccia bread, Tender Vittles for Boris—she hurried into the parlor to build a fire. And why not? In San Francisco, a fire felt good at any time of year.
    The firewood had been a Christmas gift from her tenants—a whole cord of it—and Mrs. Madrigal handled it as if she were arranging ingots at Fort Knox. She had suffered too long under the indignity of those dreadful pressed sawdust things they sold at the Searchlight Market. Now, thanks to her children, she had a fire that would crackle.
    They weren’t really her children, of course, but she treated them as such. And they appeared to accept her as a parent of sorts. Her own daughter, Mona, had lived with her for a while in the late seventies, but had moved to Seattle the previous year. Her reason had been characteristically cryptic: “Because … well, because it’s The Eighties, that’s why.”
    Poor Mona. Like a lot of her contemporaries, she had capitalized The Eighties, deified the new decade in the hope that it would somehow bring her salvation, deliver her from her own bleak vision of existence. The Eighties, for Mona, would be the same in Seattle as in San Francisco … or Sheboygan, for that matter. But no one could tell her that. Mona had never recovered from The Sixties.
    The landlady’s ersatz children—Mary Ann, Michael and Brian—had somehow kept their innocence, she realized.
    And she loved them dearly for that.
Minutes later, Michael showed up at her door with his rent check in one hand and Boris in the other.
    “I found him on the ledge,” he said, “looking faintly suicidal.”
    The landlady scowled at the tabby. “More like homicidal. He’s been after the birds again. Set him down, will you, dear? I can’t bear it if he has bluejay on his breath.”
    Michael relinquished the cat and presented the check to Mrs. Madrigal. “I’m sorry it’s so late. Again.”
    She waved it away with her hand, hastily tucking the check into a half-read volume of Eudora Welty stories. She found it excruciating to discuss money with her children. “Well,” she said, “what shall we do about Mary Ann’s birthday?”
    “God,” winced Michael. “Is it that time already?”
    Mrs. Madrigal smiled. “Next Tuesday, by my calculations.”
    “She’ll be thirty, won’t she?” Michael’s eyes danced diabolically.
    “I don’t think that should be our emphasis, dear.”
    “Well, don’t expect any mercy from me,” said Michael. “She put me through hell last year on my thirtieth. Besides, she’s the last one in the house to cross The Great Divide. It’s only proper that we mark the event.”
    Mrs. Madrigal shot him her Naughty Boy look and sank into the armchair by the hearth. Sensing another chance to be picturesque, Boris dove into her lap and blinked languidly at the fire. “Can I interest you in a joint?” asked the landlady.
    Michael shook his head, smiling. “Thanks. I’m late for work, as it is.”
    She returned his smile. “Give my love to Ned, then. Your new haircut looks stunning, by the way.”
    “Thanks,” beamed Michael, reddening slightly.
    “I like seeing your ears, actually. It makes