Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

that.

    The house was nicer than he’d imagined, but this was hardly the night to show off its view. The fog pressed against the windows like a fat lady in ermine. While Mary Ann sought out “somebody in charge,” he loitered in the living room and gave the place an embarrassed once-over. It seemed a little callous to be checking out the digs of a dead man, even with the blessing of the deceased.
    He remembered the day the realtor had propositioned him at the nursery—back when it was still God’s Green Earth. Arch had come in for primroses and recognized Michael as an ex-lover of Jon’s. Moving in for the kill, he had stuffed a business card into Michael’s overalls and made an overt and clumsy reference to owning a Betamax.
    Now “Betamax” had the ring of “Gramophone,” and the travertine reaches of Arch Gidde’s living room, circa 1976, seemed as quaintly archival as a Victorian parlor preserved in a museum. The focal point was a gleaming chrome fireplace (with a matching chrome bin for the logs). Facing the hearth was a pair of enormous Italian sofas—pale arcs of buttery leather, burnished over the years by the endless buffing of gym-toned asses. The only thing missing was a lone anthurium in a crystal vase.
    He could picture Jon here easily, sprawled in the golden light like some surly sweater spread out of GQ . He had been a mess in those days, but he had changed dramatically toward the end, and that freer, more forgiving person was the one Michael chose to remember.

    “Wait till you see the bedroom.”
    Mary Ann was back, taking his arm at the bar as he ordered a Calistoga.
    “Is it nice?”
    “The walls are brown suede. And padded. It’s such a womb .”
    “What are you drinking?”
    “Nothing. No, fuck that. A white wine.”
    “Hey,” said Michael. “Wild woman.”
    She smiled at him. “I’m so glad you’re with me.”
    When their drinks came, he lifted his to hers. “To things getting better.”
    She took a sip, then said: “Why am I no good at this, Mouse?”
    “At what?”
    “Ending things.”
    “Oh.”
    “I wanted so much not to hurt him…to do it the right way…”
    “You think there is one?”
    “One what?”
    “A right way.”
    “I don’t know.” She took a sip of her wine. “I guess if I’d told him earlier…”
    “Yeah.”
    “I know I’m doing what has to be done. But even so…I feel like such a piece of shit, you know?” She looked at him almost reverently, as if she was expecting absolution.
    “Well, c’mon…you’re not a piece of shit.”
    The room was beginning to fill up. It seemed to make her uneasy. “Why don’t we get away from the bar?” she said.
    “Fine.”
    They found a quieter spot—a den of sorts—on a lower level. “The thing is,” she said, continuing where she’d left off, “I can’t ever remember what it was like when I did feel something toward him. I wake up some mornings, and I look at him, and I think: How did this happen?”
    What did she expect him to say to that?
    “I mean…I remember feeling it, but I don’t remember how it felt. Like that time at the candlelight vigil…”
    “Harvey Milk’s?”
    “John Lennon’s.”
    “Oh, yeah.” He smiled, remembering it too. Brian had bought strawberry-scented candles to invoke “Strawberry Fields.” He and Mary Ann had spent hours on the Marina Green, paying homage to the world’s most celebrated househusband, then returned to Barbary Lane bleary-eyed and exultant.
    “He was so sweet,” said Mary Ann. “And afterwards he left this note on my door that said: ‘Help me if you can, I’m feeling down, and I do appreciate your being ’round.’”
    Michael nodded.
    “It was so completely him. So overblown and corny and really nice.” She smiled wanly. “I wish to hell I could feel that now.”
    “You must. You’re telling me about it.”
    “Only what I remember. Remembering’s different.”
    “But you must at least feel…”
    “Not a thing, really.” She paused and gazed bleakly out at the fog. “Just a little sorry for him sometimes.” Turning, she looked directly at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “If that makes me a bitch, I can’t help it.”
    He took her hand. “It doesn’t make you a bitch.”
    She began to weep quietly. When he tried to take her in his arms, she pulled away. “No, Mouse, I can’t. I’ll come unglued.”
    “Be my guest.”
    “No. Not here.”
    A clubby-looking woman appeared in the doorway. “Oh, isn’t