Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

minimal. “I’m fine, dear. Really. I just want to say a little prayer for Miss DeDe.”
    Emma didn’t budge. “You sure?”
    “Yes, dear. Now leave me alone for a while, will you?”
    Emma looked around the room, as if searching for evidence to refute the matriarch’s statement. (The Quaaludes were hidden under Frannie’s pillow.) Then the maid sighed, shook her head, and trudged out of the room.
    As Frannie reached for the pills, the phone rang.
    She thought for a moment. If she didn’t answer it, Emma would take the call and return to the bedroom with the message. So she reached for the phone, hoping to eliminate this final obstacle to her departure.
    “Hello.” Her voice sounded sluggish to her. She felt as if she were speaking in a dream.
    “Who is this, please?” asked the voice on the other end.
    “This is … who is this?”
    “Mother? Oh God, Mother!”
    “Wha …?”
    “It’s DeDe, Mother! Thank God I got …”
    “DeDe?” It was a dream … or a hallucination … or a wicked prank perpetrated by one of those sick minds that … but that voice, that voice. “DeDe, baby … is it you?”
    She heard loud sobs on the other end. “Oh Mother, I’m sorry! Please forgive me! I’m safe! The children are safe! We’re O.K., understand? We’re coming home just as soon as we can!”
    Now Frannie had begun to wail, so loudly in fact that Emma rushed into the room.
    “Miss Frannie, what on earth …?”
    “It’s Miss DeDe, Emma! Our baby’s coming home. Precious baby’s coming home! DeDe … DeDe, are you there?”
    “I’m here, Mother.”
    “Thank God! But where, darling?”
    “Uh … Arkansas.”
    “Arkansas? What on earth are you doing there?”
    “They’re holding me here. At Fort Chaffee. Can you mail me a credit card or something?”
    “Who’s holding you? Not … oh God, not those Jonestown people?”
    “No, Mother. The government. The American government. I’m at the settlement camp for gay Cuban refugees.”
    “What?”
    “It’s a long story, Mother.”
    “Well, tell them to let you out, for heaven’s sake! Tell them who you are! Tell them there’s been a mistake, DeDe!”
    A long pause, and then:
    “You don’t understand, Mother. I am a gay Cuban refugee.”

The Breastworks
    M ICHAEL HAD SEEN IT A DOZEN TIMES, BUT THE sign on the pathway to Lands End never failed to give him a delicious shudder: CAUTION—CLIFF AND SURF AREA EXTREMELY DANGEROUS— People have been swept from the rocks and drowned.
    “I love that thing,” he told Mary Ann and Brian as the trio passed the signpost. “It’s so … Daphne DuMaurier. ‘People have been swept from the rocks and drowned.’ It’s almost lyrical. Where else but here could you find a government sign painter with poetry in his soul?”
    Mary Ann studied the sign for a moment, then continued the trek down the railroad tie stairs. “I don’t know why,” she said, “but I agree with you.”
    “So do I,” added Brian, “and I’m not as loaded as you guys.”
    “It’s because we’re all Jeanettes,” explained Michael. “Jeanettes always notice that sort of thing.”
    Mary Ann shot him a wary glance. “I’m afraid to ask.”
    Michael grinned. “Just a new theory of mine. I’ve come to the conclusion that there are really only two types of people in San Francisco, regardless of race, creed, color or … what’s the other one?”
    “Sexual orientation,” said Brian.
    “Thank you,” said Michael.
    Mary Ann rolled her eyes. “So what are they?”
    “Jeanettes,” answered Michael, “and Tonys. Jeanettes are people who think that the city’s theme song is ‘San Francisco’ as sung by Jeanette MacDonald. Tonys think it’s Tony Bennett singing ‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco.’ Everyone falls into one camp or another … in a manner of speaking.”
    Brian’s brow wrinkled in thought. “That makes sense, but it’s always subject to change. Mary Ann used to be a Tony, for instance. Some people don’t know …”
    “I was never a Tony.” Mary Ann was quietly indignant.
    “Sure you were,” said Brian breezily. “I remember. You had a Pet Rock, for God’s sake.”
    “Brian, that was Connie Bradshaw and you know it.”
    “Well, it’s the same thing. You lived with her. The Pet Rock was on your premises.”
    Mary Ann sought Michael’s support. “He’s the one who picked her up in a laundromat, and I get the lecture on taste.” She turned back to Brian. “If I remember correctly, you