Babycakes Read online

  “Mmm,” answered Mary Ann.

  “I mean … Jees … I want a baby a lot more than I want a husband, so I said to hell with it and stopped taking the pill. You can have a husband any ol’ time. There’s a time limit on babies.” She paused and studied Mary Ann with a look of earnest concern. “Am I freaking you out, hon?”

  Mary Ann laughed as jauntily as possible. “Are you kidding?”

  “Good. Anyway, the father is either Phil, this software executive who took me to the Us Festival last year, or Darryl, this really super accountant from Fresno.” She shrugged, having made her point. “I mean … it’s not like they weren’t both great guys.”

  In some ways, it made a lot of sense. Leave it to Connie to name the baby before she had named the father. “You look just great,” Mary Ann said. “It really becomes you.”

  “Thanks.” Connie beamed. “You and Brian got married, didn’t you?”

  The question came out of left field, but Mary Ann wasn’t really surprised. According to Brian, he and Connie had slept together once back in ’76. Later that year he had brought her to Mrs. Madrigal’s Christmas party. Nothing had ever come of it. To hear Brian tell it, the interlude had meant a lot more to Connie than it had to him.

  Mary Ann nodded. “Two years ago this summer.”

  “That’s great,” said Connie. “He’s a neat guy.”

  “Thanks. I think so too.”

  “But no babies, huh?”

  Mary Ann shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Your career, huh?”

  In a matter of seconds, Mary Ann weighed her options. It was time to talk about this to someone, and Connie suddenly struck her as a logical candidate. She was decent, practical and completely detached from the tight little family unit at 28 Barbary Lane.

  “We need to catch up,” said Mary Ann. “Why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “Super!”

  So they walked across the square to Neiman-Marcus, where Connie elaborated on the joys of impending motherhood. “It’s like … it’s like this friend you’ve never met. I know it sounds dumb, but sometimes I just sit and talk to Shawna when I’m home alone. And you know … sometimes she even thumps back.”

  Mary Ann set her cup down. “That doesn’t sound dumb at all.”

  “I don’t know why it took me so long to do it,” said Connie. “It’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I kid you not.”

  “Are you on maternity leave or what?”

  Connie looked puzzled.

  “Aren’t you still with United?” asked Mary Ann.

  “Oh.” Connie let out a little laugh. “You are behind the times, hon. I quit that five or six years ago. The glamor was gone, if you know what I mean.”

  Mary Ann nodded.

  “In my day, we were stews,” Connie continued. “Now they have flight attendants. It’s just not the same thing.”

  “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

  “I saved some money, though, so I have my own little house in West Portal. I manage a card shop there. You should come by sometime. I’ll give you a press discount or something.” She smiled wanly at Mary Ann, suspecting that it would never happen. “You must be superbusy, though.”

  “I’d love to come,” said Mary Ann.

  “There might even be a story in it. It’s a cute place.”

  “Mmm.”

  Connie reached across the table and took Mary Ann’s hand. It was a sisterly gesture, reminiscent of the days when Mary Ann had camped out on Connie’s sofa in the Marina, crying her eyes out over rotten times at Dance Your Ass Off. Connie had been her only refuge, a benevolent link between Cleveland and her family at Barbary Lane.

  “What’s the matter, hon?”

  Mary Ann hesitated, then said: “I wish I knew.”

  “About what?”

  “Well … Brian wants a baby very much.”

  Connie nodded. “And you don’t, huh?”

  “No. I want one. Maybe not as much as Brian does … but I want one.”

  “And?”

  “Well … I stopped taking the pill eight months ago.”

  Connie’s mouth opened slightly.

  “Nothing’s happened, Connie. Zilch.”

  Connie cocked her head, showing sympathy. “And Brian is freaked, huh?”

  “No. He doesn’t know about it. I haven’t told him.”

  Connie screwed up her face in thought, “I don’t get it. You didn’t tell him when you went off the pill?”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise, Connie. Like in the movies. I wanted to see the look on his face when I told him I was pregnant.”

