Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

to change the subject. “How did you know that Simon had … left the royal yacht?”
She sighed. “Oh, love … The Mirror went daft over it. You didn’t read it? It was just a few days ago.”
“No … actually, I didn’t.”
“They made it sound as if he’d slapped the Queen.”
He made an effort to look duly concerned. “It was nothing like that,” he said. “He just got tired of the navy.”
“Balls,” said Miss Treves.
“Uh … what?” He wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. “The navy is one thing, love. The Britannia is quite another. It’s a terrible disgrace.”
“How did the press find out about it?”
She growled indignantly. “Some bally woman on the telly.”
“In San Francisco?”
She nodded. “Then the Mirror did their own snooping about and found his address. Printed it, if you please.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Is Simon’s family … upset about it?”
Miss Treves chuckled. “You’re lookin’ at it, love.”
“Oh …”
“His mum and dad came to a tragic end when Simon was still at Cambridge.”
“Oh … I didn’t know that.”
Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “Simon doesn’t like to talk about it. A dreadful wreck.”
He nodded.
“Don’t mention it to him, will you? The poor lad has spent eight years getting over it.”
“Who wouldn’t?” said Michael. He had already begun to forgive Simon for the apartment and to regard this miniature nanny as a kind of guardian angel in tweeds. “He’s so lucky to have had you,” he added.
Her small pink rosebud of a mouth made a smile that was just for him. “Simon always has such lovely friends.”

A Good Match
M ARY ANN HAD LEFT FOR THE PENINSULA TO DO A human interest story on the closing of an auto plant, so Brian sought tangible ways to celebrate his first official day as a househusband at 28 Barbary Lane: He trimmed the ivy on all the windowsills. He scoured the crud off the grout in the shower stall, then organized the cleansers and sponges under the kitchen sink. Slithering under the bed, he went after dust balls with the single-minded frenzy of a terrier routing a gopher from its lair.
He was working for three now. Every sweep of the dust-cloth, every squirt of Fantastik, every mouse turd he banished from the pantry, made the house just that much safer for The Kid.
The Kid.
He capitalized it in his mind, paying superstitious homage to the seed which, even as he swabbed the toilet, could already be sprouting in Mary Ann’s womb. The Kid was everything now. That incredible, microscopic little bugger had turned his life around and given him a reason to get up in the morning. And that was nothing short of a miracle.
He took a break and made himself a ham sandwich, eating it in the little house on the roof while a rustred tanker slid silently across the great blue expanse of the bay. Above the terra-cotta tile of the Art Institute, a rainbow-striped kite flickered in the wind.
There was so much to show a child in this city, so many commonplace glories to be seen again through the eyes of The Kid. The windmill in Golden Gate Park. Chinatown in the fog. The waves that come crashing over the seawall at Fort Point. In his mind’s eye, they were frolicking on a generic beach, he and this little piece of himself, this bright and lovable boy-or-girl who called him … what?
Daddy?
Dad?
Papa?
Papa wasn’t bad, really. It had a kindly, old-world ring to it—stern but loving. Was it too stern? He didn’t want to come off as autocratic. The Kid was a person, after all. The Kid must never fear him. Corporal punishment was out of the question.
He returned to the apartment, dropped his plate into the sink, then decided to scour the sink. As he worked, he could hear Mrs. Madrigal going about her gardening chores down below in the courtyard. She was humming a fractured version of “I Concentrate on You.”
He was dying to tell her about The Kid, but he squelched the urge. For reasons he couldn’t exactly pinpoint, he felt the news should come from Mary Ann. Besides, it would be more fun to wail until they had some indication that Mary Ann was pregnant.
He wanted to show Simon that there were no hard feelings, so he went downstairs and invited the lieutenant to go running with him. Later, as they huffed and puffed past deserted docks toward the Bay Bridge, he was impressed by Simon’s endurance. He told him as much.
“We’re a good match,” was the gracious reply.
“Not only that,” Brian continued,