Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

heart dead center: “We don’t care that tomorrow comes with no guarantee, we’ve each other for company.” Since then, of course, there have been thousands of tomorrows with no guarantees. Only now I saw Robert and Julie in a different light—as an intergenerational gay couple. I was no longer Victor, the ingénue; I was Toddy, the fussy “old queen with a head cold,” who knows, in spite of everything, that he is loved.
    “I’m not gonna cry about Mama,” I said.
    Ben tightened his grip on me.
    “Does that sound awful?”
    “No.”
    “I’m sure she wants to go…but…that’s not the point. It’s just not in me anymore.”
    “Some things are just too big, I guess.”
    “Or too late,” I said.

25
    Red-Eye
    W e took a cab to the airport to avoid a decision about parking—short-term or long-term?—and the implications of that. The security line was relatively hassle-free that late at night, so we made it to the gate without difficulty. But thanks to the annual cataclysm of our first rainfall, our flight was delayed for another hour and a half. The latest update from Orlovista suggested that time was of the essence, so I could feel my gut tightening on the spot. I called Irwin’s voice mail and told him about the delay, assuring him that we were still on the way. Then we dragged our carry-ons to the newsstand and sought diversion.
    The magazines we bought spoke volumes about both of us. I bought People (because I let myself do that in airports) and Coastal Living (because lately I’ve entertained fantasies about a place on the water—though I have no idea where the place, or even the water, would be). Ben bought National Geographic and Yoga Journal (because he has no idea how unwholesome his wholesomeness makes me feel). We buried ourselves in words and pictures for over an hour, remaining largely silent, both of us conscious of preserving our energy.
    Ten minutes before boarding time I made a run to the bathroom. On my return Ben told me that my cell phone had rung. I dug it out of my bag. There was a brief message from Jake: “Hi, boss. I know you’re in the air right now, but…gimme a call when you get this.”
    It was almost two a.m. but I called him back—certain I knew what he wanted.
    He sounded tentative when he answered. “Hello?”
    “They’re in the red box by the front door,” I told him.
    “What?”
    “The keys to the truck, right? I should’ve told you…I’m sorry.”
    He seemed to be gasping for air. It took me a moment to realize he was crying.
    “Jake…what is it?”
    “Anna,” he said, strangling his sobs, “had a heart attack.”
    I was looking directly at Ben now, who was obviously hearing everything. I knew what I had to ask Jake, but I found it impossible to speak.
    “I guess you haven’t taken off,” Jake said.
    “No…there was a…do you mean she’s—”
    “She’s still alive, but she’s…not awake. Damn, boss. I figured you be long gone. I hate to lay this on you when—”
    “Where are you?”
    “St. Sebastian’s. Room 5ll.”
    “We’ll be there.”
    “But won’t that make you—”
    “I’m glad you called, Jake…really.”
    I closed the cell phone and looked at Ben. He was already gathering our stuff.
    “Are you sure about this?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    But my legs wobbled pathetically as I tried to stand, so Ben grabbed my arm to keep me from toppling. Somehow he got me from there to the corner of a sports bar, where, for at least five minutes, in full view of the sports fans, I did the unimaginable and cried for my mother.

    It was raining like all get-out by the time we reached St. Sebastian’s Hospital. The whole place was in sleep mode, and the hallways were all but deserted until we reached the one outside Anna’s room. Jake had thought to notify Brian, so he and Shawna were there—noticeably distraught—as well as Marguerite and Selina, the flatmates. Jake was at the end of the hallway, deep in conversation with a doctor. Marguerite was the first to spot us.
    “Hi, guys.” She stood up and hurried over to embrace us, one at a time, briskly and equally, like the elementary schoolteacher she was. Short and partridge plump, she even looked like a schoolteacher that night. Or at least a stereotypical one. Her brown hair was wrapped tight in a bun, and there was a cameo at the throat of her high-collared blouse.
    “She’s stabilized,” she said quietly. “She’s in a coma…but she can still pull through, the