Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

energy was flagging, but she could still be found plodding around the neighborhood in kimono and sneakers, a look that could sometimes border on bag lady. Jake knew better. Anna had a decent nest egg from the sale of a house on Russian Hill, where, once upon a time, back in the seventies, she had been Michael’s landlady.
    Anna treasured her independence, so Jake never called himself her companion or caregiver, though that’s how he saw it—and proudly. The old girl was something of an icon among local trans folk, so he found it something of a privilege to keep an eye on her and do her heavy hauling. But mostly, of course, she was just good company.
    And that was the reason he headed home for lunch that day. The drive from Pacific Heights to the Duboce Triangle and back again would eat up most of his lunch hour, but he needed a serious dose of Anna, however small. His heart sank when he entered the flat and she wasn’t in her favorite armchair by the window.
    “Yoo hoo,” he called, using the silly greeting she sometimes used. He had never done that before and surprised himself with the sound of it.
    There was no answer, so he went down the hall toward the bedrooms.
    “Anna … I brought us sandwiches from the corner.”
    Still no response. Her bedroom was empty, so he figured she was out on one of her constitutionals. It served him right, of course, for not calling first, but he’d always enjoyed the way her face lit up when she received unexpected company.
    He headed to the kitchen for a glass of juice. There, beneath a shaft of afternoon sunlight, he found her. She was lying on her side on the floor, her face turned away from him. Her old cat, Notch, was perched solemnly on her hip, as if standing guard. Jake felt the blood rush from his face as violently as it could rush in.
    “Oh, no,” he murmured, moving closer to her body. The cat rose to its feet, still balanced on Anna’s hip, and arched its back lazily, completely indifferent to whatever the fuck was going on. Jake, meanwhile, had forgotten how to breathe.
    “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “Jesus—”
    “No call for that,” Anna said sternly.
    Jake gasped with relief and went to her side, squatting so he could see her face. Notch leaped from her hip and strode briskly away. “What happened?” asked Jake.
    “Just having a little snooze.”
    “On the floor?”
    “It’s nice down here. The linoleum’s so smooth and cool. I see why Notch likes it.”
    He considered, then dismissed, the possibility that Anna had finally lost her mind. “You fell, didn’t you?”
    “Maybe a little bit.”
    “When?”
    “Not that long ago. Who knows? I’ve been sleeping.” She extended her hand. “Give us a lift, dear.”
    “No … wait … you may have broken something.”
    “Don’t be melodramatic. I’m not in pain. I was just catching my breath, and I fell asleep.”
    So Jake helped her sit up for a moment before scooping her in his arms and rising to his feet. She was a good four inches taller than he, but surprisingly light, an armful of velvet and bones. As he carried her down the hall, he caught the scent of her perfume, which he remembered was called Devon Violets. The name had always puzzled him, since violets—at least the ones he knew about—didn’t have a scent.
    “Where are we going?” asked Anna.
    “To the armchair. To eat our sandwiches.”
    Looking up at him, she chortled. “I feel like Scarlett.”
    He didn’t get it. “Johansson?”
    “No, child … O’Hara.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “Oh … that is depressing.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Nothing, dear. Just being silly.”
    A NNA PECKED AT HER SANDWICH but gobbled up the black-bottom cupcake he had brought as an afterthought. He had read somewhere that old people eventually lost their more refined taste buds, so that only really sweet things held their interest in the end. He wondered if that was true, and if he should start finding ways to make main courses seem more like dessert. He was a crummy cook, though—or at least a fairly disinterested one; Anna was much better in the kitchen than he would ever be.
    “That was lovely,” said Anna, dabbing at the crumbs on her chin with the tissue she kept tucked in her sleeve. “Very thoughtful of you, dear.”
    “I have to get back soon,” he said. “Michael’s not working.”
    “Oh, no. His shoulder?”
    “No … well, it’s still hurting him, but … he’s spending the day with his friend from