Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

just met him, didn’t she? Doesn’t that make you a little nervous?”
    “I’d be more nervous, frankly, if it were Irwin.”
    Lenore frowned. “Irwin and Mama Tolliver?”
    “No. Irwin and Ben.”
    I gave her a grin to let her know that I wasn’t serious, but it didn’t seem to help. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her frown growing deeper.
    “Ben thinks he’s hot.”
    “Hot?” She drew the word out to at least three syllables. “Irwin?”
    “I know,” I said. “There’s no accountin’, is there?”
    Lenore was dumbstruck, somewhere just short of laughing or screaming.
    “It was just a remark,” I added. “He’s not trying to bag him. Don’t worry.”
    “Well…” She started to say something but stopped.
    “What?” I asked.
    “Nothing. You made me forget. You always do that.” She turned and started striding toward the building. “C’mon, I gotta be at Curves by two.”

11
    The War at Home
    W hile they’d never been close, Mama and Lenore had been confidantes for decades—a paradox that’s not uncommon among Southern women. Lenore had been Mama’s wailing wall in the matter of her gay son—and later, of course, her dying gay son—and they had borne those crosses together like good Christians. So I couldn’t imagine what could possibly have driven Mama to find her daughter-in-law too “Jesusy” these days. I had a feeling Ben might know already, but I didn’t dare pump him until Lenore had dropped us off down the block from our B&B and rounded the corner out of sight.
    “So what did your girlfriend want?”
    Ben’s smile was more careful than I expected. “Just to talk.”
    “I thought that’s what we were doing.”
    He took my arm sweetly, naturally, and walked us to Inn Among the Flowers. I’ve lived too long not to fret about displays of male tenderness when they happen in…oh, say…the South, so I took note of the trio of baggy-panted teens slouching toward us down the palm-lined sidewalk. They passed without comment, though, causing me to wonder if this was actual progress—or if they’d just seen a guy being nice to his dad.
    “So what’s going on?” I asked Ben, returning to the mystery at hand.
    He hesitated. “She needs your help with something.”
    “And she couldn’t ask me herself?”
    Arriving at our room, he slipped the key into the door. “She thought you’d be more likely to listen to me.” He pushed open the door, turning to me with a crooked smile. “Plus she thinks I’m a gentleman, remember?”
    (That’s another thing that annoys me about Southern women: they always work through the spouse.)
    “Don’t get too grand about it,” I said, following him into the room. “That was her backhanded way of saying that I’m not a gentleman.”
    We sat on the edge of the bed and, almost simultaneously, tore at the Velcro of our Tevas. Ben turned and gazed at me soberly, then sighed and took the leap. “Here’s the deal, sweetie: she wants to give you durable power of attorney.”
    I blinked at him for a moment, totally uncomprehending. “What do you mean? For a will or something? There can’t be much of an estate.”
    Ben shook his head. “For health care.”
    “But Irwin and Lenore have always—”
    “I know…but she wants you to handle it now…and to sign something to that effect.”
    “But…why?”
    Ben hesitated, assembling his words. “Her lungs are pretty much shot. They won’t get any better. She could last for another few months, but…”
    He didn’t finish, but none of this was news to me. I couldn’t understand why he was still treading so lightly.
    “Once her lungs go,” Ben went on, “they could put her on a respirator indefinitely, but…she doesn’t want to be around at any cost. And she’s afraid that…left to their own devices…your brother and Lenore…”
    I finished the thought for him: “…wouldn’t let her die.”
    He nodded slowly. “Yep.”
    “Jesus,” I murmured.
    “Pretty much,” he said.
    A long leaden silence.
    “Has she told them that?” I asked. “What she wants, I mean.”
    “No.”
    “Why not? It’s worth a shot. You never know if—”
    “She’s sure they wouldn’t go for it. Especially Lenore.”
    “She asked her specifically, then?”
    Ben shook his head. “They used to watch Terri Schiavo together.”
    “Motherfucker,” I said. “Of course .”
    You must remember Terri Schiavo, the woman in the “persistent vegetative state” whose parents were