Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

us?”
    D’or opened the refrigerator and took out a half-gallon carton of milk. “No. Of course not.”
    “He says you did.”
    “Well, I didn’t, dammit. I told him just the opposite, in fact. I said we should all go this year, because he’s not ten yet.” D’or set a saucepan on the stove and poured milk into it.
    “And?” prodded DeDe.
    “And … little boys don’t get to go when they’re ten. It’s the rule, DeDe. I wanted to be up front about it. Children can understand rules.”
    “This is what I hate, you know. This is exactly what I hate.”
    “Oh, c’mon.”
    “This doctrinaire bullshit, this … this …”
    “You want some cocoa?”
    “You hurt Edgar’s feelings, D’or. A little boy doesn’t understand what’s so threatening about his penis.”
    “I’ll talk to him—all right?”
    “When?”
    D’or opened the cabinet, removed a can of cocoa and handed it to DeDe. “Fix us some and bring it to the bedroom. I’ll be there in a little while.”
    DeDe was still fuming when D’or finally joined her in bed. “Is he O.K.?” she asked.
    “Just fine,” said D’or.
    “What did you tell him?”
    “I told him they made that rule about little boys because ten-year-old boys were almost men, and men were all rapists at heart.”
    “D’or, goddamnit!”
    “All right. Jesus … don’t hit me.”
    “Then tell me what you told him.”
    “I told him I explained things all wrong.”
    “Is that all?”
    “No. I told him it wouldn’t be any fun without him along, and that I love him just as much as you do. Then Anna woke up and asked me what smegma was.”
    “What?”
    “That Atkins kid called her smegma today.”
    DeDe groaned. “That little brat has the foulest—” The phone rang before she could finish the tirade. D’or reached for the receiver, mumbled hello, and passed it to DeDe. “It’s your mother,” she said, grinning. “Ask her what smegma is.”
    DeDe gave her a nasty look, then spoke into the receiver. “Hello, Mother.”
    “Don’t use that tone with me.”
    “What tone? I just said hello.”
    “I can tell when you’re being snide, darling.”
    “It’s after midnight, Mother.”
    “Well, I would have called you earlier, but I got busy.” “Busy” sounded more like “bishy.”
    “Go on, then,” said DeDe.
    “Were you asleep?”
    “No, but we’re in bed.”
    “Don’t be vulgar, DeDe.”
    “Mother …”
    “All right, I called to ask if you and D’orothea would come for lunch on Sunday. With the children, of course.”
    “That’s sweet, Mother, but we’ve already made plans. I was giving a lunch myself, but I’m canceling it.”
    D’or smiled victoriously, then reached over and stroked DeDe’s thigh.
    Her mother wouldn’t give up. “Oh, darling, please say yes. I’m gonna be all alone.”
    “Why?” asked DeDe. “Where’s Booter going?”
    “The Grove,” said her mother bitterly.
    “Oh. It’s that time of year again.”
    “Do you realize,” said her mother, “how many times I’ve been a Grove Widow? I counted it up. Thirty-two times. It isn’t fair.”
    DeDe had heard this sob story all her life. Grove Widows, as they were popularly known, were the wives left behind by Bohemian Club members during their two-week encampment at the Bohemian Grove. The Grove was a sort of summer camp for graying aristocrats, an all-male enclave in the redwoods, whose secret fraternal rituals were almost a century old.
    DeDe’s father had been an ardent Bohemian, provoking her mother to bouts of acute depression during her annual ordeal of separation. Since her mother’s new husband was also a Bohemian, the torment had continued unabated. “You should have married a commoner,” DeDe told her.
    “That isn’t a bit funny.”
    “Well, what do you want me to say?”
    “I want you to come to lunch.”
    “Mother … we’re going away.”
    “Where?”
    “Just … up north. We’re packing the kids in the station wagon and taking off.” Wimminwood, in fact, was only a mile or two downriver from the Grove, but to say as much would only heighten her mother’s sense of familial desertion.
    “I worry about her,” she told D’or later. “I can’t help it.”
    D’or pulled her sleep mask into position. “What’s the matter this time?”
    “Oh … Booter’s taking off for the Grove.”
    “Christ,” sighed D’or. “The crises of the rich.”
    “I know.”
    “This happens every year. Why didn’t she plan something?”
    “She