Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

pajamas he had bought the week before in Chinatown, then sat down at his desk and began composing a letter to his parents.
The warming sound of Brian’s laughter drifted through the window as a new moon peeked from behind the clouds. Then came another man’s laughter, less hearty than Brian’s but just as sincere. Michael set his pen down and listened to enough dialogue to determine that the visitor was British, then returned to the task at hand.
Boris, the neighborhood cat, slunk along the window-ledge, cruising for attention. When he spotted Michael, he stopped in his tracks, shimmied under the sill, and announced his arrival with a noise that sounded like a rusty hinge. Michael swung his chair away from the desk and prepared his lap for the inevitable. Boris kept his distance, though, rattling his tail like a saber as he loped about the room.
“O.K.,” said Michael. “Be that way.”
Boris creaked back at him.
“How old are you, anyway?” Another creak.
“A hundred and forty-two? Not bad.”
The tabby circled the room twice, then gazed up expectantly at the only human he could find.
“He’s not here,” said Michael. “There’s nobody to spoil you rotten now.”
Boris voiced his confusion.
“I know,” said Michael, “but I’m fresh out of Tender Vittles. That wasn’t my job, kiddo.”
There were footsteps outside the door. Boris jerked his head, then shot out the window.
“Mouse?” It was Mary Ann.
“It’s open,” he said.
She slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. “I heard talking. I hope I didn’t …”
“It was just Boris.”
“Oh.”
“I mean … I was talking to Boris.” She smiled. “Right.’’
“Sit down,” he said.
She perched on the edge of the sofa. “We have this really delightful Englishman upstairs.”
He nodded. “So I hear.”
“Oh … we haven’t been too …?”
“No,” he assured her. “It sounds nice.”
“He’s from the Britannia. He used to be a radio officer for the Queen.”
“Used to be?”
“Well … it’s a long story. The thing is … he needs a furnished apartment for a month, and he wants to swap with somebody from here. He’s got a cute flat in Nottingham Gate … or something like that. Anyway, it’s just sitting there waiting for somebody to come live in it.”
“And?”
“Well … doesn’t that sound perfect?”
“For me, you mean?”
“Sure! I’m sure Ned wouldn’t mind if …”
“We’re closed for a month,” he said.
“So there you go! It is perfect. It’s a ready-made vacation.” He said nothing, letting the idea sink in.
“Think of it, Mouse! England! God, I can hardly stand it.”
“Yeah, but … it still lakes money.”
“For what? You can live as cheaply there as you can here.”
“You’re forgetting about air fare,” he said. Her shoulders drooped suddenly. “I thought you’d be excited.”
She looked so crestfallen that he got up and went to the sofa, kissing the top of her head. “I appreciate the thought. I really do.”
She looked up with a wan smile. “Can you join us for a glass of wine?”
“Thanks,” he answered, tugging at the lapels of his pajamas. “I was just about to crash and burn.”
She rose and headed for the door. “Was Death Valley fun?”
“It was … peaceful,” he said.
“Good. I’m glad.”
“Night-night,” he said.
He made himself some hot milk, then went to bed, sleeping soundly until noon the next day. After finishing his letter to his parents, he drove to the Castro and ate a late breakfast at the communal table at Welcome Home. When the rain began to let up a little, he wandered through the neighborhood, feeling strangely like a tourist on Mars.
Across the street, a man emerged from the Hibernia Bank.
His heart caught in his throat.
The man seemed to hesitate, turning left and right, revealing enough of his profile to banish the flimsy illusion.
Blond hair and chinos and a blue button-down shirt. How long would he live before those things stopped meaning Jon?
He crossed the intersection and walked along Eighteenth Street. In the days before the epidemic, the house next door to the Jaguar Store had been called the Check ’n Cruise. People had gone there to check their less-than-butch outer garments (not to mention their Gump’s and Wilkes Bashford bags) prior to prowling the streets of the ghetto.
The Check ’n Cruise was gone now, and in its place had blossomed the Castro Country Club, a reading room and juice bar for men who wanted company without