Sure of You by Armistead Maupin Page A

but what could you do?
    It was a clear blue evening, and he was heading home in his Jeep. The ivory towers of Russian Hill had gone golden in the sunset. All things considered, he had plenty to feel golden about himself, so this nagging insecurity would have to stop.
    If anything, he decided, he should feel reassured by her behavior. The reunion had obviously been so uneventful that she had simply forgotten to mention it. What’s more, if something had clicked between the two of them, she would have known better than to draw attention to the situation by keeping quiet; she would have mentioned it casually and let the subject drop.
    He had put the matter behind him when he arrived at the twenty-third floor of The Summit.
    “Yo,” he hollered, coming into the living room. The slanting sun cast a sherry-colored light on the carpet, where several dozen of Shawna’s dolls were arrayed face-down in pristine rows. “I’m home, people.”
    His daughter emerged from the bedroom and stood scratching her butt. “Hi, Daddy.” In her other hand she held the left foot of another doll.
    “Hi, Puppy. What’s this?”
    “I’m giving them away.”
    “You are?”
    “Yes.” She knelt and placed the doll next to the others, solemnly arranging its limbs. “To the homeless.”
    “Was that your idea?” He was impressed.
    “Mostly. Mostly mine and partly Mary Ann’s.”
    “Well, that’s wonderful. Only not all of ’em, O.K.?”
    “Don’t worry.” She patted the doll’s dress into place. “I’m only giving away the ugly ones.”
    He nodded. “Good thinking.” Then he touched the tip of her nose. “You’re a regular Mother Teresa.”
    In the kitchen his wife was shelling peas, looking raw-boned and Sally Fieldish in her Laura Ashley apron. When he kissed the nape of her neck, he caught a whiff of her ripe six o’clock smell and felt totally, stupidly, in love with her.
    “Would you please tell me,” he said, “what our daughter is doing?”
    “I know.” She gave him a rueful look over her shoulder. “It looks like Jonestown out there.”
    He popped one of the raw peas into his mouth and munched on it as he leaned against the counter. “You sure it’s a good idea?”
    She shrugged. “Why not?”
    “I dunno. What if she misses one? Remember how she was when we threw out her banky?”
    “She wants to do this, Brian. It’s a rite of passage. She’s getting off on it.”
    “I know, but if she…”
    “If we’d listened to you, she’d still be sucking on that damn banky”
    “O.K. You’re right.”
    “She’s keeping her nice dolls, anyway.”
    “Fine.”
    “Whatcha want for potatoes?” she asked. “Sweet or new?”
    “Uh…sweet.”
    “With baby marshmallows?”
    He gave her a skeptical glance. “Since when have you bought baby marshmallows?”
    She shrugged. “If you don’t want ’em…”
    “Oh, I want ’em. I just thought you said they were gross and middle American.”
    She gave him a feisty glance and continued shelling.
    “Want me to help with that?” he asked.
    “No, thanks. I like having something to do with my hands. It soothes me.”
    He moved behind her and nuzzled her neck again. “Do you need soothing?”
    “No,” she said. “I just meant…it gives me something manual to do.”
    “Mmm.” He nipped at her flesh. “I know something manual you can do.”
    She giggled. “Go set the table.”
    “Let’s eat in front of the set.”
    “O.K. Nothing’s on, though.”
    “Sure there is. Cheers . Two shows in a row.”
    “What else?”
    “Well…Michael loaned us The Singing Detective. ”
    “No, thank you.”
    “It’s Dennis Potter.”
    “Brian, I don’t wanna watch some old guy having psoriasis while I’m having dinner.”
    “You did a show on it last month.”
    “All the more reason.”
    “You’re hard, woman,” he said, and pinched her butt.
    She gave him a push toward the door. “Go play with Shawna. Maybe after she’s in bed…”
    “Well, not if you