Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

I’m away from home for any length of time whatsoever. I expect all hell to break loose.
    But Anna’s message was soothing: “Oh…uh…hello, dear, just sending my love. I hope you and Ben are having a lovely time. There’s no need to call unless you feel like it. Everything is fine here. Do give my love to your mother. Goodbye, dear.”
    Sweet. Typically Anna in its gentility and thoughtfulness. Her sign-off had a finality that unsettled me, but I wrote that off to her general inexperience with leaving voice messages. On the other hand, when you’re eighty-five years old, maybe you know to treat every goodbye as potentially your last. Maybe you’re just more conscious by then.
    It was too early to return her call, so I waited until midmorning, when Ben was doing his yoga down in the motel’s workout room. She answered on the first ring.
    “Madrigal.”
    “It’s me, Anna.”
    “Oh…dear. How lovely.”
    “It’s good to hear you, too.”
    “I hope I didn’t call at an inconvenient time last night.”
    “Not at all.” I smiled to myself when I said that, but I meant it just the same. More than anything, sex with Patreese had been a well-deserved escape from the bullshit of the biologicals, so it struck me as sort of charming, really, that Anna’s good wishes had reached us—shall we say?—post-climactically. It was like a transcontinental blessing.
    “How is your mother doing?” she asked.
    “No better,” I told her, “but no worse.”
    “Ah…well.”
    “She seems to be in a good place, though. The home, I mean. Christian as all hell, but what can you do?”
    “What does she do?” asked Anna.
    “Not much,” I said. “There’s a man who comes by regularly to do her hair and makeup.”
    “Well, that’s good,” said Anna. “I know that’s important to her.” How she knew this, I couldn’t tell you, given how little time she’d spent with Mama all those years ago. Maybe she just meant that women in general—and those who’ve successfully achieved womanhood—often appreciate the value of hair and makeup.
    “He’s a sweet guy,” I said. “And when he’s not doing hair, he strips.”
    Anna hesitated for a moment. “I take it you don’t mean floors.”
    I laughed. “He gets nekkid for the ladies.”
    “Well, that must be a hit at the home.”
    I laughed. “It’s just how he moonlights…far as I know.”
    “What a pity. How’s the rest of the family?”
    “Pretty much the same. My brother’s still bragging about his boats. My sister-in-law’s still heavy into her Jesus puppets.”
    She uttered a tolerant sigh. “Well, to each his own, dear. Have they been sweet to Ben?”
    “Everybody’s sweet to Ben.”
    “I suppose you’re right,” she said.
    “My seven-year-old great-nephew has a huge crush on him.”
    “Indeed?”
    “It’s platonic,” I told her, “but the kid is definitely a nancy boy.”
    Anna paused for a moment. “Isn’t seven a little early to know who you are?”
    “It wasn’t for me,” I said.
    She took that in for a moment. “No,” she said softly, “not for me, either.”
    “I’m worried about him,” I told her. “I think his grandfather’s on to him. He’s been making noises about boot camp.”
    “ Boot camp? For a seven-year-old?”
    “It’s something they saw on Maury .”
    “On what ?”
    “A TV show. Never mind. I think my brother was just thumping his chest.”
    Anna’s wheels were already turning. “Get them to send him out here for the summer.”
    I chuckled. “They’d sooner send him to Afghanistan.”
    “No…really, dear…we could take him to the new museum. And Chrissy Field…and the Exploratorium. The redwoods, for heaven sake.”
    Anna hadn’t had a kid to raise since Shawna (unless you count the thirty years she’s been raising me), so it was touching to see how quickly she could still embrace her inner landlady. I loved the thought of nellie little Sumter basking in her all-forgiving aura, but she and I both knew she didn’t have the strength for it.
    “Have you been keeping busy?” I asked.
    “ Keeping busy? That’s a terrible thing to ask someone.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Only the bored keep busy. I am busy.”
    “I have no doubt of that.”
    “Brian and Shawna took me to see The Black Rider the other night.”
    “What’s that?”
    “A musical. Sort of. Tom Waits and William Burroughs, if you can imagine. Tuesday is acid night, apparently. The kids get high and take over the first six