Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

her sister’s house, somewhere in Oklahoma.
    He had offered to care for her himself—with Mary Ann’s knowledge—but she had dismissed the idea with a laugh. They had been playmates, not lovers, she’d told him. “Don’t make us into something we weren’t. We had a good time, pilgrim. Your services are no longer required.”
    When his test came back negative, his relief had been so profound that he embarked on a regime of feverish domesticity. Now he rented movies and baked brownies and stayed at home with his daughter, even on the nights when Mary Ann had “important” parties to attend. He had lost his stomach altogether for the sycophants and socialites who revolved around his famous wife.
    If something had been lost between him and Mary Ann, it was nothing dramatic, nothing he could pinpoint with certainty. Their sex life still flourished (though it slacked off dramatically during ratings periods), and over the years they had grown increasingly adept at avoiding arguments.
    Sometimes, though, he wondered if they weren’t too careful in each other’s presence, too formal and solicitous and artificially jolly. As if their domestic arrangement were no more than that: an arrangement, which demanded courtesy in the absence of the real thing.
    Or maybe, as she often suggested, he was just overanalyzing again.

    He was back in the office, updating the work schedule on the computer, when Michael’s beeper sounded. He tracked the shrill plastic disk to the pocket of his partner’s cardigan, clicked it off, and took it out into the greenhouse, where he found Michael on his knees, potting succulents.
    “Oh, thanks,” he said, pocketing the pillbox. “Sorry ’bout that.”
    “Hey.” Brian shrugged, embarrassed by the apology. He had long ago accepted the beeper as a fixture in both their lives, but it was Michael for whom it really tolled. Every four hours. “You need some water?” he asked.
    Michael had already returned to his potting. “I’ll take ’em in a minute.”
    As a rule, he realized, Michael refused to jump to the beeper’s commands. It was his way of keeping the poisonous drug in its place.
    “So,” asked Michael, “which one of you got her?” Brian pretended not to know what he meant.
    “You know.” Michael jerked his head toward the door. “Jessica Rabbit out there.”
    “Who said there was a contest?”
    “That’s funny. I could have sworn I smelled testosterone.”
    “Must’ve been Polly,” said Brian.
    Michael laughed and plunged the trowel into the soil. “I’ll tell her you said that.”
    Brian turned and headed for the door. “Take your pills,” he said.
    “Yes, Mother.”
    Chuckling, he headed out into the sunshine.

Her Day
    B ACK IN THE DRESSING ROOM , A VEIN POUNDING BRUTALLY in her temple, Mary Ann Singleton stretched out on the sofa and kicked off her shoes with a sigh. No sooner had she done so than someone rapped tentatively on the door.
    “Yes?” she called colorlessly, already certain it was Raymond, the squirrely new assistant they’d assigned her while Bonnie, her regular, was off houseboating in the Delta with her boyfriend.
    Just what she needed right now. Another greenhorn who didn’t know squat about television.
    “Mary Ann?”
    “Yeah, Raymond, come in.”
    The door eased open and Raymond eased in. He was wearing a thigh-length black Yamamoto shirt that was meant to be stylish but only served to exaggerate his dorkiness. “If this is a bad time…
    “No,” she said, managing a thin smile. “Sit down, it’s fine.” He took the stool in front of the makeup table and fidgeted with the notes on his clipboard. “Interesting show.” She groaned.
    “Where did they find her?”
    “Are you kidding? They find us . Have you seen the lineup this week? It looks like talent night at Napa.”
    He nodded solemnly, obviously not getting it.
    “It’s a mental hospital,” she explained. “Up north.”
    “Oh.”
    “You’re not from here, are you?”
    “Well…I am now, but I’m originally from the Midwest.” After a moment’s consideration, she decided not to tell him she was from Cleveland. This was a professional relationship, after all, and she didn’t want things to get too chummy. Why give him something he could use against her later? “So,” she said, “what have you got for me?”
    Gravely and with great deliberation, Raymond perused his clipboard. It might have contained a list of fatalities from an airlines disaster. “First