Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

while to find them, since they were almost the color of the fields and barely bigger than a paper clip. “People,” I said. “Naked people, in fact.”
    “You are correct, sir,” said Shawna, imitating Ed McMahon on the Carson show. She used to do that when she was seven years old, charming the dickens out of grown-ups. She might be young, I thought, but she does remember Johnny and Ed.
    “Where are they?” asked Anna, stepping closer to the painting. “I don’t see them.”
    “Here,” I said, pointing. “And here…and there’s a couple down here in the trees.”
    Without a moment’s hesitation, Anna yanked open her bag and removed an enormous magnifying glass with an ornate handle fashioned from junk-shop silverware. I don’t know exactly why it struck me as hilarious but it did, seeing her there in her sneakers and her turban and Chinese grandma pajamas examining the canvas like Inspector Clouseau on the trail of a murderer. Shawna, I was glad to see, found it humorous, too, so we both dissolved in giggles—to Anna’s mounting annoyance.
    “Stop it, children. Don’t make a scene.”
    “Are they girls or boys?” Shawna asked, prolonging the mirth.
    Anna’s eyes were still glued to the glass. “I presume they’re gods, if this is Parnassus.”
    “Maybe they’re picnickers from Mill Valley.” This was my contribution.
    “Really,” said Anna, putting the glass away. “How old are you two?”
    Shawna looked chastened. “I just figured you’d think it was cool.”
    “It is, dear. It’s extremely cool.”
    “We weren’t laughing at you, ” I put in, taking her arm. “Just that thing.”
    “It’s very handy,” said Anna. “You’ll see.”
    We spent another half-hour drifting through galleries until Anna discreetly expressed her need for “the ladies room.” When we found it, Shawna asked if she needed assistance. Anna shook her head with a smile. “I’m fine, dear,” she said, before turning to me halfway through the door. “I’ll need to go home, though, after this. Notch will be cross with me.”
    The door swung shut. Shawna turned to me with a slack expression.
    “Who the hell is Notch?”
    I grinned at her. “I’d introduce you, but she’s still under the armoire.”

21
    Memory Foam
    M y husband was doing yoga in the bedroom, attempting the union of body and soul, while I was nattering away. I was pleasantly stoned by then and lobbying for a quiet evening on the sofa with The French Lieutenant’s Woman . Ben had never seen the film, so I had TiVo’d it in the hope of enlightening him. I was droning on about this wonderful, moody, romantic story and its brilliant author, John Fowles, and the other atmospheric movies— The Collector and The Magus —made from Fowles’ novels.
    This is typical of me. Given pot and the nearness of Ben I can be a crashing bore. Ben has a master’s degree (and I don’t, of course), but I somehow feel compelled to play teacher when we’re together, to tell him every little thing he missed by being young. It’s tempting to do this because he listens so generously, even with a foot behind his head.
    When his cell phone rang, he sighed at this final invasion of his peace.
    “Shall I check it?” I asked.
    “Please.”
    I took the phone from the nightstand and looked at the readout. “It’s Leo,” I said.
    Ben untangled his limbs and took the phone from me. I returned to my Morris chair and picked up a magazine, knowing that Ben would not require privacy.
    “Say hi for me,” I told him.
    I’ve met two of Ben’s exes: this one, Leo, the retired Suburu dealer from South Bend, and Paolo, the Italian stockbroker from Sardinia. They are both nice guys, but except for the fact that we’re all (I’m told) uncut and pushing sixty from one side or the other, we are wildly unalike. It intrigues me to think that each of us has spent significant time with Ben; each has been his answer to something. But I don’t feel especially competitive in their presence; I feel like a clue, a piece of the puzzle. It’s much easier not to be threatened by your lover’s exes if you don’t want to fuck them yourself.
    Ben took the call on the bed. This was our new Tempurpedic mattress, designed by Swedes or NASA or somebody to conform to every contour. We ordered it on an impulse at the Denver airport last Christmas when we were visiting Ben’s family. Seeing him there on his stomach, pale and glistening in his briefs, I imagined the imprint his