Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

enough. And once I’ve slipped from Ben’s Greek ideal of a loving daddy into irreversible granddaddyhood, he will surely require another lover. Not just an occasional sex partner but a lover, someone warm and strong to confide in about the hardships of coping with…me. Could I give him my blessing? Could I love him enough to be that big? How much was this going to hurt?
    “You could take me there,” he said softly.
    I was lost in the undergrowth of my dread. “What, sweetie?”
    “To England. I’d love to see that house.”
    I told him that would certainly be possible, that Mona’s son, Wilfred, still lived there and would probably welcome a chance to see us.
    “Let’s do it, then,” he said. “I want to go everywhere you’ve been.”
    This was all I needed for my heart to swell: a plan for the future, the promise of new memories, one more shot at the pipe dream of forever.
    I sealed the deal with a peck on the side of his head.
    “Okay,” I said, “and then we’ll go somewhere that’ll just be ours.”

20
    Here and Now
    T he new version of the de Young Museum is where the old one used to be: adjacent to the Japanese tea garden and just across the road from the music concourse. It’s a sprawling, low-slung building sheathed in copper panels with perforations that are meant to suggest the dappling effect of sunlight through leaves. That’s a bit of a stretch, but I do love the building. Its contorted rectilinear tower— Road Warrior by way of the Mayans—rises above the park like a mystery begging to be solved. The whole thing will become even more magical when the copper corrodes and recedes into the greenery.
    I parked the Prius in a new underground lot—an odd concept for old-time park-goers like Anna and me—and we made our way across the concourse through a regiment of recently barbered trees. As we approached the museum, I stopped in front of a favorite landmark, a bronze Beaux Arts statue of a loin-clothed hunk straining at a cider press.
    “Shall we take a breather?” I asked, conscious of Anna’s limited energy.
    She gave me a sly-dog look, casting her eyes heavenward at the near-perfect naked haunches flexing above us. “Is that what you call it?”
    “C’mon,” I said. “Lemme get my jollies.”
    Anna pulled a tissue from her velvet bag and dabbed at her watery eyes. “I should think you’d get enough of those at home.”
    I smiled at this odd-familiar blend of maternal scolding and man-to-man ribbing. In some ways, I felt more linked to Anna’s generation than I did to Ben’s, though the gap was considerably wider. Not only had Anna been where I was going, she had seen where I had been. We fit together naturally, like the two Edie Beales, if those old dames had been nice to each other. These days, I realized, Anna and I even shared the watery-eye thing, since the slightest nip in the air can make me leak like a colander. I find myself telling sympathetic strangers that I’m perfectly fine, thank you, and having a lovely day.
    “Is there one in there for me?” I asked, nodding toward her bag.
    She tugged at the drawstring, her hand fluttering slightly.
    “I’d carry them myself,” I added, “but I’d be blotting all the time. I’d look like Madame Butterfly.”
    She smiled, handing me a fresh tissue. “Nothing wrong with that.”
    I gave my eyes a serious blotting. “Easy for you to say, Kimono Girl. I still wanna look like him. ” I jerked my head toward the sinewy statue.
    “Oh dear,” said Anna, widening her eyes.
    “I know…never mind.”
    “Where is Shawna meeting us?”
    “In the café. At three.”
    “Good. Very clever of you.”
    “Yeah, at least we’ll be sitting if she’s not on time.”
    One of the trademarks of Shawna’s young womanhood is her chronic tardiness. For the mastermind of a budding blog empire she’s appallingly disorganized. By my count she’s lost three cell phones in the last two years. It must be the artistic thing.
    “Meanwhile,” said Anna, “you and I will climb the tower.”
    I took her arm again. “As Jimmy Stewart said to Kim Novak.”
    It was a nervous response more than anything. Anna had mentioned the tower twice already that day, and it seemed to carry a certain weight for her.
    Unless I was imagining things.

    Inside, the museum had a casual meandering quality that defied the dramatically blank exterior. It was tempting to wander, to get a little lost amid the textiles and oceanic art, but I wasn’t