Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

go?”
    “I don’t know.” DeDe gave her a rueful glance. “It was D’or’s idea.”
    Polly digested that, then said: “Like this, huh?”
    DeDe nodded vaguely. “I guess so. I have a mind of my own, believe it or not.”
    “I believe you.”
    “She’s strong, so I let her be strong. I like it that way. Most of the time.”
    Mischief flickered in Polly’s eyes. “Is she the one who lights the charcoal and grills the steaks?”
    DeDe wasn’t sure how to take that, but she laughed, anyway. “The tuna,” she said, correcting her.
    “Oh. Right. No red meat. I forgot.” Polly nodded solemnly. “And she’s the one the kids obey?”
    “What is this?” asked DeDe.
    “I’m just curious.”
    “Yes, you are.”
    “Well, we’re friends, aren’t we? I just wanna … share.” Polly smiled. “Like in the sixties.”
    DeDe popped the top on a Diet 7-Up. “You’re incorrigible.”
    “Don’t say that,” said Polly.
    “Why not?”
    “It sounds like my seventh-grade English teacher.”
    DeDe took a sip. “You hated her?”
    “No,” said Polly. “She turned me on.”
    “Don’t make me self-conscious, O.K.?”
    Polly stared at her for a moment, then shook her head slowly and said, “Boy!”
    “What?” asked DeDe.
    “DeDe the Debutante.”
    This irked her. Why did everybody get to fire off this potshot? Debutantes—no, reformed debutantes—were probably the last oppressed minority on earth. “Look,” she said, “I took off my shirt, didn’t I?”
    “You did,” said Polly quietly, “and breast fans everywhere are grateful.”
    DeDe groaned at her.
    “But, “ said Polly, “you took it off for a debutante reason, not because you’re really comfortable that way.”
    “C’mon. What the hell does that mean—a debutante reason?”
    Polly shrugged. “You took it off because D’or took hers off, and you’re afraid that Sabra’s gonna take hers off pretty soon. So you beat her to it.”
    “Oh, please,” said DeDe.
    “It’s so obvious,” said Polly. “It’s the Pillsbury Boob-Off.”
    “Will you stop? In the first place, Sabra Landauer would never take hers off in a million years.”
    “O.K…. So you took yours off to prove that you’re better than Sabra.”
    “I did not.”
    Polly picked up an apple, polishing it against the leg of her 501’s. “So where is she now?”
    “Who?”
    “D’or.”
    “At the Holly Near concert.”
    “Is she with Sabra?”
    “Probably,” said DeDe.
    “You think they’ve been doing it?”
    DeDe thought exactly that, but she refused to give shape to her fears.
    Polly took a bite of the apple, chewed and swallowed. “You know what?”
    “What?”
    “You should fake her out, pretend to be fucking around yourself.”
    DeDe gave her a doubtful look. “With you, I suppose.”
    “Sure. I could be real convincing.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    Polly turned and grinned at her.
    “I could never be that petty,” said DeDe.
    “Force yourself,” said Polly. “There are big stakes here. Sabra’s wrecked a few marriages in her time.”
    DeDe didn’t want to hear this. “She’s not all that good-looking,” she said.
    “Yeah, but she’s rich.”
    “I’m rich,” said DeDe.
    “She’s rich and famous,” said Polly. “And she gets to do everything. Broadway openings, limos all over the place, personal friends with Lily and Jane …”
    “Thanks,” said DeDe. “Thanks a lot.”
    Polly studied her a moment, then sat up and pulled on a celadon sweatshirt.
    “Where are you going?” asked DeDe.
    “I’m outa here,” said Polly. “There’s a burger out there with my name on it.”
    DeDe felt deserted again. What would she do? Go back to her tent and wait for Anna to return from her quilting class? Should she be there, looking useless and alone, when D’or returned?
    And what if D’or didn’t return?
    Polly hopped to her feet and began searching the tent for her socks. “Come with me,” she said. “I won’t be gone that long.”
    “Well …”
    She handed DeDe her shirt. “C’mon, Mama. Let’s get dressed and go to town.”

Name-Dropper
    A CCORDING TO JIMMY, THE MOST IMPOSING SPIDERS were female, and this one certainly fit the bill. Fat, furry and crimson-bellied, she dangled from a fragile trapeze, weaving her macramé only inches from Booter’s sunburned face.
    He was in a tent; he could tell that much. His mouth tasted foul, and his head was throbbing. His feet were bound together, and his hands were tied behind his back.