Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

silent, so he glanced at her to see if she knew what he meant. She did. She knew and she was pleased. It made him feel a lot better. If nothing else, he would always have Mrs. Madrigal on his side.
“You can still do that,” she said finally.
“I don’t know …”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean … it scares the hell out of me. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to make her say no one more time. This lime … it might sound like she means it.”
“But if you don’t at least talk to her …”
“Look, what good would it do? When would she find the time, for God’s sake? Tonight is so fucking typical, you know. Our private life has to take a back seat to every dumbass little news story that comes down the pike.”
The landlady smiled faintly. “I’m not sure Her Majesty would appreciate that description of her sojourn.”
“O.K. Maybe not tonight. The Queen is excusable….”
“I should think.”
“But she’s done this half a dozen times this month. This is always the way it is.”
“Well, her career is terribly …”
“Don’t I show respect for her career? Don’t I? That can be her career, and the baby can be mine. That makes a helluva lot of sense to me!”
His voice must have been more strident than he had intended. She stroked him with her eyes, telling him to calm down. “Dear,” she murmured, “I’m the last person who needs convincing.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m practicing on you.”
“That’s all right.”
“It’s not like we have that much time. She’s thirty-two and I’m thirty-eight.”
“Ancient,” said the landlady.
“It is for making babies. It’s shit-or-get-off-the-pot time.”
Mrs. Madrigal winced, then arranged a fold in her kimono sleeve. “Your metaphors need work, dear. Tell me, when exactly did you last talk to her about this?”
He thought for a moment. “Three months ago, maybe. And six months before that.”
“And?”
“She keeps saying we should wait.”
“For what?”
“You tell me. For her to become an anchor, maybe? That makes a lot of sense. How many pregnant anchors have you seen?”
“There must have been some,”
“She doesn’t want to,” he said. “That’s the bottom line. That’s the truth behind the excuses.”
“You don’t know that,” said the landlady.
“I know her.”
Mrs. Madrigal peered out at the Alcatraz beacon again. “Don’t be too sure about that,” she said.
That threw him. When he looked for clues in her face, her brow seemed to be furrowed in thought. “Has she talked to you?” he asked. “Has she said something about … the baby thing?”
“No,” she answered hastily. “She would never do that.”
He remembered the time and reached for the remote control. At the slightest touch of his finger, Mary Ann’s face appeared on the screen, only slightly larger than life. She was standing in an alleyway behind Trader Vic’s, smiling incongruously in a deep blue sea of cops.
“My goodness,” beamed Mrs. Madrigal. “Doesn’t she look just splendid?”
She looked better than that. A rush of pure affection swept over him. He smiled at the set for a few proud moments, then turned back to his landlady. “Tell me the truth,” he said.
“All right.”
“Does she look like a woman who wants to have a baby?”
Mrs. Madrigal’s forehead wrinkled again. She spent a long time scrutinizing Mary Ann’s face. “Well,” she began, tapping a forefinger against her lips, “that hat is deceptive.”

Volunteer
M ICHAEL TOLLIVER HAD SPENT RUSH HOUR IN THE Castro, the time of day when the young men who worked in banks came home to the young men who worked in bars. He watched from a window seat at the Twin Peaks as they spilled from the mouth of the Muni Metro, stopping only long enough to raise the barrels of their collapsible umbrellas and fire at the advancing rain. Their faces had the haggard, disoriented cast of prisoners who had somehow tunneled to freedom.
He polished off his Calistoga and left the bar, then forked out three dollars to a man selling collapsible umbrellas on the corner. He had lost his last one, and the one before that had sprung a spoke, but three dollars was nothing and he embraced the idea of their expendability. There was no point in getting attached to an umbrella.
Deciding on a pizza at the Sausage Factory, he set off down Castro Street past the movie house and the croissant/cookie/card shops. As he crossed Eighteenth Street, a derelict lurched into the intersection and shouted