  “Like in the old days,” said Connie. “That’s sweet.”

  “Now I have to see the look on his face when I tell him I’m not.”

  “Bummer,” said Connie.

  “The thing is … it means so much to him.” She chose her words carefully. “I think he’s proud of me and my career—I know he is—but his self-respect has suffered a lot. He sees himself as the waiter who’s married to the TV star. I mean, he’s warm and kind and loving … and incredibly sexy, and that’s always been enough for me …”

  “But not for him,” Connie added.

  “Apparently not. This baby is a major obsession. I guess it’s … something he could do, you know? A mark he could leave on the world. His own flesh and blood.”

  Her confidante nodded.

  “Only it can’t be, Connie. It can never be.”

  “You mean …?”

  Mary Ann nodded. “I’ve seen a doctor. It isn’t me.”

  “And you’re sure he’s the one who’s …”

  “Positive.”

  Connie’s brow furrowed. “But if they haven’t tested his sperm yet …”

  “Connie … they have.”

  “What?”

  “They tested it at St. Sebastian’s about a month ago. His sperm count is practically nonexistent. It just won’t cut it.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought you said you hadn’t told him.”

  She might have known it would come to this. “I did, Connie. But it’s possible to have his sperm tested without … Oh, c’mon, Connie … think about it.”

  Connie thought about it, then said: “Jees. That must’ve been a bitch.”

  Mary Ann looked at her nails, saying nothing.

  “How on earth did you …?”

  “Connie, please … don’t ask, O.K.?” The last thing she needed was to rehash the horrors of that trying day: the mad dash to the bathroom, where she’d hidden the jar, the feeble excuse she’d made to get out of the house before breakfast, the Chinese funeral that almost kept her from making it on time …

  “He isn’t wearing jockey-style shorts, is he?”

  “What?”

  “I read that in ‘Dear Abby.’ Sometimes they can cause sterility.”

  “No … it isn’t that.” She wondered momentarily if Brian had worn jockey-style shorts when Connie had slept with him.

  They both fell silent for a moment. Mary Ann knew what Connie was thinking, so she beat her to the punch. “Time to face the music, huh?”

  Connie looked up from her cup with a game little smile. “Seems that way to me, hon.”

  Mary Ann suddenly felt silly. “I should have told him weeks ago. I just thought there might be some way I could spare him the … hell, I don’t know. If I tell him what I did … you know … with the sperm and all …”

  “Don’t tell him that.”

  “But I can’t make him go through it again. He’ll insist on that, I’m sure.”

  “You could tell him you’re sterile.”

  Mary Ann rejected the idea with a frown. That would jeopardize their relationship even more than the current bag of worms. It was better to stick with the whole truth … or wait for a miracle.

  When she arrived home that night, she found Brian in the house on the roof, watching Three’s Company in his KAFKA baseball cap. She had hated that stupid cap ever since Brian had read about it
on a matchbook cover and mailed away for it, but tonight was hardly the time to tell him so.

  “I brought us some Eye of the Swan.” she said, holding up the bottle.

  He peered at her over the back of the sofa. “Oh … hi. Great. What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She moved to the window. “The rain has stopped. See? There’s even some blue over there. Shit!”

  “What?”

  “I forgot to bring glasses.”

  “No sweat.”

  “I’ll run down and …”

  “Mary Ann …” He caught her free hand. “Just relax, O.K.? We’re fine. We can pass the bottle.”

  “It won’t take a minute …”

  “No one’s watching, Mary Ann. This isn’t a segment on Bay Window.”

  Thank Cod for small favors, she thought.

  He tugged her back to the sofa. She set the bottle down and settled in with him, giving him a long kiss. Then she pulled back and looked into his long-lashed hazel eyes. “Do you realize how lucky we are?”

  He regarded her for a moment, then said: “I do.”

