Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

his direction. “I hope that’s not false advertising.”
By the time he had figured out her meaning, she had brought him to a halt in front of double doors, also flannel-covered. “I’ll show you something you won’t see on Twenty/Twenty. ” She flung open the doors to reveal an Olympic-size bedroom lined with lighted Lucite boxes. Showcased in the boxes were dozens of pickaninny dolls—“coon art” from the thirties and forties. Cookie jars shaped like black mammies, Uncle Tom ashtrays, Aunt Jemima posters.
“This is amazing,” he said.
The rock widow shrugged it off. “Bix was always just a little bit sorry he wasn’t born black. That’s not what I wanted to show you, though.” She moved to a huge chest of drawers near the bed. “This is.” With a flourish, she yanked open one of the drawers.
He was dumbfounded. “Uh … underwear?”
“Panties, silly.”
He shifted uneasily. What the fuck was he supposed to say?
“From his fans, ” explained Theresa, removing one of them from a labeled Baggie. “This one, for instance, is from the Avalon Ballroom, nineteen sixty-seven.”
His laughter was nervous and sounded that way. “You mean they threw these on stage?”
She winked at him. “You’re a quick one.”
“And he saved them?”
“Every goddamn one!” She ran a crimson nail across the panties, like a secretary explaining her filing system. “We’ve got your Be-In panties from Golden Gate Park. Remember that? George Harrison was there. An-n-nd … your basic Fillmore panties, nineteen sixty-six. That was a good year, wasn’t it?”
He laughed, liking her for the first time. At least, she had a sense of humor. “These ought to be in the auction,” he grinned.
“No way, José. These are mine.”
“You mean …?”
“You better believe it! I wear every goddamn one of them!”
This time he roared.
“I look pretty fucking wonderful in them too!” He had already pictured as much.
“C’mon,” she said. “You’re starting to sweat. Let’s gel you back to the wife.”
    The Return of Connie Bradshaw
T WO DAYS LATER, MARY ANN FOUND HERSELF ON UNION Square, shooting a promo for Save the Cable Cars. Since the cable cars were out of commission during their renovation, she was using the one that sat on blocks beside the Hyatt, a melancholy relic whose embarrassment she could almost sense, like the head of a moose on a barroom wall.
She delivered her spiel in a very tight shot, while dangling recklessly from the side of the stationary car. To add to her humiliation, a small crowd gathered to witness the ordeal, applauding her good takes and laughing at the fluffs.
When she was done, a pregnant woman stepped forward. Her condition, though easily discernible to the average idiot, was confirmed by a yellow maternity smock bearing the word BABY and an arrow indicating the direction the baby would have to go in order to get out.
“Mary Ann?”
“Connie?”
Connie Bradshaw squealed the way she had always squealed, the way she had squealed fifteen years before in Cleveland, when she had been head majorette at Central High and Mary Ann had been a mildly celebrated member of the National Forensic League. Some things never change, it seemed, including Connie’s inability to make it through life without things written on her clothes.
A clumsy embrace followed. Then Connie stood back and looked her former roommate up and down. “You are such a star!” she beamed.
“Not really,” said Mary Ann, meaning it more than she wanted to.
“I saw you with the Queen! If that’s not a star, what is?”
Mary Ann laughed feebly, then pointed to the arrow on Connie’s belly. “When did this happen?”
Connie pushed a tiny button, consulting her digital watch. “Uh … seven months and … twenty-four days ago. Give or take a few.” She giggled at the thought of it. “Her name is Shawna, by the way.”
“You already know it’s a girl?”
Connie giggled again. “You know me. I hate suspense. If there’s a chance to peek, I’ll do it.” She laid her hands lightly on the Shawna-to-be. “Pretty neat, huh?”
“Pretty neat.” Mary Ann nodded, wondering when she had last used the phrase. “God, it’s so easy to lose track of things. I didn’t even know you were married.”
“I’m not,” came the breezy reply.
“Oh.”
“See?” Connie held up ten ringless fingers. “Magic.”
For the first time in fifteen years, Mary Ann felt slightly more middle-class than Connie.
“I got tired of waiting