Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

worry, she was saying, we’ve saved a place for you. He let it pass without comment, knowing she meant well, the way she had years before when she’d lobbied annually for him to spend Christmas “with the family” in Orlando. It had never even occurred to her that his family might be elsewhere.

    She rambled on for another half hour, filling him in on people he hadn’t seen for at least fifteen years. Most of her gossip was second generation, since his high school buddies were now the parents of children old enough to drink and take dope and “get into trouble with the law.”
    It wasn’t the same Orlando anymore. He’d seen as much when he went home for the funeral. In the years since his departure, the trees at Disney World had thickened into plantation oaks. The Mickeys and Goofys who plied their trade there could now be found off duty at Parliament House—the P.H. to those in the know—and antiseptic gay mall offering a choice of leather, western, or preppie saloons.
    The cemetery, as he recalled, had been two minutes off the interstate, with a broad avenue of palms and a heart-stopping view of the Piggly Wiggly.
    No, thank you, ma’am.

    Thack emerged from the bathroom in his terry-cloth robe. “How was she?” he asked.
    “Fine.”
    “What’s she been up to?”
    “Well…among other things, trying to bury me in Florida.”
    “Huh?”
    “My father’s tombstone arrived, and she’s working on a family reunion.”
    Thack rolled his eyes and sat on the edge of the bed. “Leave it to me,” he said.
    “She’ll fight you over it.”
    “No she won’t. She likes me.”
    “That has nothing to do with it. Trust me.”
    Thack picked at the comforter for a moment. “Did you tell her what you wanted?”
    “No.”
    “Are you going to?”
    “I guess I’ll have to write her,” said Michael. “It’s kind of hard to get chatty about.”
    Thack smiled. “Turn over.”
    Michael turned over. Thack straddled his back and kneaded the muscles at the base of his neck.
    “These people are serious Christians,” Michael told him. “They’ll put me in the living room and bring casseroles.”
    His lover laughed. “Shut up.”
    “I mean it. You don’t know.”
    “Yeah, yeah.”
    “And next to me there’ll be this huge philodendron on a spinning wheel…”
    “Just relax.”
    “Lower,” said Michael. “That feels wonderful.”
    “There?”
    “Yes.”
    Thack seized the tightest rope of muscle between his thumb and forefinger. “What is this, anyway? Mary Ann?”
    “Do you have to name it?” said Michael. “Can’t you just rub it?”

    The new doorbell made them both jump. This particular model had caught Michael’s eye at Pay ’n Pak with its simple design and lyrical name—the Warbler. What this meant was that it fired away like a machine gun as long as there was a finger on the bell. Only the briefest poke would produce the lone dingdong usually associated with a doorbell.
    And the damn dog went nuts over it.
    “Harry,” said Thack, springing off Michael’s back. “Shut the fuck up.”
    “Who are we expecting?”
    “Nobody.”
    Harry was in the living room now, yapping like crazy. Michael scooped him up and stashed him in the guest bedroom. Peering through the spy hole in the front door, he saw Brian’s distorted face, golden as a carp’s under the orange porch light. He was the only person they knew who never remembered not to lean on the doorbell.
    Michael opened the door. “Hi.”
    “Hi. Sorry I didn’t call first.”
    “No problem.”
    “Is it a bad time?”
    “Not at all.”
    Thack let Harry out of the guest bedroom. The dog did a barkless little jig around Brian—the one he saved for members of the immediate family.
    “How’s it going, Harry?” Brian let the dog sniff his hand for a moment, then gave it up, seemingly drained of energy. “You guys were in bed, weren’t you?”
    Thack shook his head. “On it. Back rub.”
    “Oh.”
    “Sit down. Can we warm up some polenta lasagna for you?”
    “No, thanks.” He sank into the armchair as if he might never get up again.
    “There’s some wine,” said Michael. “Sauvignon blanc.” He had just noticed how wrecked Brian’s eyes were.
    “Any Scotch?”
    “Not really.”
    “How ’bout rum?” Thack suggested.
    Michael looked at his lover. “Where do we have rum?”
    “Under the sink, next to the cleaning stuff.”
    “Since when?”
    “We bought it for the eggnog last year.”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    “Rum