The Days of Anna Madrigal by Armistead Maupin

to the corner of his mouth. “You realize most brides have an easier time sorting out their in-laws?”
    He smiled. “It makes more sense if you’ve lived it.”
    A nna’s parlor (as she liked to call it) had been prepped for their arrival: pillows plumped, lighting adjusted, a silver tray of sherry and shortbread laid out on the coffee table next to a red lacquer bowl full of joints. Brian had expected Jake to greet them at the door, since that had been the custom lately, but there she was in all her bohemian glory, spiffed up in Chinese pajamas and wobbling precariously. He hadn’t seen her for months, so the hug he gave her was part reunion, part rescue.
    â€œIt’s all right, dear,” she said, patting his back. “I’ve got it.”
    With that, she tottered toward her chair. Brian saw Wren move to offer assistance, but he stopped her with a glance and a shake of his head.
    â€œYou’re lovely,” said Anna, still inching away from them.
    Wren looked thrown. “Me?”
    â€œYes, dear. Brian doesn’t like it when I call him lovely.”
    Wren chuckled nervously and glanced at Brian as Anna pivoted slowly and free-fell into her chair. (The lavender fabric on its scalloped back had grown shiny from many such landings.) Anna took a moment to catch her breath before lifting her hand to Wren like a dowager empress. “What the hell took you so long?”
    Wren, who had dialed down her usual megawattage, looked almost mortified as she took Anna’s hand. “Sorry. They were a little slow with the check.”
    â€œWhat?” Now Anna looked confused.
    Brian scrambled to restore communications. “I think,” he said, glancing at Wren, “she meant that remark in the broader sense.”
    â€œI meant,” said Anna, gazing up at the velvet-sheathed hourglass whose hand she was still gripping for punctuation, “this boy has been a tramp. A vagabond . I’ve been worried about him. You took your time getting here, dear.”
    Brian tried to translate: “Not you specifically , of course—”
    Anna shot him a withering look. “Yes, her specifically. She’s exactly what I pictured. The hair, the shape, the placement of the eyes, everything.”
    â€œWell . . . good,” Wren said awkwardly as her hand was released. “That’s great to hear.”
    â€œShe gets kinda spooky about that shit,” Brian explained.
    Wren glanced at him slack-mouthed, unfamiliar with his longtime sparring partnership with the rail-thin old woman in the chair.
    â€œBefore you know it,” Brian added, “she’ll claim she conjured you up with a love potion and some juju dust.”
    Anna gave Wren a weary sisterly look. “He’s so tiresome sometimes. Sit over there, Brian, and have a joint or a cookie or something. I want to talk to your wife.”
    She had unbalanced him exactly the way she wanted. “How did you know we were married?”
    â€œA soothsayer,” Anna said curtly. “How do you think?”
    Shawna, thought Brian. Or Michael had heard it from Shawna and told Anna. Brian had not yet spoken to Michael, so he hoped he approved, that Michael’s memories of Wren, all these years after that week at the river, were good ones.
    Anna had turned her attention back to Wren. “How was L’Ardoise?”
    â€œScrumptious,” said Wren, pulling up a chair to Anna’s throne. “I eat way too many fries when they have a fancy French name for them.”
    Anna nodded. “What does that mean, anyway, ‘L’Ardoise’?”
    Wren screwed up her face, pretending to ponder the question. “I think it’s the feminine form of lard-ass .”
    An odd chortle, uncharacteristically male, erupted from the back of Anna’s throat.
    Brian realized with a rush of relief that Wren was already home free.
    I n the old days Mrs. Madrigal had named her homegrown