Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

said.
    “Clever girl.”
    “I really enjoy your poems.”
    “They’re not mine. Somebody else wrote them.”
    “Still … they’re lovely.”
    “You shouldn’t have lied about Norman Neal Williams.”
    “What?”
    “You heard me.”
    “What was it … you think I lied about?”
    “You said you didn’t know him. You said you didn’t date him.”
    “Well … the name rings a bell, but … when was this?”
    He looked at her with no particular menace—just sadness —and said her name three times like a charm: “Mary Ann, Mary Ann, Mary Ann.”
    Only it sounded like someone saying Shame, Shame, Shame.
    And the terrible thing was: she bought it. She could own any crime this loony old prick with a gun could lay on her, because she’d gone through the world feeling guilty, and a little more penitence, at this particular moment, could very well save her life.
    “I took you to Sam Wo’s,” he told her. “You hated the rude waiter. Said you’d never come back again.”
    What?
    “And you always hated this ,” he added sourly, raising a large, mottled hand to his throat. She thought for a moment that he was going to hit her, but he just grabbed his stained clip-on tie and yanked it free from his collar.
    That was as good as being flashed an I.D. She felt the truth burning in her veins. The only thing left to do was home in that voice, peel back the overlay of alcohol and age, until she reached its deeply insecure and unmistakably dweebie core.
    “ Norman ?”
    He didn’t say anything, just gave her a bitter, triumphant smirk.
    “I thought you were dead.”
    “That’s because ”— he swayed a little as he made his point— “ you didn’t stick around.”
    “There was a cliff, Norman.”
    “I know what it was. It’s my goddamn name now.”
    “What?” She noticed that the hand with the gun was twitching.
    “Cliffs have ledges, ya know. Not that you would notice.”
    “Were you hurt badly? Why didn’t you come back to Barbary Lane?”
    He snorted. “Yeah. Right. Come back. After what you said about me and Lexy.”
    Leave it alone, she told herself.
    “You didn’t care, anyway. You were glad to be rid o’ me.”
    “That’s not true, Norman. We called the police.”
    “And you told ’em where I fell?”
    Her silence betrayed all he needed to know.
    “See?” he said. “Liar.”
    “Please put the gun down, Norman. We don’t need that to talk.”
    “Oh, really? Cudda fooled me.”
    “This has all been a big misunderstanding. You don’t wanna do anything rash.”
    “How do you know what I wanna do? Maybe rash is all I got.”
    “No … Norman … it’s never too late to talk things out. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
    Jesus , she thought. Where had that come from?
    “I tried to talk to you,” he told her. “I wanted to explain about me and Lexy, but … you wouldn’t let me … you stuck-up bitch.”
    “When did you do this?”
    Still holding the gun, he reached into the breast pocket of the coat with his free hand and produced a sheet of dog-eared paper, folded down the middle. She took it from him, opened it and instantly recognized one of her 8x10 glossies from her old TV show, circa late 1980s. Her hair was feathered and enormous. The inscription read: Cliff—Thanks for the memories—Mary Ann. It was obviously her handwriting.
    “When did I do this?”
    “After you got famous. I came to your show and sat in the audience. You didn’t even recognize me.”
    “Well … you know … it’s hard with the lights and all.”
    And I thought you’d been dead for a dozen years, you batshit pervert.
    “They wouldn’t even let me backstage so I could explain.”
    “But this says Cliff. The name isn’t even yours, Norman—”
    “I told you. I changed it. What else could I do after what you’d been saying?”
    “And you’d been here in the city all that time?”
    He shook his head and said, “Bismarck.” The name struggled out of him like a drunken belch.
    “Okay,” she said calmly, deciding not to pursue that. “We’re here now. What is it you’d like to explain? I’m willing to listen, Norman.”
    He seemed to believe this. He tidied himself up, brushing off his lapels with ridiculous dignity, like a man on the verge of clearing his name.
    “Lexy loved me,” he said. “And I loved her.”
    “Okay.” Forgive me, little girl. It’s not okay at all.
    “You were with us,” he said. “You saw how much she loved me.”
    This time she