Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

you’d just have to pay the fare coming back.”
    Michael didn’t argue with him. He pictured himself alone in that cab, and it seemed even worse than this.
    “Besides,” said Thack, “I like the idea of saying goodbye at the steps. I like the symmetry of it, a clean break.”
    It sounded like carpentry to Michael, precise and a little cold-blooded.
    “Oh,” Thack added. “Tell Mrs. Madrigal I’m sorry.”
    “For what?”
    “Aren’t they tearing down the steps tomorrow?”
    “Oh, yeah.” He hadn’t thought about that for days. “I’ll tell her.”
    Reaching the steps, Thack set his suitcase down. Michael did the same with the carry-on. Thack said: “It’s been really great. Some great memories.”
    “Same here,” said Michael.
    Sadistically early, the cab appeared on the street beneath them. Thack waved authoritatively, then put his arms around Michael. “Gimme a kiss. We’ll make him squirm.”
    “I don’t think so,” said Michael, seeing who the driver was. “Hello, Teddy,” he hollered down.
    “Hello, Michael,” came the melodious reply.
    “He’s a friend of mine,” he explained. “He must’ve recognized the address.”
    “Oh.”
    “He’s a lord.”
    “Of what?”
    “Of England,” said Michael. “Lord Roughton. He married this lesbian friend of mine. Get him to tell you about it.”
    “All right,” said Thack, smiling. “I’ll do that.” He kissed Michael lightly on the mouth. Twice. “Stay well,” he said softly.
    “I plan to,” said Michael.
    Thack grabbed his bags and headed down the steps, stopping only to reexamine his earlier handiwork. When he saw Michael watching him, he grinned sheepishly. “Our plank,” he said.
    “I know,” said Michael.
    There was nothing even close to comfort food in the house, so Michael ran down to the Searchlight and bought a quart of milk and a package of Oreos. He was tearing into them when the phone rang.
    “Yeah,” he answered flatly, faking civility for no one, least of all Brian, who should have called hours ago, if he was going to be this late.
    But it was Charlie. “Well, how did it go?”
    “It was fine,” he said.
    “Fine? What does that mean? What’s that noise?”
    “I’m eating,” said Michael.
    “Not cookies? Oreos?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, shit. It’s bad. Is he still there?”
    “No. He left.”
    “There was a fight?”
    “No, Charlie, no fight. He just went home.”
    “Well … you knew he was gonna do that.”
    “This is true,” said Michael. “Now change the subject.”
    “Swell,” said Charlie. “How ‘bout going to a wake with me?”
    Michael felt his skin prickle. “Whose?”
    “You don’t know him. Philip Presley. He worked on the Peninsula, I think.”
    “You think? Don’t you know him?”
    “Well, not exactly. His Shanti volunteer helped me out with Lou Pirelli’s memorial service, so I kind of owe him one. Please, Michael, his parents are snake-handlers or something. I can’t deal with Bible-thumpers without a little moral support.”
    “I’m running out of outfits,” said Michael.
    “Do the blazer,” said Charlie. “The blazer is you.”
    “When is it?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “I should be at work, actually.”
    “It’s during lunch hour. I’ll pick you up. It won’t take long. It’s potluck, but I’ll make my pecan pie, and it can be from both of us.”
    Michael capitulated with a weary laugh. “What time?” he asked.
    “Noon,” said Charlie. “You’re a prince.”
    “See you then,” said Michael.
    “Bye-bye,” said Charlie.
    Michael hung up and continued ravaging the Oreos. He ate half a dozen of them and took the rest to the bathroom, where he soaked in the tub and waited for Brian to call.

Homesick at Home
    F OR DEDE, THIS WAS THE VERY LANDSCAPE OF PEACE: the apple orchard, the swimming pool, the familiar line of bee-bristling lavender marching into the yellow hills. If Wimminwood had been D’orothea’s Oz, here lay her own beloved Kansas, her eternal consolation, her Halcyon-only space.
    Smiling, she sat up on her towel and watched as the sun sank like a hot penny into the buttery distance. A soft umber dust hovered over the orchard, motes dancing in the light, rendering the scene in sepia tones.
    She called to her daughter, frolicking solo in the pool.
    “What?” came the put-upon reply.
    “Time to get out.”
    “Awww …”
    “No lip, Anna. You’ll shrivel up.”
    “No I won’t. I gotta catch up. I’ve been pool-deprived.”
    DeDe