Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

a cocktail party.
    “It’s amazing,” he told her now, back in the kitchen. “This ugly of guy is in bed in the hospital, with like crooked teeth and this craggy-ass face, and he opens his mouth to sing and out comes ’It Might As Well Be Spring.’ Only with like a crooner’s voice—you know, whoever sang it originally—and with all the orchestration and everything.”
    “I don’t get it,” said Mary Ann.
    “Me either,” said Shawna.
    “You will when you see it,” he told his wife.
    She wasn’t convinced. “Not if it takes six hours.”
    “Well…we can watch it a little bit at a time.”
    “Forget it,” said Shawna.
    He turned to his daughter and tickled her under the arms. “You’re not watching it, anyway.”
    The child squirmed, giggling. “Yes I am.”
    “Nope. You’re watching Cosby in your room.”
    “Says who?”
    “Says me. And Freddy!” He stiffed his fingers into a claw and clamped it on the back of her head, getting a squeal out of her.
    Mary Ann frowned at him. “Brian…”
    “What?”
    “That isn’t funny.”
    “Oh…O.K.” He let the claw wilt, then winked at Shawna. “Mommy’s making us sweet potatoes with teeny marshmallows.”
    “Yummy,” said Shawna.
    “Why do you think she did that?”
    Shawna shrugged.
    “He’s a child-molester, you know,” his wife said.
    He glanced at her. “Who?”
    “Freddy. In that movie.”
    “Yeah. O.K.” He turned back to Shawna. “You think it was because we were good all week?”
    “They’ve made a total hero of him. He’s got his own posters, even. It’s disgusting.”
    “I guess it is,” he said.
    “We’re doing a show on it, actually.”
    He nodded, having guessed as much already.
    “I like him,” said Shawna.
    Mary Ann frowned at her. “Who?”
    “Freddy.”
    “No you don’t,” she said. “You do not like him.”
    “Yes I do.”
    “Shawna.” Mary Ann shot him a rueful look. “See?” she said.
    “I think he’s funny,” said Shawna.
    Brian gave his wife a glance that said: Lighten up. “She thinks he’s funny.”
    “Right.” Mary Ann dumped a handful of peas into a sauce-pan. “A child-molester.”
    “You want wine with the meal?” he asked.
    “Sure. Whatever.”
    He went to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of sauvignon blanc, transferring it to the freezer so it would chill the way they liked it. Seeing Shawna wander off again, he sat down on the stool at the butcher-block island. “I meant to ask you,” he said as nonchalantly as possible. “How was your lunch with Burke yesterday?”
    “Oh.” It took her a moment. “Fine.”
    He nodded. “Get all caught up?”
    “Mmm. More or less.”
    “He still…married and all?”
    She studied him a moment, then gave him a slow, honeyed smirk. “You’re a silly man.”
    On its own, his eyebrow did something suggestive of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. “Oh, yeah?”
    Her eyes returned to the sweet potato she was slicing. “I knew you were gonna get like this.”
    “Hey,” he said, shrugging. “What way have I gotten? It was a simple question.”
    “O.K., then…Yes, he is still married. Yes, he still has two kids.”
    “How does he look?”
    “What do you want me to say?” she said. “Something really disparaging so you won’t be insecure?”
    “That would be good.”
    She smiled. “You’re such a mess.”
    “C’mon. Give it a shot. Has his ass gone froggy on him?”
    She hooted, so he sidled up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You used to like him a lot.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Hey,” he said, “I was there, remember? I saw you guys together all the time.”
    She rotated in his arms and raked the hair above his ears with her fingertips. “Did Michael make a big deal about this lunch or something?”
    “I didn’t tell him,” he said. “Did you?”
    “No. Why would I do that?”
    He shrugged.
    “And what could possibly make you think that after eleven years I would even…?”
    “Nothing,” he said. “You’re right. I’m a silly man.”
    Her eyes surveyed his with optometrical attention to detail. She gave him a dismissive rap on the butt and turned back to her sweet potatoes.
    “If you wanna know the truth,” she said, chopping away, “he’s gotten kind of prosaic.”
    “How so?”
    “I dunno. Too serious and dedicated. Wrapped up in his career.”
    “Which is?”
    “Television,” she replied. “Producing.”
    “Small world.”
    “He’s nice, though. He was really