Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

she could feel his eyes following her. The sensation made her almost dizzy, so she went up to the roof to collect her thoughts before facing Brian. The night was clear and rain-washed. Beneath the new streetlight on Barbary Lane, the young eucalyptus leaves seemed pale as ghosts, the gentle gray-green of weathered copper. She counted four lighted vessels gliding soundlessly across the obsidian surface of the bay. The big neon fish at Fisherman’s Wharf glowed pink above the water like a talisman from the Christians in the catacombs.
She sought out the North Star and made the only wish that came to mind.
“Let me guess.”
She flinched, startled by her husband’s voice. He stood in the doorway, smiling at her.
“God,” she said. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Hey. Sorry.” He came up behind her and kissed her neck. “You were making a wish, weren’t you?”
“None of your business, smartass.”
He chuckled, nuzzling her. “I like it when you do those little-girl things.” She grunted at him.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, still holding her. “What about Sierra City?”
“What about it?”
“For our trip.”
She drew a total blank.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”
“Well, don’t make me guess.”
“This weekend,” he said. “Ethelmertz time?”
“Oh. Right.”
“Or somewhere up the coast would be just as good.”
“No. Sierra City is fine.”
“Whatever,” he said. “What’s in the bag?”
Preoccupied as she had been, she had all but forgotten about the Sani-Fem. “Oh … it’s a … never mind. You don’t wanna know.”
“Yes I do.” He took the bag from her and removed the plastic funnel. “Christ almighty. What is it?”
She snatched the Sani-Fem from his hands and marched to the bay side of the roof.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She peered down into the dark tangle of shrubbery. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Just one of my little-girl things.” She dropped her slacks and pushed her panties down.
“Mary Ann, for God’s sake …”
“Lower your voice,” she said. “You’ll attract attention.”
    That Woman Again
W ILFRED’S FATHER WAS BELLOWING SO FERO ciously that Michael awoke from a dream about bumping into Jon at a Buckingham Palace garden party. He sat up in bed, clinging to the fantasy like a comforter, while the patriarch slammed pieces of furniture against the wall upstairs. Amidst the cacophony, he could barely discern the shrill desperation of Wilfred’s reedy, childlike voice.
“Poofter!” thundered the father. “Bleedin’ poofter … vile, filthy smut … I’ll teach you, you little …”
Something shattered against a wall.
Horror-struck, Michael jumped out of bed and slipped into Simon’s red satin bathrobe. Opening the door to the hallway, he peered warily up the staircase just as the door upstairs opened, then slammed shut. He ducked back into his apartment, easing the door shut, and waited until he heard the father’s leaden footsteps move down the stairs, through the hallway and out of the house. Hearing nothing else, he climbed halfway up the stairs and called: “Wilfred?”
No answer.
“Wilfred … are you all right?”
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me. Michael. Did he hurt you?” He continued to climb toward Wilfred’s door.
“Wait there, mate. I’ll be down in a bit. I’m all right.”
So he returned to his apartment, where he brewed a pot of coffee and waited. When Wilfred finally appeared in the doorway, grinning valiantly, he was pressing a wad of toilet paper against his temple. “Sorry about the commotion, mate.”
“Jesus,” murmured Michael. “What did he do?”
“Aw … threw me against the cupboard.”
“He threw you?”
“Is that so bleedin’ difficult? I’m not exactly Arnold Bleedin’ Schwarzenegger.”
Michael smiled at him. “C’mere. Let’s take a look at that. What did you do to piss him off, anyway?”
Wilfred came closer and lifted the wad of toilet paper. “He found me old Zipper in the dustbin.”
“He did what?”
“It’s a magazine with naked blokes.”
“Oh. Jesus, that’s gonna be a goose egg. Hang on … I’ve got some alcohol and Band-Aids in my travel kit.” He found what he needed, then returned, dabbing the kid’s forehead as he asked: “You read that stuff?”
Wilfred was aghast at his ignorance. “They’re for wanking, mate, not reading.”
Michael smiled. “I stand corrected.”
“You never bought one?”
“Oh, sure. It’s pretty popular at