Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

gave you.’”
    “Smart lady,” said Mrs. Madrigal.
    Michael nodded enthusiastically. “I was invited to an orgy this week.”
    The landlady set her teacup down.
    “It was for uncut guys only.”
    She blinked at him twice.
    “It’s O.K.,” said Michael. “It was a benefit.”
    “Oh, really?”
    “For the chorus.”
    “Ah.” Mrs. Madrigal’s deadpan was ruthless. “A foreskin festival. Do they check you at the door or what?”
    Michael laughed. “I know. It’s pretty silly. Still … I’m glad that attitudes have changed. There’s no reason in the world to be snipping at your genitalia.”
    The landlady looked down at her teacup, suppressing a smile until Michael added hastily: “Unless, of course, you’re prepared to go all the way.”
    Mrs. Madrigal looked up again and winked.
    “More coffee, dear?”

Daddy’s Gone
    A VIGOROUS FUR-TRADING MONOPOLY IN THE LAST century had given Sitka a distinctively Russian cast: a Russian blockhouse, Russian grave markers everywhere, Cossack dancers performing for tourists, even a pretty Russian Orthodox cathedral in the center of town.
    Prue adored every inch of it.
    “Isn’t it incredible, Luke? To think that this is America!”
    Luke, however, was occupied with the orphans. He was kneeling next to them on the street, adjusting the miniature fur-trimmed parkas he had bought for them half-an-hour earlier. With the hoods up, the children looked like little Eskimos, almost too adorable to be true.
    “Isn’t it a little warm for that?” asked Prue. “The weather’s practically like San Francisco.”
    He looked up distractedly. “Be with you in a second.”
    He hadn’t even heard her. Ordinarily, she might have been annoyed, or faintly jealous. Prue resented people—like Frannie Halcyon and her friend Claire, for instance—who demanded so much attention from Luke that they diminished her share of his love.
    But the children were different. Seeing them with Luke, Prue remembered what it was that had captivated her about the scruffy, ill-dressed phantom who had cared for her wolfhound in Golden Gate Park. Luke related to children the way he related to animals—as a peer who respected their feelings.
    The little girl knew that already. “Mr. Starr,” she chirped, tugging on his arm. “Take us on a flying boat, please. Take us on a flying boat.”
    Prue smiled. “You told them about our float plane trip.”
    Luke didn’t look up. “They pick up on things fast.”
    “They speak English so well,” Prue observed. “For Vietnamese, I mean.”
    Luke zipped up the little boy’s parka. “They’re refugees. They may have been raised by Americans … I don’t know.” There was a slightly caustic edge to his voice, implying that Prue should mind her own business. Suddenly, she felt as if she had walked in on a private conversation.
    The little boy took up the cry. “Flying boat! Yeah! Take us on a flying boat!”
    Luke confronted him sternly. “Edgar … not now!”
    A tiny lower lip pushed out. “You promised.”
    “His name is Edgar?” asked Prue.
    Luke ignored her.
    “Edgar was Frannie’s husband’s name. Do you think she named him?”
    “Prue, would you shut up, please! I’m having enough trouble with these children!” The vehemence of the attack stunned her momentarily, until she realized that the children were genuinely upset. They were sniffling softly, not in a bratty way, but as if a trust had been violated.
    “Luke,” she said warily, “if you promised them a float plane trip, I wouldn’t mind doing it again. Really.”
    Luke stood up. He was rigid with anger. The big vein in his neck had begun to throb. “I didn’t promise them anything,” he muttered. “C’mon, we haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
    Prue assumed a placatory tone of voice. “A little food would do us all some good.” She smiled down at the orphans. “I’ll bet they have yummy ice cream in Alaska. Shall we go see?”
    They peered up at her wet-eyed—sad, round faces encircled in fur—then reached out for her hands.
    Luke walked ahead of them, sulking.
His mood had improved considerably by the time they reached the restaurant, a knotty-pine-and-Formica greasy spoon near the cathedral.
    “The meatloaf isn’t bad,” he said. “How’s your salad?” A feeble attempt at apologizing, but an effort nonetheless.
    She decided to smile at him. “Awful. It serves me right for ordering a salad in Alaska.” She turned to the children. “Those hot dogs