Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

shrugged. “The surgery is in two weeks, so … I guess at least that long and … a little bit longer.”
    “Will the surgery take care of it? The cancer, I mean?”
    “They won’t know until they … get in there.”
    Ben laid his hand on Michael’s knee, signaling the end of the discussion, then stood up. “Call her, then … unless you’ve already agreed to it.”
    His husband shook his head. “I was waiting to hear from you.”
    That had to be less than the truth, but Ben appreciated the effort.
    W HILE M ICHAEL WAS IN THE bedroom talking to Mary Ann on his cell phone, Ben gave the cottage a once-over in preparation for her arrival. The sheets on the bed had not been changed since some friends from Nevada City had crashed there over Halloween, so there were still traces of green Hulk makeup on the pillowcase.
    Ben stripped the bed, then hauled everything to the laundry room before tackling the cramped cottage bathroom. The toilet and sink were relatively clean, but the floor of the fiberglass shower stall was tinted the same lurid green as the pillowcase. He got on his knees and scrubbed it ferociously—a little harder than needed, in fact—while he fretted over the sea change that would soon be coming to their domestic life. He valued their daily rituals and hard-earned independence and, frankly, didn’t want them fucked with. He knew that was selfish, and that charity, in this case, literally began at home, but he couldn’t shake the ungenerous feeling that someone had just stolen his husband.
    Back at the house, he found Michael stuffing the sheets into the washer.
    “I’ll get that,” Ben told him, already trying to atone for his thoughts.
    “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”
    “If you need Clorox, it’s on the top shelf.”
    “Great.”
    “Where is that fancy goat soap the two Susies gave us for Christmas last year? I thought we could put it in her bathroom.”
    Michael turned and gave him a sleepy, appreciative stoner smile.
    T HAT NIGHT, AFTER CATCHING TWO inscrutable episodes of Lost on Apple TV, they turned in earlier than usual, leaving the lights on for a while as they scratched Roman’s belly in unison. The dog was sprawled between them, dark limbs flopping, as big and goofy as a chimpanzee. For Ben, the moment had a wistful quality, since this cozy family unit would be altered dramatically come morning, when their guest would return with her expensive luggage. There was no point in kidding himself; he would just have to make the best of it and accept this altered reality as something that mattered to Michael.
    “Where did you meet her again?” Ben asked, trying to take an interest. “At Anna’s apartment house?”
    “Mmm. Well … actually … the first time was at the Marina Safeway. She tried to pick up a boyfriend of mine.”
    Ben wrinkled his nose. “While you were there?”
    “I was … you know, somewhere else in the store. She looked crushed when I showed up, poor thing. She had her heart set on him.”
    “Was she just clueless? Or was he really butch?”
    “Butcher than me, you mean?” Michael grinned. “Still is, to tell you the truth. He was a Marine recruiter. I saw him at the Alameda Flea Market a few years back. He still looks pretty good. Totally your type. Big ol’ furry chest.”
    Ben was touched when Michael made the effort to acknowledge his “type.” He would even do it on the street sometimes when a burly daddy passed their field of vision, Michael muttering a sultry “ten o’clock” under his breath until Ben spotted the party in question. Since these men were rarely of interest to Michael—he was drawn to the younger and smoother, like Ben—the gesture was all the more impressive. He was like a beachcomber collecting shells for his beloved, when the shells meant nothing to him.
    Which was not to say that Michael couldn’t be jealous. Once, they ran into a playmate of Ben’s on a trip to P-town. Ben found his husband sulking like a teenager in bed that night, nursing a corrosive dread of abandonment that could only be assuaged by Ben’s patient insistence that forever, fuck it, meant forever. Their twenty-one-year age difference had been one of the nicer spices in their libidinal stew, but age itself could be a source of panic for Michael. Sometimes, in fact, Ben wondered if Michael’s generous daddy-spotting was just his own way of tagging and releasing his fears.
    Ben scooched closer, sandwiching Roman between them as he stroked