Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

an elfin grin. For just a moment, he reminded Michael of Ned in Death Valley, teasing his friends with the undisclosed wonders that lay just beyond the next bluff.
As the train thundered through the sooty tunnel, Michael asked: “Does your father know you’re gay?”
Wilfred nodded.
“How did he find out?”
The kid shrugged. “I was busied for cottaging, mate. I think that gave him a clue.”
“Cottaging?”
“You know … doin’ it in a cottage.”
Michael’s confusion was obvious.
“A cottage,” Wilfred repeated. “A public loo.”
A woman across from them grimaced fiercely.
“Oh,” said Michael, somewhat meekly.
“That’s how I got tossed out of school … not to mention sacked from my job. I used to work down here in Wimbledon.”
“We call that a tearoom,” Michael pointed out.
“What? Where I worked? It was a bleedin’ chippie!”
“No, a cottage. We call a cottage a tearoom.” It was beginning to sound like a gay variation on ‘Who’s on First?’ and the woman across the way was the last to be amused. “I think we’d better drop this, Wilfred.”
The kid shrugged. “Fine with me, mate.”
When they reached Wimbledon, Wilfred bought a Cadbury bar at the station, broke off a chunk and handed it to Michael. “We’ve got a bit of a walk now. Let’s hope ol’ Dingo’s still there.”
“You bet,” Michael replied, smirking a little. He had no intention of asking what that meant. It was amazing, really, how much Wilfred’s technique resembled Ned’s.
The kid made a beeline for a butcher shop, where he strode up to the counter and ordered half a pound of beef liver. When the order arrived, Wilfred handed the cardboard tub to Michael. “Take charge of this, will you? We’ll be needing it later.”
Michael gave him a dubious look. “Not breakfast?”
“Not ours,” grinned Wilfred, leading the way out of the shop.
They walked through Wimbledon for five or six blocks. Twentieth-century Tudor alternated with bleak redbrick high-rises against a carpet of lush lawns. Michael was reminded of Kansas City, oddly enough, or a 1920s suburb on the edge of any Midwestern town.
Wilfred slopped at a vacant lot covered with brick and concrete rubble—all that was left of a house that had apparently burned to the ground. “They’re building another one here next month. Dingo hasn’t much time left.” He stepped nimbly over the debris, approaching the end of the lot where the rubble was deepest. Then he snapped his fingers to get Michael’s attention.
“What?” asked Michael.
“The liver, mate.”
“Oh.” He handed him the cardboard tub. Wilfred dumped the contents on a flat rock that appeared to have already been used for that purpose. “You’re freaking me out,” whispered Michael.
“Shhh!” Wilfred’s forefinger shot to his lips. “Just hang on.”
They stood like statues amid the ruins.
“Here, Dingo,” crooned Wilfred. “C’mon, boy.”
Michael heard a scurrying sound beneath the rubble. Then a pair of flinty eyes appeared in an opening adjacent to the flat rock. After a few exploratory sniffs, the creature scuttled out into the light.
“God,” Michael murmured. “A fox, huh?”
“Very good.”
“What’s he doing here?”
Wilfred shrugged. “They’re all over London.”
“In the city limits, you mean?”
“Wherever they can make do. Right, Dingo?” Fifteen feet away, the fox looked up from his dinner for a moment, then continued to devour it noisily. “They’ll level this spot in another month, and Dingo will be in real trouble.”
“Why do you call him Dingo?”
Wilfred turned and looked al him. “It’s what they call the wild dogs in Australia.”
“Oh.”
“I found him when I was working down at the chippie. One day at lunch I tossed him a bit of me fish-and-chips and he was so grateful that I came back the next day. But they gave me the sack, so I come down here on the tube when I can. It’s been a while since the last time. You miss me, Dingo? Eh?”
They watched in silence while the fox ate. Then Michael said: “We have wild coyotes in California. I mean … they come into the city sometimes.”
“Yeah?”
Michael nodded. “They raid people’s garbage cans in L.A. People have seen them standing in the middle of Sunset Boulevard. They don’t belong in the wilds, and they don’t belong in the city either.”
Wilfred nodded. “They’re trapped in the mess we’ve made. They know it, too. Dingo knows it. All he can do is hide in that hole