Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

her life and cut out the neurotic bullshit once and for all.
    Maybe, come to think of it, that’s why Otto had seemed so right.
    H E WAS IN THE RING now, walking on stilts, except they were more of a cross between stilts and skis, and he could bounce on them, like some sort of alien marsupial. Shawna remembered that he was trying out an act that he was taking to Pier 39. He was wearing his “civvies,” as he liked to call them, loose jeans and a ragged gray T-shirt. His only piece of clown gear was the nose itself—that inevitable fucking red rubber ball. She watched him for at least fifteen minutes, enjoying the flirty moves of his muscles, before he spotted her in the stands and raised his arm in a solemn salute.
    Ten minutes later, having finally shed the stilt-ski contraptions, he sat down next to her and pecked her on the cheek, still wearing the nose.
    “Hello, Mr. Kar.”
    “Hey, Puppy.” She had once made the fatal mistake of sharing this childhood nickname with Otto, so he felt called upon to use it from time to time. She found that somewhat endearing, in spite of the seriously heavy shit it dredged up for her.
    “I brought sandwiches,” she said, patting the plastic bag next to her. “I thought we could go to the park. Ever been to the AIDS Grove?”
    He shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
    She smiled faintly. “I know it sounds morbid. Like … Cancer Valley or something, but it’s incredibly gorgeous right now and I think you might—”
    “Hey. I’m there.”
    So they walked into the park through the Stanyan Street entrance, passing the usual array of bongo players, children, and homeless people until they arrived at the AIDS Memorial Grove, a sunken dell full of redwoods and winding paths. They ate their lunch on the curving stone bench next to the Circle of Friends, where hundreds of names were engraved in ever-expanding circles, like ripples from a stone thrown into a pond.
    “Are these all dead people?” Otto asked, munching on his sandwich.
    “Not all of them. Some are just donors. See … there’s Sharon Stone over there.”
    Otto screwed up his face. “That’s kind of confusing, isn’t it? How can you pay your respects to them if you don’t know who’s dead and who isn’t?”
    She agreed with him and told him so. How badly, really , did Sharon Stone need to see her name in print? Wasn’t there a friend—or even some stranger—she could have memorialized instead? And Calvin Klein, for fuck’s sake. Why did he have to put his name here, of all places, when it was already on half the asses in the country?
    She rose and moved closer to the circle, squatting so she could point to a name.
    “Here’s one I know about for sure.”
    Otto leaned forward to read it. “Jon Fielding. You knew him?”
    She shook her head. “He died before I was born. He was Michael’s partner.”
    He was struggling to place the name, so she helped him out. “You met him at the farmers’ market. The gay guy I call my uncle?”
    “Oh … yeah. With the young … uh, husband.”
    “Very good,” she said, smiling at him.
    “Hey, I’m from Portland, okay?”
    She laughed and looked back at Jon’s name. “He was hella handsome. I’ve seen pictures of him. My dad really liked him.”
    She could see his wheels turning for a moment. Then, hesitantly, he said: “So your dad is gay, too.”
    “No. He just … lived among them.” She was amused by the anthropological sound of that, like some overly serious voiceover on the Discovery Channel. Brian Hawkins has explored the darkest reaches of San Francisco , where for many years he lived peaceably among the homosexuals.
    “Well … that’s cool,” said Otto.
    “Yeah. I had some fierce uncles.”
    “What about your mom?”
    Shawna shrugged, since they had talked about this before. “She was a flight attendant or … whatever they called them. She died when I was born.”
    “I meant your adoptive mom.”
    “She left when I was five. Left us … me and my dad. I really don’t know her.”
    “You haven’t seen her since then?”
    “Oh, I’ve seen her. She came out several years ago when my friend Anna was sick. And I went to see her once in Connecticut when I was still living in Brooklyn.”
    “And?”
    “She was married to a retired Republican CEO and lived in a big house on a golf course. The sandwiches she served—I swear to you—had the crusts cut off.”
    Otto winced sympathetically. “Do you know why she left in the