Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

brand-new wooden ones.” She returned to her book, closing the discussion.
    He headed for the door. “I won’t be late.”
    “Say hi to Jed,” she said.
    It took him twenty-five minutes to reach Geordie’s cottage. He parked in the driveway of the house in front and made his way through the fragrant shrubbery to the rear garden. There was a light on in her living room.
    He rang her bell, but there was no response. He had never before shown up unannounced, so it was entirely possible that her lover was visiting. She was probably madder than hell.
    When she came to the door, however, her pale face seemed drained of all expression.
    “I was going to call you,” she said.

Escape to Alcatraz
    O N HIS FIRST DAY OF VACATION, MICHAEL TOLLIVER took his mail to the Barbary steps and stretched out in the sunshine. According to the paper, there were fires still blazing to the south, and the warm spell showed no sign of imminent departure. His sluggish Southern metabolism had ground almost to a halt.
    He plucked a stalk of dried finocchio and chewed it ruminatively, Huck Finn style. In the spring, this stuff was lacy and pale green, tasting strongly of licorice, a flavor he had never understood as a kid. It grew anywhere and everywhere, remaining lush and decorative in the face of constant efforts to exterminate it.
    Finocchio, he had read somewhere, was also Italian slang for “faggot.”
    And that made sense somehow.
    He set aside the less promising mail and tore into a flimsy blue envelope from England. These short but vivid bulletins from his old friend Mona had become enormously important to him.
Dearest Mouse,
The tourist season is upon us at Easley, and we’re up to our ass in Texas millionaires. I’d say to hell with it, if we didn’t need the money so badly. I am actually dating the postmistress from Chipping Campden, but I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. She uses words like Sapphic when she means dyke. Also, I think she likes the idea of Lady Roughton more than she actually likes me, which is pretty goddamn disconcerting, since I don’t feel titled. (Mr. Hargis, the gardener, insists on calling me Your Ladyship when there are tourists around, but I’ve got him trained to lay off that shit the rest of the time.)
Wilfred got a mohawk for his eighteenth birthday and has taken to lurking in the minstrels’ gallery and terrorizing the tourists. He’s grown at least three inches since you last saw him. The mohawk looks good, actually, but I haven’t told him so, since I’m afraid of what he’ll try next. He’s signed up for fall classes at a trade school in Cheltenham, but he’ll be able to commute from here.
They’ve finally heard of AIDS in Britain, but it mostly takes the form of fag-baiting headlines in the tabloids. According to Wilfred, their idea of safe sex is not going to bed with Americans. He misses you, by the way, and told me to tell you so. I miss you too, Babycakes.
M ONA
P.S. Did you know there is still a Greek island called Lesbos? It’s supposed to be wonderful. Why don’t we meet there next spring?
P.P.S. If you see Teddy, tell him Mrs. Digby in the village wants to install an automatic garage door. I’m pretty sure this isn’t allowed, but I want his support before I say no.
    Smiling, Michael put down the letter. Mona’s green-card marriage to Teddy Roughton was apparently the best thing she’d ever done for herself. By swapping countries with a disgruntled nobleman, she’d found a perfect setting for her particular brand of eccentricity.
    And Teddy, obviously, was enjoying himself here.
    Michael had yet to decide on the disposition of his vacation time. Some of it would be spent on reassuring domestic rituals: writing letters, painting the kitchen, helping Mrs. Madrigal with her garden. He had also promised to distribute fliers for her save-the-steps campaign, which had so far met with indifference in the neighborhood.
    After lunch, he drove to Dolores Street for a Tupperware party hosted by Charlie Rubin. Charlie had come home after another scary stint at St. Sebastian’s and was making up for lost time.
    The Tupperware saleslady was a big-boned Armenian woman whose spiel had been written expressly for housewives. A creature of cheerful routine, she apparently saw no reason to alter the scheme of things now. When she proudly displayed the Velveeta cheese dispenser, the thirteen assembled men erupted in gales of laughter.
    Mrs. Sarkisian smiled gamely, pretending to