Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

said Michael.
    “Well, of course I’ve heard of her. I’m just not up on my mythology.”
    “Sappho wasn’t mythological.”
    “Hey,” Thack told him, “lay off.”
    “Yeah,” said Polly.
    Mrs. Madrigal was frowning now. “If you children are going to quarrel…”
    Michael shook his head reproachfully at Polly. “How can you call yourself a dyke?”
    His employee heaved a sigh and shifted her weight to her other hip. “I don’t call myself one. I am one. I didn’t have to take a course in it, you know.”
    “And that,” said Michael, keeping a straight face, “is what’s wrong with the young people of today.”
    Polly groaned. Thack slid his arm along Michael’s shoulder and gave him a vigorous shake. “Such an old poop.”
    “Indeed,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “And such a short memory.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well…if I’m not mistaken, dear, I had to explain Ronald Firbank to you.”
    Michael frowned at her. “You did?”
    She nodded.
    “You couldn’t have.”
    “I think so.”
    “Well…Firbank is much more obscure than Sappho.”
    “Now,” said the landlady, dispensing with the subject as she turned her attention to Polly, “will you be all right while I’m gone?”
    Polly shrugged. “Sure.”
    “I doubt you’ll need heat, but if you do and it goes on the fritz, there’s a knob on the furnace you can jiggle.”
    Polly nodded. “I remember.”
    “I’m leaving the extra keys with the Gottfrieds on the third floor, so you can buzz them if you lose yours.”
    “O.K. Thanks.”
    “Oh…if you could keep an eye out for Rupert. I think he’s eating with the Treachers these days, but I keep some kitty food for him just in case. It’s in the cupboard here. I’ll give you a key before I leave.”
    Hearing all this, Michael felt old and faintly alienated, like some decrepit alumnus who returns to his campus to find that undergraduate life has gone on without him. Who were these people, anyway—these Gottfrieds and Treachers who were privy now to the age-old mysteries of the lane?
    He realized, too, that he was slightly jealous of Polly in her newfound role as junior lieutenant at 28 Barbary Lane. This was irrational, of course—it was he, after all, who had chosen to move away—but the feeling gnawed at him just the same.
    When he and Thack left that evening, Mrs. Madrigal took their arms like a dowager duchess and walked them down the foggy lane to the top of the steps. The very smell of this ferny place, pungent with earth and eucalyptus, released a torrent of memories, and Michael felt perilously capable of tears.
    “Now listen,” said the landlady, as she released them for their descent. “Let’s do something fun before I leave.”
    “You bet,” said Thack.
    Mrs. Madrigal tugged on Michael’s sleeve. “How about you, young man?”
    “Sure.” Michael avoided her gaze.
    “Make him call,” she told Thack. “He’ll forget.”
    “I won’t forget,” said Michael, and he hurried down the steps before she could see his face.

Well Enough Alone
    S O FAR , BRIAN REALIZED , A WHOLE DAY HAD PASSED without a peep out of Mary Ann about her lunch date with Burke Andrew. He had almost brought it up himself the night before, but something about her skittery, overpolite demeanor told him to leave well enough alone. If there was still something left between her and Burke, he didn’t want to know about it.
    This was paranoia, of course, but what could you do?
    It was a clear blue evening, and he was heading home in his Jeep. The ivory towers of Russian Hill had gone golden in the sunset. All things considered, he had plenty to feel golden about himself, so this nagging insecurity would have to stop.
    If anything, he decided, he should feel reassured by her behavior. The reunion had obviously been so uneventful that she had simply forgotten to mention it. What’s more, if something had clicked between the two of them, she would have known better than to draw attention to the situation by keeping quiet; she would have mentioned it casually and let the subject drop.
    He had put the matter behind him when he arrived at the twenty-third floor of The Summit.
    “Yo,” he hollered, coming into the living room. The slanting sun cast a sherry-colored light on the carpet, where several dozen of Shawna’s dolls were arrayed face-down in pristine rows. “I’m home, people.”
    His daughter emerged from the bedroom and stood scratching her butt. “Hi, Daddy.” In her other