Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

want us to come use the pool this Sunday.”
    He grunted noncommittally. He distrusted his wife’s escalating chumminess with the Halcyon-Wilsons, not because they were dykes but because they were rich and social. Mary Ann was simply climbing in this instance, he felt almost certain.
    “I thought it would be nice for Shawna,” she added, giving his little toe a placatory tug. “I know you aren’t crazy about them, but that pool is to die for.”
    “Whatever,” he said.
    “C’mon,” she cooed. “Don’t be like that.”
    “Fine. We’ll go. I might be sick as a dog …”
    “Oh, poor you.” She pressed her thumbs into the arch of his foot. “You’ll feel better by then, and—”
    A ringing phone silenced her.
    Brian reached for it. “Yeah?”
    “It’s Jed, Brian.”
    “Oh … yeah.”
    “I just wanted to thank you for bringing the pizza by. And the place and all. You’re a real lifesaver.”
    “Well … sure. No sweat.”
    “You’re a terrific uncle. I see why Mom likes you so much.”
    “Hey … no problem. We’ll do it again, huh?”
    “Sure,” said the kid.
    “Great. Then we’ll—what?—check in with each other tomorrow?”
    “You bet.”
    Brian hung up.
    “Jed?” asked Mary Ann.
    He nodded.
    “He has manners,” she said. “You have to admit.”
    “Yeah,” he said absently, retrieving the towel he had thrown in so hastily. The kid, after all, was his own flesh and blood. He deserved a second chance.
    Maybe all he really needed was a good piece of ass.

Ladies of the Evening
    T HE HALCYON-WILSONS DINED THAT NIGHT AT LE TROU, a tiny French restaurant on Guerrero Street.
    “It means The Hole,” said D’orothea.
    DeDe, who was reapplying lipstick, looked up with exaggerated horror. “Ick. What does?”
    “The name of the restaurant,” said D’orothea. “Stop being misogynistic.”
    “Misogynous,” said DeDe.
    “What?”
    “The word is ‘misogynous,’ while you’re accusing me. But I fail to see how …”
    “You were making a hole joke,” said D’orothea. “You don’t think that’s demeaning?”
    “Look, you brought it up. Besides, you make pussy jokes all the time.”
    D’orothea stabbed sullenly at her bijane aux fraises. “Pussy is friendly. Hole is not.”
    A woman at the next table looked at them and frowned.
    “Tell the world,” muttered DeDe. “Better yet, put it on a sampler. ‘Pussy is friendly. Hole is not.’ ”
    “All right, ” said D’or.
    “You’re just mad at me because I don’t wanna go to Wimminwood.”
    “Well … I think that’s indicative of your larger problem.”
    “My larger problem?”
    “Your total resistance to anything you don’t—”
    “I told you,” said DeDe. “I’ve already invited Mary Ann and Brian to brunch.”
    D’or scowled. “That’s just an excuse. The fact is … you’re threatened.”
    “Oh, right,” said DeDe. “By what?”
    “By women-only space.”
    DeDe snorted. “I was in the Junior League, wasn’t I?”
    D’or’s eyes became obsidian. “Don’t make fun of this. I won’t have it. Wimminwood is very important to me.”
    “You’ve never even been there.”
    “I went to the one in Michigan. I know how it feels, O.K.? It’s part of who I am, and it’s … something special I want to share with you.”
    DeDe poked at her dessert. “That’s what you told me when we left for Guyana.”
    Her lover gave her a long, incendiary look. “That was low.”
    Feeling the reprimand, DeDe looked away.
    “You’re becoming your mother,” D’or added darkly. “Is that what you really want?”
    “Talk about low,” said DeDe.
    D’or shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
    “It is not. I’m nothing like her.”
    “Well, you’re not a substance abuser.” The very phrase was pure lesbianese, epitomizing everything DeDe hated about D’or’s reemerging consciousness.
    “C’mon, D’or. Can’t you just call her a drunk and be done with it?”
    This was a bit harsh, DeDe realized. Widowed nine years ago, her mother had struggled valiantly to keep the bottle at bay, never fully capitulating until her remarriage in 1984.
    DeDe’s stepfather had been their next-door neighbor in Hillsborough for as long as DeDe could remember. (That is, his tennis courts bordered on the apple orchard at Halcyon Hill.) Her mother had married him nine months after the death of his first wife and moved into his rambling postwar ranch house.
    That had left the mock-Tudor pile of Halcyon Hill for the sole