Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

first place?”
    “A job in New York, my dad said. I don’t remember it. She was a local TV personality. She had a show here called Mary Ann in the Morning .”
    “Aha. So that’s where you got it from.”
    “Got what?”
    “Being a personality.”
    She felt her face turning hot. “I’m not a personality ! Where did you get that? Don’t call me a personality.”
    He smiled in appeasement. “I just meant … media in general. And you moved to New York and all … for professional purposes … like she did.”
    Shawna grunted. “I wasn’t following in her footsteps, believe me.”
    “I do, Puppy. I believe you.”
    “And while we’re at it, could you lay off the Puppy stuff? I told you that in the weakest possible moment, and I really hate being called that.”
    “Sorry … I thought your dad called you that.”
    “Only because Mary Ann did.”
    “And that would be … ?”
    “The woman we’re talking about.”
    “Right. Got it. No more Puppy.” He seemed to be puzzling over something.
    “What?” she asked.
    “I thought you couldn’t remember her.”
    “I can’t. Not really.”
    “But you remember Puppy?”
    “My dad told me that when I was a teenager. To convince me she didn’t have ice water in her veins.”
    Otto shrugged. “Sounds like she liked you a little .”
    “Sure,” said Shawna. “Just not enough to keep her here.”

Chapter 5
The Truest Alarm
    T he first thing Mary Ann looked for at Michael’s house was the new construction at the end of the garden. Like the rest of the house, this Lilliputian structure was cedar-shingled and one-story, with latticework on the street side, which was already threaded with roses. Michael had referred to the place as a “cottage” in a recent phone conversation, but that was really stretching it. It was barely as big as one of those 1920s Model T garages that people here turned into gardening sheds. Its shingles were still raw and blond, having yet to know the rains of a Northern California winter. All in all, it was kind of sweet.
    The rest of the compound seemed unchanged since her last visit. (She thought of it as a compound, since it was really three old “earthquake shacks” that had been strung together to make a higgledy-piggledy house.) Climbing from the taxi, she found herself unexpectedly buoyed by the sight of her old friend’s deftly feathered nest. Unlike the old house on Barbary Lane, this one still harbored someone she loved.
    Michael must have been looking out for her, because he was halfway down the garden path when the taxi pulled away. “Babycakes,” he called, opening his arms to her. In three years his salt-and-pepper hair had lost most of its pepper, and his stomach beneath his untucked green Polo shirt had become a sturdy dome that approximated an early pregnancy. She remembered Michael telling her the belly was caused by his HIV meds. Lipodystrophy, he called it. Likewise the grooves in his cheeks, which she might have described as rugged had she not known differently. Only his smile was unchanged.
    She leaned against him for a moment, accepting his warmth in silence.
    Finally, she pulled way. “This is sweet of you.”
    “C’mon.”
    “I’m so fucked up.”
    He gave her an ironic smile. “I’m gonna need more than that.”
    “You’ll get it. Trust me.”
    He led her into the house. Once he had settled her on the couch, he brought out a cheesecake, which prompted him, naturally, to make a forced joke about The Golden Girls . She wondered if some of that belly might be attributable to natural causes.
    “This isn’t my usual practice,” he said, apparently reading her mind.
    “It looks yummy,” she said. “Can I pass for now?”
    He looked more bewildered than offended. “Sure … of course. Would you rather vaporize?”
    “Do what?”
    “I told you about it, remember? Very little smoke, just cannabis-flavored air. It’s a great buzz, and it saves your lungs.”
    The last thing she needed right now was something that would make her story more vivid than it already was. “You wouldn’t have any vodka, would you?”
    “You bet.” He headed back to the kitchen with the cheesecake, stopping at the door. “Cranberry or tonic?”
    “On the rocks would be fine.”
    “Should I make one for myself, or do you want me sober?”
    “Whatever you want,” she said absently. “It doesn’t matter.”
    Michael returned with two glasses of vodka—one on the rocks for her, one with cranberry for