Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin
Authors: Armistead Maupin
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Langston’s house.”
Beauchamp glanced at him ruefully over the rim of his glass. “What’s on the menu tonight? Antique pheasant?”
“Worse—oh, worse!”
“Victorian venison?”
Peter shook his head soberly. “The rumor—God help us—is Edwardian elk! Heaven knows how long that creature’s been in his freezer. Miss Langston hasn’t felled an elk since the late sixties!”
What a pisser, thought Beauchamp bitterly as he rode the elevator to his Telegraph Hill penthouse. Other people’s problems were laughable next to his.
DeDe was in the library, curled up on the camel-back sofa with a copy of Rosemary Rogers’ Sweet Savage Love. Her free hand was partially submerged in a cloisonné bowl full of M & M’s. Beauchamp glared at her from the doorway.
“Behold! The Total Woman!”
“I’ve had a long day, Beauchamp.”
He dropped his attaché case and headed for the bar. “I’ll bet you have.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
He kept his back to her as he filled a shot glass with J & B. “It must be murder finding a super jumbo bag of M & M’s. You drive all the way to Woolworth’s?”
“Very funny.”
“If fat amuses you, go right ahead and yuck.”
“May I remind you I’m carrying two babies!”
“I know,” he said, downing his Scotch. “Plain and Peanut.”
Dinner that evening was cold quiche and salad. They ate in glacial silence, avoiding each other’s eyes, waiting petulantly for the moment they both knew would come.
“We have to talk,” Beauchamp said finally.
“About what?”
“You know goddamn well about what!”
“Beauchamp … I’m tired of talking about it. I don’t blame you for being upset. I really don’t. But I’m having these babies and I can’t take this … harassment anymore.” She looked him squarely in the eyes. “I’ve thought about this a long time. I’ve decided to move to Mother’s.”
“Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
“I don’t know whether it’s brilliant or not, but at least I’ll be—”
“Look, goddammit! You’ve got some explaining to do. You’re not running home to Mommy until I get a few answers.” He fumbled in his pocket for the letter, thrusting it into her hands. “This charming anonymous missive came to me at the office today!”
DeDe’s hands shook as she removed a sheet of notebook paper from the envelope. The message, printed in yellow with a felt-tip pen, consisted of eight words: WHY DON’T YOU NAME THEM YIN AND YANG?
“Now,” said Beauchamp ominously, “will you please tell me what the hell that means?”
DeDe stared at the horrible note for several seconds, stalling for time, commanding herself to stay calm. The cycle, she realized, was complete. From her best friend Binky, to Carson Callas the gossip columnist, to the city at large, the ignominious truth had spread: She was bearing the children of a Telegraph Hill grocery boy!
She laid the letter on the table, face down. “That’s disgusting,” she said quietly.
“Answer the question, DeDe.”
“Beauchamp, please …”
He was poised like a cobra.
“Oh, fuck it, Beauchamp! The babies’ father is Chinese!”
The Landlady’s Lesson
W HEN HE HAD FINISHED HIS SHIFT AT PERRY’S, Brian went straight home to Barbary Lane. Mrs. Madrigal was perched on a stepladder in the hallway, replacing a light bulb. Up there, in her sixty-watt aura, she shone like a B-movie madonna about to descend on an unsuspecting French village.
“Welcome to Manderley,” she mugged. “I’m Mrs. Danvers. I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.”
Brian laughed. “Feeling gothic tonight?”
“My dear! Aren’t you? This place is a veritable tomb, what with Mary Ann and Michael in Mexico and Mona God knows where —and you out there terrorizing half of the female population.”
“I was working.”
“Mmm. It is work, isn’t it?”
He bridled at her teasing, but let it go. She had cast him as the aging Don Juan of her Barbary Lane family,
Beauchamp glanced at him ruefully over the rim of his glass. “What’s on the menu tonight? Antique pheasant?”
“Worse—oh, worse!”
“Victorian venison?”
Peter shook his head soberly. “The rumor—God help us—is Edwardian elk! Heaven knows how long that creature’s been in his freezer. Miss Langston hasn’t felled an elk since the late sixties!”
What a pisser, thought Beauchamp bitterly as he rode the elevator to his Telegraph Hill penthouse. Other people’s problems were laughable next to his.
DeDe was in the library, curled up on the camel-back sofa with a copy of Rosemary Rogers’ Sweet Savage Love. Her free hand was partially submerged in a cloisonné bowl full of M & M’s. Beauchamp glared at her from the doorway.
“Behold! The Total Woman!”
“I’ve had a long day, Beauchamp.”
He dropped his attaché case and headed for the bar. “I’ll bet you have.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
He kept his back to her as he filled a shot glass with J & B. “It must be murder finding a super jumbo bag of M & M’s. You drive all the way to Woolworth’s?”
“Very funny.”
“If fat amuses you, go right ahead and yuck.”
“May I remind you I’m carrying two babies!”
“I know,” he said, downing his Scotch. “Plain and Peanut.”
Dinner that evening was cold quiche and salad. They ate in glacial silence, avoiding each other’s eyes, waiting petulantly for the moment they both knew would come.
“We have to talk,” Beauchamp said finally.
“About what?”
“You know goddamn well about what!”
“Beauchamp … I’m tired of talking about it. I don’t blame you for being upset. I really don’t. But I’m having these babies and I can’t take this … harassment anymore.” She looked him squarely in the eyes. “I’ve thought about this a long time. I’ve decided to move to Mother’s.”
“Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
“I don’t know whether it’s brilliant or not, but at least I’ll be—”
“Look, goddammit! You’ve got some explaining to do. You’re not running home to Mommy until I get a few answers.” He fumbled in his pocket for the letter, thrusting it into her hands. “This charming anonymous missive came to me at the office today!”
DeDe’s hands shook as she removed a sheet of notebook paper from the envelope. The message, printed in yellow with a felt-tip pen, consisted of eight words: WHY DON’T YOU NAME THEM YIN AND YANG?
“Now,” said Beauchamp ominously, “will you please tell me what the hell that means?”
DeDe stared at the horrible note for several seconds, stalling for time, commanding herself to stay calm. The cycle, she realized, was complete. From her best friend Binky, to Carson Callas the gossip columnist, to the city at large, the ignominious truth had spread: She was bearing the children of a Telegraph Hill grocery boy!
She laid the letter on the table, face down. “That’s disgusting,” she said quietly.
“Answer the question, DeDe.”
“Beauchamp, please …”
He was poised like a cobra.
“Oh, fuck it, Beauchamp! The babies’ father is Chinese!”
The Landlady’s Lesson
W HEN HE HAD FINISHED HIS SHIFT AT PERRY’S, Brian went straight home to Barbary Lane. Mrs. Madrigal was perched on a stepladder in the hallway, replacing a light bulb. Up there, in her sixty-watt aura, she shone like a B-movie madonna about to descend on an unsuspecting French village.
“Welcome to Manderley,” she mugged. “I’m Mrs. Danvers. I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.”
Brian laughed. “Feeling gothic tonight?”
“My dear! Aren’t you? This place is a veritable tomb, what with Mary Ann and Michael in Mexico and Mona God knows where —and you out there terrorizing half of the female population.”
“I was working.”
“Mmm. It is work, isn’t it?”
He bridled at her teasing, but let it go. She had cast him as the aging Don Juan of her Barbary Lane family,
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