  She picked up the bottle, took a swig from it, and handed it to him. He took a similar swig and gave the bottle back to her. “Why are we counting our blessings?” he asked.

  She placed the bottle on the floor beneath their feet. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know … you always talk about how lucky we are right before you drop one of your bombs.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “O.K., you don’t.” He gave her his I’m-not-looking-for-a-fight smile.

  “I just … well, as a matter of fact, I did want to talk to you about something.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Great. Shoot.”

  “Well, I thought it would be nice if we hyphenated our names.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know … if I became Mary Ann Singleton-Hawkins.” Brian studied her. “Is this a gag?”

  “No. I told you before I feel like Mrs. Hawkins. Keeping my own name was never a big deal.”

  “It was to the station,” said Brian.

  “O.K. So if I become Mary Ann Singleton-Hawkins, they’ll still have their precious name recognition factor and … you know … it’ll be more like I’m married.”

  He sat there slack-mouthed.

  “Besides,” she added, “I think the name’s really pretty. It’s distinctive.”

  Brian frowned. “Making me … what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean … what do I tell the guys at work? That I’ve just become Brian Singleton-Hawkins?”

  That slopped her cold. “Oh … well … yeah, I see what you mean.”

  “What in the world are you …?”

  “Forget it, Brian. I didn’t think it out. It was a stupid idea.” She smiled sheepishly. “Gimme that bottle, handsome.”

  He did so. She took another swig. He reached out and touched the side of her head. “You know the name business doesn’t bother me. I told you that a long time ago.”

  “I know.”

  He laid his arm across her shoulder. “Christ, I’m a modern sonofabitch.”

  The phone rang downstairs.

  “I’d better get that,” she said, grateful for the reprieve. She clattered down the narrow wooden stairway and caught the call after the fourth ring, gasping “Hello.”

  “Miss Singleton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Simon Bardili here.”

  “Simon! How are you? Is everything going O.K.?”

  “By and large. I’m in a bit of a scrape as far as accommodations are concerned.”

  “Oh …”

  “Do you think I might solicit your advice at some point? At your convenience, of course.”

  “Of course! Hold on a sec, O.K.?”

  She dashed back upstairs and confronted Brian. “It’s that Englishman from the Britannia. I thought I might invite him to dinner tomorrow night … if you’d like to meet him, that is.”

  Brian’s hesitation was almost imperceptible. “Fine,” he said.

  Simon’s Proposition

  HE HAD ALREADY PICTURED THE ENGLISHMAN AS A sort of latter-day Laurence Harvey, a spoiled aristocrat with pretentious airs and esoteric tastes. He couldn’t have been more surprised when Simon Bardili ambled over to his record collection and perused the cover of Denim Gradations.

  “A bloody shame,” he said.

  Brian was caught off guard. “What? Oh … his death, you mean?”

  “Mmm. Free-basing, wasn’t he?”

  Brian shook his head. “Smack. According to the coroner.”

  “Ah.”

  “You … uh … you’re a fan of Bix Cross?”

  The lieutenant smiled dimly. “More of a freak than a fan. I played nothing else in my rooms at Cambridge.” He held out the album so Brian could see it. “The lovely breasts belong to his wife, I understand.”

  Brian smiled back. “You understand correctly. I met the lady this weekend.”

  “Indeed?” If an arching eyebrow was any indication, the lieutenant was clearly impressed. “Katrina, isn’t it? No, Camilla … something exotic.”

  “Theresa,” Brian told him.

  The lieutenant rolled the name across his tongue. “Theresa … Theresa.” He turned and gave Brian a knowing, man-to-man look. “Is her face as delicious as the rest of her?”

  “Better,” said Brian. That was somewhat of an exaggeration, but he enjoyed being an expert on Theresa Cross.

  The lieutenant breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God!”

  “Why?”

  “Well, one doesn’t enjoy seeing one’s fantasies dashed on the rocks.”

  “Yeah.” Brian nodded. “I guess that’s true.”

