Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

“The Barretts of Wimpole Street is on tonight. I thought you might enjoy watching it.”
    A low growl from the newscaster.
    “I know it isn’t easy,” continued Mrs. Madrigal, “but it won’t be long now. We’re all terribly sorry that it had to come to this, but …”
    In a single lightning-swift movement, Bambi sprang to her feet and lunged at her captor, knocking the landlady backwards until she was pinned against the board where the house keys were hung. Mrs. Madrigal screamed in agony as the nails in the key board pressed into her back.
    Crumpling to her knees, she looked up to see the newscaster’s triumphant sneer as Bambi kicked her once … twice … three times in the stomach. On the third kick, Mrs. Madrigal seized Bambi’s ankle and twisted it sharply, eliciting a scream of Samurai intensity. Bambi toppled to the concrete floor, then raised herself to her hands and knees and began crawling for the door.
    Wheezing in pain, Mrs. Madrigal reached for a loop of garden hose and hoisted herself to a near-standing position. Something warm and wet—presumably blood—was trickling down her spine, pasting her kimono to her back. Her fingers found the handle of a shovel, which she wielded like a mace, bringing it down squarely on Bambi’s backside.
    For a moment, and only a moment, the newscaster was splayed against the floor like a swastika. Then she lurched to her feet and made her way through the doorway and up the steps.
    Mrs. Madrigal staggered after her, still brandishing the shovel. When Bambi reached the top of the stairs, the landlady swung wildly, clipping her adversary in the back of her knees. Bambi fell forward ingloriously, then slid back down the steps until her ankles were once more within the landlady’s grasp.
    Mrs. Madrigal dragged the newscaster back into the basement, wrapped her ankles hastily with a length of electrical cord, and hurried out the door, locking it behind her.
    Gasping for breath, she leaned against the door for almost a minute. Inside, Bambi was screaming bloody murder. Upstairs, someone was ringing the door buzzer.
    She made her way slowly up the stairs, hoping to God that the visitor hadn’t heard the ruckus.
    When she saw the man at the door, she wanted to weep in his arms.
    It was Jon Fielding.

House Call
    T HE DOCTOR KNELT NEXT TO HIS PATIENT, WHO WAS lying face down on the red velvet sofa in her parlor. “O.K. now … bite the bullet, Mrs. M. This’ll sting a little.”
    Her body tensed as he daubed gently at the puncture in her back. “Good girl,” he said. “It’s not nearly as bad as it looked. How did you do this, anyway?”
    “It was silly,” replied Mrs. Madrigal. “I slipped and fell against a nail.”
    “Where?”
    “Uh … in the basement. Does it need stitches?”
    “Not really. A Band-Aid will fix you up just fine. Got any?”
    “In the bathroom cabinet,” said the landlady. “Why don’t I just …?”
    “Sit tight. You’re indisposed.”
    He was back moments later, smoothing the bandage into place. “There,” he said, rising to his feet. “I think you’ll pull through just fine.”
    Mrs. Madrigal adjusted the bloodied kimono as she shifted to a sitting position and retied the silken cord around her waist. “Well,” she said, smiling lovingly at Jon, “what did we ever do without a doctor in the house?”
    Jon shrugged. “I was kind of hoping you’d tell me.”
    Mrs. Madrigal studied him for a moment, reassessing the Arrow Collar blond who had lived with Michael for almost three years. He seemed thinner now, a little haggard even, but his classically Nordic face was more beautiful than ever. “How old are you now?” she asked.
    He replied with a smile. “Thirty-three.”
    “It suits you,” she said.
    “Thanks. You look pretty good yourself. Aside from the wound, that is.”
    She bowed graciously. “It’s good to see you, Jon. It really is. Michael’s upstairs, if you want to see him.” She patted her hair to regain some sense of order. “I’m sure you didn’t plan this detour.”
    “Actually,” said Jon, “I did. It was your buzzer I rang, remember?”
    “Then, I’m honored.”
    “I was hoping you could tell me the lay of the land.”
    “Oh … I see.” She fussed with a wisp of hair over her ear.
    “I haven’t talked to Michael for a long time, and I’m not sure if …” He stopped talking and jerked his head sharply, like an animal picking up a scent. “What was that?” he asked.
    “What