Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

DeDe had adored this man.
He sat in a chair near the bed, while she stretched out. After days at sea with the twins, it was nice to have someone fussing over her.
    They shared a long moment of silence, and then he said: “I’m sorry about DeDe and the children, Mrs. Halcyon. I didn’t hear about it until … somewhat after the fact.”
    She thought her heart would break. She longed to share her good news with this gentle, compassionate man. Instead, she replied: “Thank you, Dr. Fielding. DeDe was terribly fond of you.”
    After another pause, he said: “I was working in Santa Fe when I read about it.”
    “Oh, yes?” She jumped at the chance to talk about something else.
    “I had a gynecological practice there for a while, before I went back to general practice and landed this job. My life got a little … confusing … and this was as close as I could get to joining the merchant marines.”
    “You must’ve seen the world by now,” said Frannie. “I envy you that.”
    “It’s … not bad,” replied the doctor. There was something bittersweet in his tone that puzzled Frannie.
    “Alaska’s extraordinary,” she offered. “There’s so much of it … and those fjords! They’re like something out of Wagner … so grand, so heartbreaking. I’m just sorry …” She cut herself off.
    “Sorry about what?”
    Frannie smiled dimly, staring at the overhead. “I forgot you never knew him.”
    “Who?”
    “My husband, Edgar. I miss having him with me. When you’re a widow, doctor, the main thing that hurts is that you’ve lost your playmate. You’ve lost someone who can look at a mountain with you and know what you’re thinking … someone to share the silences with. It takes a long time to build that … and it’s hard to give it up.”
    “I know,” he replied.
    “You aren’t married, are you?”
    “No.”
    “Have you ever had anybody who …?”
    “Once,” he answered. “Once I had that.”
    “Then you know.”
    “Yes.”
    Frannie hesitated, suddenly wary of becoming too personal. Then she asked: “How did you … lose her?”
    Silence.
    “I’m sorry,” said the matriarch. “I didn’t mean to …”
    “It’s O.K.,” said the doctor. “I know exactly what you mean about those mountains. They don’t look the same anymore.”

The Hoedown
    A FIVE-FOOT MIRROR BOOT, COMPLETE WITH SPURS, spun slowly over the dance floor at the Nevada State Fairgrounds, casting its glittery benediction on the assembled multitudes. The event was called “Stand By Your Man” and most of the dancers were doing just that.
    Michael looked up at the shimmering icon and sighed. “Isn’t that inspired?” he asked Bill.
    The cop regarded the boot for a split second, then frowned. “Goddamnit!”
    “What’s the matter?” asked Michael.
    “I forgot to get poppers.”
    Michael smiled. “This is country music, remember? Not disco.”
    “No,” said Bill. “I mean … for later.”
    “Oh.”
    “Maybe they sell them at The Chute.”
    “It doesn’t really …”
    “Somebody there will know how to get them.”
    “I don’t need them,” said Michael. “If you’d like some, then …”
    “I don’t need them,” barked Bill. “I’d like some, that’s all.”
    Michael didn’t want an argument. “Fine,” he said evenly. “What shall we do?”
    “I’ll drive into town,” answered Bill, sounding less hostile now. “You can hold down the fort here. I shouldn’t be long, O.K.?”
    Michael nodded, soothed by his friend’s inadvertent rusticism. Drive into town. Hold down the fort. They might have been hitching up the buckboard for a trip into Dodge City. “O.K.,” he smiled. “I’ll be here.”
    Bill nuzzled him for a moment, whispering “Hot man” in his ear, then disappeared into the crowd.
It was an escape of sorts, Michael realized. Bill detested this music. He had managed to endure the rodeo with the aid of his Walkman and an Air Supply cassette. He was clearly not prepared to commit himself to an entire evening of country songs by Ed Bruce and Stella Parton and Sharon McNight.
    Michael was relieved. He felt fragile and sentimental tonight—achingly romantic—and he knew that those sensations could not long coexist with Bill’s horrifying literalness. It wasn’t poppers per se that had put Michael off—he got off on them himself—it was the soul-deadening way they sometimes reduced sex to a track event, requiring timing, agility and far too much advance planning.
    How many