  The lieutenant looked down at the album again. “I banged the bishop over this one more times than I care to count.”

  Brian didn’t get it. “I think you’d better run that by me again.”

  The lieutenant chuckled. “You know.” He made a jerking-off gesture with his fist.

  Brian grinned. “Banging the bishop?”

  “Right.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  The lieutenant thought for a moment. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  They shared a brief laugh. The lieutenant returned the album to its place on the shelf. Brian decided to take advantage of the silence. “So,” he said, “why aren’t you in chains by now?”

  The lieutenant seemed little disconcerted by his direct approach. “I think you’ve been reading too much Melville. The modern navy isn’t nearly as stringent as you might think.”

  “Yeah, but … you jumped ship, didn’t you?”

  “More or less.”

  “Well, isn’t that a court-martial offense?”

  “Sometimes,” answered the lieutenant. “It can vary, though, depending on the individual.”

  Brian looked him squarely in the eye. “You mean you have friends in high places?”

  The lieutenant seemed tremendously uncomfortable. He was about to say something, when Mary Ann bounded into the room, letting him off the hook. “Well,” she said, “I’m afraid she’s not home yet.” She glanced apologetically at their guest. “This is so disappointing. It’s such wonderful stuff. She named it after the Queen Mother and everything.”

  The lieutenant looked puzzled.

  Brian translated for him: “Our landlady names her pot plants after women she admires.”

  “I see.”

  Mary Ann turned to Brian. “I checked Michael’s too. He isn’t back from Death Valley yet. I could look for roaches in the ashtray in the car.”

  “Too late,” he answered. “I did that last week. We’ll just have to face your chicken straight.”

  She gave him an evil eye before addressing the lieutenant. “I can get you some wine.”

  “Lovely,” he said.

  Mary Ann disappeared into the kitchen. The
lieutenant sidled to the window, turning his back to Brian. “That beacon must be Alcatraz,” he said. He obviously had no intention of picking up where they’d left off.

  “That’s it,” said Brian.

  “They don’t still keep prisoners, do they?”

  “No. It’s empty. Has been for a long time.”

  “I see. Lovely view from here.”

  “Yeah,” said Brian. “It’s not bad.”

  Mary Ann sailed into the room with the wine stuff on a tray. “Have you ever had Eye of the Swan?”

  The lieutenant turned around. “No … I can’t say that I have.”

  “It’s a white Pinot noir. Very dry.” She set the tray down on the coffee table, then knelt in front of it and began pouring.

  “Glasses and everything,” murmured Brian.

  She handed him a glass, ignoring the remark.

  “So,” she chirped, giving the lieutenant a glass. “You’ve been having trouble finding a place to stay?”

  “Not exactly,” he replied. “I took a room at the Holiday Inn on Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  Brian and Mary Ann groaned in unison.

  The lieutenant chuckled. “Yes, it is, rather. I was hoping for something with a little more character. I don’t fancy breaking that little paper seal every day.”

  “What seal?” asked Mary Ann.

  “You know … on the toilet.”

  “Oh.” She laughed a little nervously, Brian thought. “How long do you plan on staying?”

  “Oh … about a month, I plan on returning to London several days after Easter.”

  Mary Ann frowned. “That makes renting a little difficult.”

  “Actually,” said the lieutenant, “I was rather hoping for a swap.”

  “A swap?”

  “My place in London in exchange for someone’s place here. Could such a thing be arranged?”

  Mary Ann was already deep in thought.

  “It’s a tatty little flat,” added the lieutenant, “but it’s in a colorful neighborhood and … well, it might be an adventure for someone.”

  Mary Ann looked at Brian with dancing eyes. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.

  Settling Up

  NED’S RED PICKUP AND ITS SEVEN WEARY PASSENGERS had survived sandstorms in Furnace Creek, snowstorms in South Lake Tahoe. and a blowout near Drytown by the time their ten-hour trans-California odyssey had ended.