The Days of Anna Madrigal by Armistead Maupin Page A

pot after strong women she admired. There was one in particular Brian remembered—a certain Miss Stanwyck—that could knock his socks off and keep them off for hours until he returned to 28 Barbary Lane from his vulpine prowls at Thomas Lord’s or Henry Africa’s. If Mrs. Madrigal was still up and about (as she often was, reading or even watering her garden in the dark) she would join him for a toke of Miss Stanwyck. She wasn’t smoking with them tonight, but she had not forgotten her manners.
    â€œSo who’s this lady?” he asked, passing the doobie back to Wren.
    Anna smiled. “You’ve forgotten her name already?”
    Brian laughed. “Not that lady. The one in her hand.”
    â€œOh . . . I didn’t name it,” Anna said. “Jake bought it at the medical pot place. They come with their own names when you buy them. Like tea. Or hookers.”
    â€œYou’re funny,” said Wren.
    â€œWhat did I tell you?” said Brian. Even as he spoke, he knew how overeager he sounded, like a little kid showing off an old friend to a new one.
    â€œI grew up with hookers,” Anna added. “I assume he told you that.”
    â€œHe did, yes.”
    After an interlude of silence, Anna said, “Lysol.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe whole damned place smelled like Lysol.”
    Wren’s nose wrinkled, but she ended with a shrug. “Better than the alternative, I suppose.”
    Anna chuckled and looked at Brian. “This one’s no shrinking violet.”
    â€œI’m no stranger to hooking either.” Wren was on a roll now, he realized, obviously feeling the pot. “I mean . . . long as we’re sharing.”
    Anna’s eyes widened. “Do tell.”
    Brian was starting to squirm a little. “She only did it once.”
    â€œOnce is all it takes,” said Anna. “Go on, dear.”
    â€œHe was a nice old guy who liked his ladies big, so . . . he made an outright offer. It paid for my vacation, and he had a good time. I’m not sorry.”
    â€œThat’s how she met me,” said Brian.
    Anna’s brow furrowed. “You were the nice old guy?”
    â€œNo, no!” Brian laughed. “She was up at the Russian River with him. I was up there for a week—”
    â€œâ€”with Michael,” said Anna, finishing the thought. “Back in the eighties.”
    â€œSo he’s filled you in?” Of course he has, thought Brian. How could he restrain himself?
    Anna nodded. “He’s excited about seeing Wren again. He was quite a fan, apparently, even before he met her.”
    Good, thought Brian. Michael approves, and Shawna approves, and Anna knows Wren had a career outside of hooking. He was checking off the members of his family one by one, letting the pieces fall into place. (His ex-wife Mary Ann would be a tougher sell—not because she was his ex but because Wren had once been a guest on Mary Ann in the Morning and remembered her interviewer as condescending and uptight—an impression that would not have been off the mark twenty-five years ago. Brian liked Mary Ann these days, but he had never been in the same room with both his wives and did not intend for that to happen anytime soon. Why risk it? Start with easy ones, man.
    â€œWhere’s Jake?” he asked Anna. “I thought we’d see him tonight.”
    â€œHe’s out with his friends, being deeply mysterious.”
    â€œHow so?” asked Wren, expelling smoke.
    â€œIf I knew, it wouldn’t be mysterious.”
    Wren chortled, clearly honored that Anna had dispensed with etiquette.
    â€œIt’s a project of some sort,” Anna added. “They come around in overalls and tool belts, all smudged and sweaty, but they just . . . clam up whenever I ask them what’s going on.” She paused to sip her sherry. “Maybe they think it would shock me.” She set