Further Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin Read Free Book Online

acat-shaped deco pin from Michael, an antique teapot from Mrs. Madrigal.
    “And now,” announced the landlady, “if you gentlemen will kindly excuse us, I would like to do a Tarot reading for Mary Ann.”
    Mary Ann’s eyes danced. “I didn’t know you knew how to do that!”
    “I don’t,” replied Mrs. Madrigal, “but I make up
wonderful
things.”
    So Brian and Michael retired to the roof, where they watched the bay through the eyes of Miss Stanwyck.
    “You know what?” said Brian.
    “What?” said Michael.
    “She’s right. Mrs. Madrigal, I mean. The three of us do so much stuff together that we’re kinda like a couple.”
    “Yeah. I guess so. That bother you?”
    Brian thought for a moment. “Nah. You’re my friend, Michael. And she’s your friend, and … hell, I don’t know.”
    Michael handed the joint back to Brian. “Lots of people do things in threes here. Check out the audience the next time we go to a play.”
    Brian laughed. “Trisexuals. Isn’t that what you called them?”
    “For want of a better term.”
    Brian laid his arm across Michael’s shoulder. “You know what’s bugging me, Michael?”
    Michael waited.
    “It just bugs the hell out of me that I’ll never be everything she needs.”
    Michael smiled feebly. “I know that one.”
    “Yeah?”
    “You betcha. I busted my butt trying to be everything to one person. Finally, I had to settle for being one thing to every person.”
    “What’s the one thing?”
    Michael hesitated. “Hell, I was hoping you could tell me.” Brian laughed and squeezed his shoulder. “You’re crazy, man.”
    “Maybe
that’s
it.”
    “I tell you what,” said Brian, looking directly at his friend.“I love you, Michael. I love you like my brother.”
    “No shit?”
    “No shit.”
    There was a moment, a very brief moment, when their eyes met with unembarrassed affection. Then Michael retrieved the joint and took a hit. “Is your brother cute?” he asked.

Father Paddy
    H AVING MADE UP HER MIND TO SEARCH THE PARK FOR her missing wolfhound, Prue Giroux spent the morning at Eddie Bauer choosing just the right safari jacket for the job. To her surprise, she encountered one of her Forum regulars in the camping supplies department.
    “Father Paddy!”
    Swinging sharply—so sharply, in fact, that his crucifix grazed Prue’s chest—Father Paddy Starr turned to face his public, flashing the fluorescent grin that had endeared him to thousands of local late-night television viewers.
    “Prue daaarrrllling!” He pecked her once on each cheek, then held her at arm’s length as if to check the merchandise for damage. “What on earth are you doing in this he-man, roughneck place?”
    “I’m looking for a safari jacket. What about you, Father? They don’t make cassocks in khaki, do they?”
    Father Paddy shrieked, then sighed dramatically. “And more’s the pity, my child, more’s the pity! Wouldn’t that be divine? This tired old basic black … year in, year out. It’s truly loathsome. I
long
for a new dress.”
    Prue tittered appreciatively. She loved the cute way Father Paddy joked about his “dress” and used the word “divine” in the civilian sense. It made him seem accessible somehow. Not like a priest at all, more like a … spiritual decorator.
    “Actually,” the cleric added breathlessly, “I’m desperate for a good, no-nonsense picnic basket. I promised Frannie Halcyon I’d take her to Santa Barbara to see the Shroud of Turin.”
    “Ah,” said Prue cheerily. “Who’s in that?”
    Father Paddy seemed to ponder for a moment, then explained: “It’s not actually an opera, my child. It’s a … well, a shroud. The cloth that Christ was buried in. At least, that’s what they
think
it is. Quite fascinating, really, and all the rage in ecclesiastical circles.”
    “How marvelous,” said Prue.
    Father Paddy leaned closer, as if to disclose confidential information. “Hotter than the Tut and Tiffany exhibits combined. You