Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

…”
    “Sorry. That was low.”
    “I’ll say.” Michael was stinging worse than he might have expected.
    “Is Ned still running the nursery?” asked Jon, obviously attempting a retreat to the impersonal.
    Michael nodded. “He’s been talking about making me a full partner.”
    “Good. That’s good to hear. You should be putting some money away.”
    “I know,” said Michael. “Don’t nag.”
    Jon smiled beseechingly. “Did it sound like that?”
    Michael shook his head, smiling back. “It’s just … you know … a tender spot.”
    “It always was,” said Jon.
    Michael drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “Well … that’s not something you have to worry about anymore, is it?”
    Jon said nothing for a moment, then shook his head slowly in amazement. “It’s still so damned convincing, you know.”
    “What?”
    “You and that brave-waif-in-the-storm routine. Little Michael against the world. You’ve even got Mrs. Madrigal buffaloed. She thinks I’m the one who left you.”
    Michael stiffened. “I never told her that.”
    “You didn’t have to,” said the doctor. “You just ducked your eyes and looked pitiful, as usual. Someday he’ll come along tra la. I’ve got news for you, Michael: he did come along and you tossed him out on his butt, because you didn’t have the balls to get past your fantasy.”
    “What fantasy?” Michael was almost speechless.
    “You tell me. Young Dr. Kildare, maybe? I don’t know … whatever it was, I couldn’t live up to it anymore … and you couldn’t stand the thought of being loved by just another guy like yourself. You’re tough, Michael—despite all that sad young man bullshit—but you’re not tough enough to handle that one!”
    Michael stared at him, stupefied. “You’re so wrong it’s not even …”
    “Am I? How’s the cop working out, by the way?”
    Michael’s mouth fell open. “What didn’t Mrs. Madrigal tell you?”
    “She told me about the cop,” said Jon. “And the movie star. And the construction worker. You’re not having a life, Michael—you’re fucking the Village People, one at a time.”
    “Now wait a minute!”
    “It’s the truth,” said Jon.
    “What business is it of…?”
    “It isn’t my business. You’re right about that. It hasn’t been my business for a long time … and I shouldn’t have said anything. Except that Mrs. M. asked me to … and I wanted to … and I’m tired of hearing this crap about how nobody wants you. Somebody wants you, Michael … as if you didn’t know it. And he knows the very worst there is to know about you.”
    “Jon … I’m sorry if …”
    The doctor rose. “There isn’t anything to apologize for.”
    Michael sat in silence as he headed for the door.
    “I’ll stay through the wedding,” said Jon. “There won’t be any scenes, I promise you.”
    “Do you …? Is Burke’s room O.K.? Do you need clean sheets or anything?”
    “Thanks. Mrs. M. took care of that.”
    “I love you,” said Michael.
    “I know,” said the doctor. “Isn’t that the hell of it?”

Dead to the World
    H ARDLY BELIEVING HER EARS, EMMA SET THE RECEIVER down, then hurried back upstairs to her mistress’ bedroom. Frannie Halcyon was out cold and snoring, one arm dangling inelegantly off the edge of the four-poster.
    “Miss Frannie,” whispered the maid, bending over the matriarch. “Wake up, Miss Frannie!”
    No response.
    “Law’, Miss Frannie, you wake up now.’” Emma grasped her mistress by the shoulders and shook gently. “He’s comin’, Miss Frannie … Jim Jones is comin’!”
    Still no response.
    “Sweet Jesus!” murmured Emma. Those unholy pills, she realized, had done their job but good.
    She fetched a glass of water from the bathroom and tossed half of it onto the matriarch’s face. Frannie Halcyon’s features contorted momentarily. Then she uttered a half-hearted groan and rolled over on her stomach.
    “Please … oh Lord, please. Miss Frannie … you gotta wake up! Jim Jones is comin’!”
    Ripping off the bedclothes, Emma rolled the matriarch over again and pulled her feet off the bed. Then she hoisted her into a sitting position.
    The matriarch’s head hung slack. She mumbled something unintelligible into her own cleavage.
    “Do you hear me?” asked Emma.
    “Grdlarmarelup.”
    “You just sit there,” panted Emma. “I’ll get you out of here.”
    She dashed to the closet and conducted a frantic search for her mistress’