Further Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin Page A

the maid’s footsteps.
    Nothing.
    “EMMA!”
    Finally, there was a shuffling noise in the hallway. Emma appeared at the door, holding a dust mop. “Yes’m?”
    “Have you seen my rosary beads, dear?”
    “No’m. Not lately.”
    “I think they’re in the desk in the library. Would you check for me, please?”
    “Yes’m.”
    She was gone for several minutes, long enough for the matriarch to down two more Quaaludes and tidy up the bedclothes. Taking the beads from the old black woman, Frannie felt a great sadness sweep over her. She fought back the tears. “What would I do without you, Emma?”
    And what would Emma do without her?
    It was too late for that now, too late for turning back. Emma was handsomely provided for in Frannie’s will. That would just have to do. Still …
    “You feelin’ poorly, Miss Frannie?”
    Frannie refused to meet her companion’s eyes. The rosary beads had betrayed her. No one knew better than Emma that Frannie’s commitment to the church was minimal. “I’m fine, dear. Really. I just want to say a little prayer for Miss DeDe.”
    Emma didn’t budge. “You sure?”
    “Yes, dear. Now leave me alone for a while, will you?”
    Emma looked around the room, as if searching for evidence to refute the matriarch’s statement. (The Quaaludes were hidden under Frannie’s pillow.) Then the maid sighed, shook her head, and trudged out of the room.
    As Frannie reached for the pills, the phone rang.
    She thought for a moment. If she didn’t answer it, Emma would take the call and return to the bedroom with the message. So she reached for the phone, hoping to eliminate this final obstacle to her departure.
    “Hello.” Her voice sounded sluggish to her. She felt as if she were speaking in a dream.
    “Who is this, please?” asked the voice on the other end.
    “This is … who is
this?”
    “Mother? Oh God, Mother!”
    “Wha …?”
    “It’s DeDe, Mother! Thank God I got …”
    “DeDe?” It
was
a dream … or a hallucination … or a wicked prank perpetrated by one of those sick minds that … but that voice,
that voice.
“DeDe, baby … is it you?”
    She heard loud sobs on the other end. “Oh Mother, I’m sorry! Please forgive me! I’m safe! The children are safe! We’re O.K., understand? We’re coming home just as soon as we can!”
    Now Frannie had begun to wail, so loudly in fact that Emma rushed into the room.
    “Miss Frannie, what on earth …?”
    “It’s Miss DeDe, Emma! Our baby’s coming home. Precious baby’s coming home! DeDe …
DeDe, are you there?”
    “I’m here, Mother.”
    “Thank God! But
where,
darling?”
    “Uh … Arkansas.”
    “Arkansas?
What on earth are you doing there?”
    “They’re holding me here. At Fort Chaffee. Can you mail me a credit card or something?”
    “Who’s
holding you? Not … oh God, not those Jonestown people?”
    “No, Mother. The government. The American government. I’m at the settlement camp for gay Cuban refugees.”
    “What?”
    “It’s a long story, Mother.”
    “Well, tell them to let you out, for heaven’s sake! Tell them who you are! Tell them there’s been a mistake, DeDe!”
    A long pause, and then:
    “You don’t understand, Mother.
I am a
gay Cuban refugee.”

The Breastworks
    M ICHAEL HAD SEEN IT A DOZEN TIMES, BUT THE sign on the pathway to Lands End never failed to give him a delicious shudder: CAUTION—CLIFF AND SURF AREA EXTREMELY DANGEROUS—
People have been swept from the rocks and drowned.
    “I love that thing,” he told Mary Ann and Brian as the trio passed the signpost. “It’s so … Daphne DuMaurier. ‘People have been swept from the rocks and drowned.’ It’s almost lyrical. Where else but here could you find a government sign painter with poetry in his soul?”
    Mary Ann studied the sign for a moment, then continued the trek down the railroad tie stairs. “I don’t know why,” she said, “but I agree with you.”
    “So do I,” added Brian, “and I’m not as