Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

lady.”
Serra’s sympathy seemed mixed with embarrassment. “Oh … well, if you need a loan or something …”
“That’s nice.” She squeezed Serra’s hand. “It’s a little more serious than that.”
“Oh.”
“I could use a little more overtime, as a matter of fact.”
“I just thought … I thought you could use a change.”
“You got that right,” said Mona. “Your machine is jamming.”
“Shit,” muttered Serra, sprinting back to her post.
When noon came, Serra insisted on treating Mona to lunch at the Ritz Café, a perfect backdrop for Serra’s squeaky-clean Kristy McNichol bob. They both ordered Pernod Stingers, and Serra raised hers in an earnest toast to Mona’s recovery.
“Things will get better,” she said flatly. “I really believe that.”
“That’s because you’re twenty-three,” Mona replied.
“Are things so different at thirty-seven?”
“Thirty-eight,” said Mona. “And they’re not a bit different. Just harder to take.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Serra.
Mona made a face at her. “Tell me that again in fifteen years. It’s O.K. to Xerox dicks when you’re twenty-three. It’s not O.K. at thirty-eight. Trust me. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
For a moment, Serra seemed lost in thought.
“What is it?” asked Mona.
“Nothing. Nothing yet.”
“Now wait a minute …”
“It’s just an idea.”
“C’mon,” said Mona. “Out with it.”
“I can’t. Not until I see if it’s possible.” She took a sip of her drink, then set it down suddenly. “Oh, God!”
“What?” asked Mona.
“Guess who our waiter is?”
The waiter recognized Mona instantly, “Oh, hi! The invitations look fabulous!”
She gave him a thin smile. “I’m glad you like them.”
After lunch, they received a rush order for five hundred fliers announcing a “British Brunch” in honor of the Britannia’s recent arrival in Seattle. Mona glowered at the layout—Queen Elizabeth saying, “I just love a good banger”— then looked up and glowered at the customer.
“Would somebody please tell me why every homo in Seattle is so obsessed with this woman?”
The customer drew back as if he’d been slapped. “What are you? The editorial board?”
She glanced impatiently at the clock. “I suppose you want this today?”
The man let his irritation show. She really didn’t blame him; she had always been detached enough to know when she was being a bitch. “Look,” he said, “tomorrow will be just fine. And I’ve had a bad day too … so slack off, will you?”
“Maybe I can help?” It was Serra, intervening as sweetly as possible.
Mona felt herself reddening. “It’s no problem. I’ll just fill out the …”
“Go home, Mo.” Serra squeezed her forearm gently.
“I can manage.”
“Are you sure?” She felt like a real ogre.
“You deserve it,” said Serra. “Go on. Scoot.”
So Mona got the hell out, stopping briefly on the way home to write a bad check for tuna fish and detergent at the S & M Market. Once upon a time—three years ago, to be exact—she had gotten a big laugh out of the S & M Market. She had promised herself she would take Mouse there if he ever came to Seattle.
But Mouse had never come, and the irony inherent in the name of her corner grocery had faded like her California tan. They had drifted apart gradually, and she wasn’t sure whose fault that was. Now the thought of a reunion was embarrassing at best, terrifying at worst.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering if Mouse was doing O.K., if he had found someone to hug him occasionally, if he would still call her Babycakes the next time they met. She had thought of phoning him three or four times, while on Perco-dan from her periodontist, but she didn’t want his sympathy for her dud of a life.
When she reached her apartment, her neighbor Mrs. Guttenberg accosted her in the lobby. “Oh, thank God, Mona! Thank God!” The old lady was a wreck.
“What is it?” asked Mona.
“It’s old Pete, poor thing. He’s in the alley out back.”
“You mean he’s …?”
“Some fool kid ran over him. I couldn’t find a soul to help me, Mona. I’ve got a blanket over him, but I don’t think … The poor old thing … he never deserved this.”
Mona rushed into the alley, where the dog lay immobile in a light drizzle. Only his head stuck out from under the blanket. A rheumy eye looked up at Mona and blinked. She knelt and laid her hand carefully against his graying muzzle. He made a faint noise in the