Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

trying to see who it was.”
    The Jesus Tortilla
T HEIR PALM SUNDAY WEEKEND WAS ONLY HOURS AWAY when Brian phoned Mary Ann ai work. “I made a sort of unilateral decision,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
By now, she had grown extremely wary of new developments. “What is it?” she asked.
“I canceled our reservations in Sierra City.”
“Why?”
“Oh … I thought we owed ourselves something a little fancier under the circumstances. How does the Sonoma Mission Inn sound to you?”
“Oh, Brian … Expensive, for starters.”
“We can afford it,” he replied, with somewhat less wind in his sails.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“You don’t sound very excited.”
“Sorry. I’m just … I think it sounds great. Really. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“I remembered that,” he said.
She felt a nasty little twinge of guilt. She hated to see him make such elaborate plans on behalf of her fraudulent miltehchmerz. “Do we need to do anything special?” she asked. “Won’t I need dressier clothes?”
“You’ve got time to pack them,” he said. “They aren’t expecting us until seven tonight.”
“Great. I should be home no later than four.”
She spent the rest of the afternoon tying up loose ends: editing footage for a feature on California Cuisine, making phone calls, answering memos that had languished on her desk for weeks. She was on the verge of making a discreet exit when Hall, an associate producer, caught sight of her in the hallway.
“Kenan’s looking for you,” he said.
“Shit. With an assignment, I’ll bet.”
Hal grinned at her. “No rest for the perky.”
She weighed her options. If she walked out without checking with Kenan, she had no guarantee that Hal wouldn’t rat on her. He was famous for that, in fact. So she gritted her teeth and stormed off to the news director’s office, already stockpiling an arsenal of excuses.
As always, Kenan’s inner sanctum was a hodgepodge of promotional media kitsch: miniature footballs imprinted with the station logo, four or five different Mylar wall calendars, a Rubik’s Cube bearing the name and address of a videotape manufacturer. The only recent change was that Bo Derek had vanished from the spot on the ceiling above Kenan’s desk, and Christie Brinkley had taken her place.
Arms locked behind his head, the news director eased his chair into an upright position, and fixed his tiny little eyes on Mary Ann. “Good. You’re here.”
“Hal said you wanted to see me.”
His smile was a form of aggression, nothing more. “Do you remember … oh, way back when, when you first came to work for us … remember I told you a good reporter is the only person who is always required to respond to an Act of God? Do you remember that?”
“Sure,” she said, nodding. For all she knew, even the janitors at the station were subjected to that asinine speech. “What about it?”
“Well, lady …” He was drawing out the suspense as long as possible. “I’ve got something for you that just might qualify.”
When she broke the news to Brian, he was just as angry as he deserved to be. “Fuck that, Mary Ann! We’ve been planning this trip all week. You told them that, didn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Well, why do they have to pick on you?”
“Because … I’m the lowest on the totem pole, and they know I’ll do …”
“What’s so goddamn important that they can’t wait until Monday, at least?”
“Well … it’s kind of an Easter story … Holy Week, rather … so they need it now, if …”
“The Pope is coming? What?”
“You’ll just get mad, Brian.”
“I’m mad already. What the hell is it?”
“A woman in Daly City. She thinks she’s seen Jesus.”
“Terrific.”
“Brian …”
“Where did she see Him? On her dashboard?”
“No. On a tortilla.”
He hung up on her.
She left the station minutes later and drove to Daly City. The site of the miracle was a tiny Mexican restaurant called Una Paloma Bianca. A white dove. Not a bad tie-in for the Holy Week angle. The cameraman was already there, fretting over technical problems with the tortilla.
“I’m telling you,” he snapped, “it just won’t read. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Look,” she countered. “I can see it. Sec … there’s the beard. That’s part of the cheekbone. That wrinkle going left to right is the top of His head.”
“Swell, Mary Ann. Tell that to the camera. There’s not enough contrast, I’m telling you. It’s as