Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

“I’ve missed her too,” she said to the kid.
    It was asinine, but he felt a little jealous of Mrs. Madrigal’s undivided devotion to Shawna. “I saw your notice,” he said, searching for something to please her. “Are those crazy bastards really gonna tear down the steps?”
    The landlady nodded soberly. “If we don’t put up a fight.”
    She said we, he noticed; that was something. She still considered him part of the lane. “Well … if there’s anything I can do …”
    “There is, actually.”
    “Great.”
    “I thought perhaps if Mary Ann could say something on her show … you know, just a few words about preserving our heritage, that sort of thing.” She fussed with a wisp of hair at her temple, waiting for his response.
    “Yeah … well, sure … I could mention it to her. They have an awfully rigid format, though.” He was backtracking now, remembering Mary Ann’s aversion to what she called “hokey local items.” Mrs. Madrigal’s crusade would almost certainly fall into that category.
    The landlady read him like a book. “I see,” she murmured.
    “I’ll tell her, though. I’m sure she’ll be upset about it.”
    Mrs. Madrigal studied him for a moment, almost wistfully, then began scanning the ground around her feet. “Now where did those damn things go? Shawna dear, look over there in that ivy and see if you can find Anna’s tweezers.”
    He thought briefly of begging her forgiveness, then turned frivolous in his embarrassment. “Hey,” he blurted, “you should grow your fingernails long.”
    Now on her hands and knees, Mrs. Madrigal looked up at him. “Why is that, dear?”
    “You know, like those housewives in Humboldt County. Works much better than tweezers, they say.”
    She handled this clumsy inanity with her usual grace. “Ah, yes. I see what you mean.” Falling silent again, she searched until she found the tweezers, then stood up and brushed her hands on her skirt. “I tried that once … growing my nails long.” She caught her breath and shook her head. “I wasn’t man enough for it.”
    He laughed, hugely relieved. In Mrs. Madrigal’s repertoire, a proffered joke was the next best thing to forgiveness. When her eyes locked on his, they were full of their old familiar playfulness. He saw his entry and took it.
    “I wonder,” he said, “if I could ask a big favor of you.”
    She looked at him for a moment, then peered down at the child hanging on her skirt. “Tell you what, dear. Go into the house and look on the sofa. There’s a nice new friend for you.”
    Shawna looked skeptical. “A Gobot?”
    “You’ll see. Be careful of the steps, now. The door is open.”
    As the child toddled away, Mrs. Madrigal beamed appreciatively. “She’s just as smart as she can be.”
    “What did you get her?” he asked.
    “Just a stuffed animal,” came the mumbled reply.
    It embarrassed him a little that the landlady spent money on Shawna. “You really shouldn’t,” he said.
    She answered with a faint who-gives-a-damn smile, then said: “What sort of favor?”
    “Well,” he said, “my nephew is coming to town for a few days, and I wondered if … if he could stay at our old place.”
    She blinked at him.
    “If it’s a problem,” he added hastily, “just say so, and I’ll …”
    “How old is he?”
    “Uh … eighteen, I think. Maybe nineteen.”
    She nodded. “Well … there’s no furniture, of course. There’s a cot in the basement and maybe a chest of drawers.” She tapped her forefinger against her lower lip. Her maternal juices were obviously functioning again. It cheered Brian to know that he could still do this for her.
    “His name is Jed,” he said. “He’s in pre-law at Rice University. That’s all I know, except that he’s probably straight.”
    The landlady gave him a sly smile. “That’s what he told you? He’s probably straight?”
    He laughed. “Well, he’s currently in love with Bruce Springsteen, so I just assumed he was.”
    “Now wait a minute.”
    “It’s Michael’s theory. Get him to explain it. He says every generation produces one male performer that straight boys are allowed to be queer for. It was Mick Jagger for a long time, and now it’s Bruce Springsteen. So I figure the kid’s straight.”
    “You and your featherbrained theories.”
    “It’s not my theory. I just—” He cut himself off, realizing she’d addressed her remarks to Michael, who had sauntered into the courtyard from the