Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

all did.”
    “Did they say what that stuff was?”
    “What stuff?”
    “You know. That he sprinkled on himself. They were ashes, right? Cremated remains?”
    Shawna stood up, suddenly looking flustered. “Let’s save that for another day. Tonight’s all about getting bad juju out of the house.”
    What did that mean ?
    “Seriously,” said Shawna, catching Mary Ann’s anxious expression. “It’s all good.”
    That was another thing the kids said today that offended Mary Ann’s ears. How could that possibly be true, after all? Nothing in the world had ever been “all good.”
    W HEN M ARY A NN FINALLY JOINED the others in the living room, they had closed the curtains on the cottage side of the house, presumably to spare her the sight of what she had already seen. Mrs. Madrigal had settled into Michael’s armchair; Jake sat at her feet; Shawna was fiddling with an iPod; Ben and Michael were serving a late supper.
    “Pizza,” said Michael with a sardonic grin. “Perfect for every occasion.”
    She sat down on the sofa across from Anna. “Are the police gone?”
    “Of course,” said Jake, holding up the tube of the vaporizer. “Or we wouldn’t be doing this.” He handed the tube to Anna, who puffed on it demurely and handed it back. Mary Ann flashed on the pot plants Anna had grown at 28 Barbary Lane and the joints she had taped to every new tenant’s door. No one in the house had ever disapproved of that gesture except Norman. For someone so wicked, he had been curiously square.
    When dinner was over, Mary Ann followed Jake’s example and sat on the floor next to Mrs. Madrigal. She leaned against the old woman’s leg — just because it felt so right — and was duly rewarded with the silent benediction of Anna’s hand on her head. Mary Ann wasn’t talking much herself that evening—just listening, just being.
    They stayed with her until almost midnight, laughing and playing music and telling stories about the old days. No one talked about the mess that had been made of the cottage, or the man who had made it. When Anna dozed off in the armchair, Jake woke her gently and helped her out to Shawna’s car. Mary Ann’s heart sank as they left.
    Michael turned to her as soon as the door was closed.
    “You’re sleeping with us tonight,” he said.
    She didn’t put up an argument. She slept between them on their big matrimonial bed, like a child in flight from the boogieman. Death had been chasing her for weeks, she realized, but not in the way she’d imagined. It had found its intended quarry in the garden cottage and left her to live another day. What she would do with the time she had left was entirely up to her. As she drifted off in that bunker of warm, breathing bodies, it occurred to her that her fear of dying had left far too little room for the joy of living.
    It’s all good , she told herself. It’s all good .

Chapter 37
Treat
    T he flight attendant in first class was a gregarious sort who kept talking about how much he’d love to live in “San Fran.” She hated hearing the city called that—it jarred her ears even more than “Frisco” did—but he was fiftyish and kind of rugged-looking and, though she couldn’t have told you exactly why, struck her as being straight.
    “How long were you in town?” he asked, as he replenished her warm nuts.
    “Just a few weeks.”
    “Such a great place.”
    “It is, isn’t it? I used to live there years ago.”
    “Lucky you.”
    “Yeah. I’m thinking of moving back.”
    “Oh … wow. You have family there?”
    “Yeah.” The undeniable truth of this made her giggle. “I do … yeah.”
    “That’s great.”
    “I have to sort a few things out first.”
    “So … you live in Manhattan now?”
    She nodded. “I have a little place in the Village.” Why mention Darien, after all? It would only make her sound married and boring.
    “Where are you?” he asked. “Just out of curiosity.”
    “Charles Street,” she told him.
    “I’m on Waverly Place.”
    “Hey. Small world.”
    “Isn’t it?”
    What was the protocol here, anyway? Exactly how brazen could you get with a flight attendant?
    “Excuse me,” he said, touching her arm lightly as he headed off to deal with another passenger. She gazed out the window at the cartoon clouds and the endless blue, feeling like a giddy teenager again. He looked a lot like George Clooney, she decided.
    When he returned a few minutes later, he knelt next to her and, without uttering a