Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

felt that a bona fide television personality should be entitled to a few idiosyncrasies.
    “Well,” said Father Paddy, grinning at the society columnist, “what’s the latest on Nature Boy?”
    Prue chastised him with a little frown. “He’s a very good man, Father.”
    “Did I imply otherwise?”
    “He used to be a man of the cloth, in fact.”
    The cleric’s eyebrow arched. “A Catholic?”
    “No … some sort of Protestant, I think. He was an investment broker before that.”
    “What?”
    “I have no reason to doubt him,” she said defensively. “He doesn’t talk much, but he’s quite literate when he does. He’s amazing, Father. He’s done everything. He even taught English once at a private school in Rio. He’s done it all, and now he’s … doing this.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Living. Being. Existing with God.”
    “Has he hit you up for cash yet?”
    Prue was shocked. “No! As a matter of fact, I offered to help him out and he turned me down.”
    “I see.”
    “He’s been living there for almost a year-and-a-half, he says. The park police know about him, but they let him stay because he respects the environment. He’s marvelous with animals, in fact. He has three little chipmunks that live under the bed.”
    Father Paddy frowned. “This is all very charming, my child. But how does he eat?”
    “I don’t know. He scrounges, I guess.” Prue turned and looked out the window as the Biarritz climbed into Pacific Heights. “Your skepticism distresses me, Father. He’s no different from Saint Francis, really.”
    The priest smiled indulgently. “I’m only concerned for your safety, darling.”
    She took his hand appreciatively. “I know that. But it’s such a marvelous story, isn’t it?”
    “How many times have you been there, anyway?”
    “Uh … I’m not sure.”
    “Give us a guess.”
    She searched in her bag for her lipstick. “Maybe five or six times.”
    Father Paddy’s eyes flickered mischievously. “My, my … such a long story, too.”

That Word
    F OR ALMOST A WEEK NOW, FRANNIE HALCYON HAD BEEN giddy as a schoolgirl. She believed in life again, in children, in sunshine, in motherhood, in miracles. And she longed, more than ever, to share her joy with the world.
    “Viola called today,” she announced at lunch. “It was all I could do to keep from blabbing.”
    DeDe frowned. “Don’t even joke about that, Mother.”
    “I know, I know.”
    “I need time, Mother. Viola would be on the phone to the Chronicle in two seconds flat. Please help me out on this, O.K.?”
    “I got Mary Ann for you, didn’t I?”
    “I know, Mother, and I appreciate …”
    “I just don’t understand why you need a whole month, DeDe. Surely a week or so would …”
    “Mother!”
    “Never mind, then.” Frannie looked down at her spinach salad. “Have you talked to her today?”
    “Who?”
    “Mary Ann.”
    DeDe nodded. “She’s coming by tomorrow.”
    “She’s such a sweet girl,” said Frannie.
    “She wants to tape me,” said DeDe.
    “Oh … I see.” The matriarch contemplated her salad again. “About … your experiences, I suppose?”
    DeDe looked faintly annoyed. “That was our arrangement, Mother.”
    “Of course.”
    “She’s promised not to release anything until the month’s up. I trust her.”
    “So do I. Uh … DeDe?”
    “Yeah?”
    “You won’t be talking about the … business with D’orothea, will you?”
    DeDe’s fork stopped in mid-air. She looked up, smoldering. “Mother, the whole business was with D’orothea. I lived with her for four years, remember?”
    “You know what I mean,” said Frannie.
    “Yes,” DeDe replied flatly. “I know what you mean.” She dug into her salad as if she were trying to kill something in it. “You’ve made your feelings quite clear about that.”
    Frannie hesitated, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “DeDe … I think I’ve been a lot more … accepting than most mothers might have been. I accepted those precious children long ago, didn’t I? I don’t quite … understand your friendship with D’orothea, but I would never presume to pass judgment on you for it. I just don’t think it’s something that warrants public discussion.”
    “Why?” asked DeDe. She didn’t look up.
    “It’s in poor taste, darling.”
    DeDe set her fork down and looked at her mother for a long time before speaking. “So,” she said at last, her lip curling slightly, “I should restrict my