Mary Ann in Autumn Read online

  In her mother’s day, a hysterectomy had been an act of stealth, a “woman’s problem” to be whispered about, and then, of course, only among women. To Mary Ann the very sound of the word—hissssterectomy—had suggested a secret uttered under the breath. There was shame involved when a woman lost her God-given purpose in life, so (even after having two kids) Mary Ann’s mom had told everyone she knew that she was visiting her older sister in Baltimore. Mary Ann’s dad had stayed home with the kids for four days, feeding them TV dinners and pacing the family room like a caged panther.

  When her mom finally returned, looking sorrowful and weak, Mary Ann had assumed this was the awkward aftermath of a brief marital breakup. That explanation had made the most sense to her, given her father’s panic in her mother’s absence, and the fact that both of them had been yelling a lot more than usual. Mary Ann had fretted over them until the following summer at their cabin in Michigan when, one night before bed, the truth was finally passed down, mother-to-daughter, like treasured heirloom jewelry.

  How, then, could she draw on the memory of her mother’s experience, when she’d been kept in the dark about it? She had no way of knowing if her mom had felt this fragile in her own body, or how extensive her cancer had been, or if it had even been cancer. Like so many bodily mysteries in Mary Ann’s life, she would just have to wing it. There was no practical wisdom to be gleaned from her Greatest Generation mom, the woman who had once described periods to her preteen daughter as “the bitter tears of a disappointed womb.”

  BACK IN THE BEDROOM, MARY Ann found DeDe Halcyon-Wilson on her BlackBerry and dialed the number. DeDe answered on the second ring.

  “Well, hello there. This is a nice surprise.”

  She’d known DeDe for a long time. She had worked for DeDe’s dad at his advertising agency and, several years later, had broken the story when DeDe and her lover D’orothea escaped from Jonestown via Cuba with their twin children in tow. The story had launched Mary Ann’s television career and forged a bond between her and the ex-socialite heiress that had proven resilient despite years of neglect and a continent between them. They had remained firmly on each other’s Christmas card list and had accidentally reunited several years earlier at a charity golf tournament in Boca Raton. Stuffy old Bob hadn’t known what to make of the Halcyon-Wilsons with their Hillary buttons and their easy elegance, but Mary Ann had received them like long-lost sisters.

  It felt like that now, she realized, only stronger. “Oh, God, DeDe, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “Same here, missy. Hang on . . . lemme get D’or. She’s out in the garden with the grandkids.”

  “Grandkids?”

  “I know. Tragic, isn’t it? Where did the time go?” A certain breathlessness in DeDe’s voice told Mary Ann that she was already loping through the garden. Mary Ann could picture that garden easily, or at least how it had looked thirty years earlier when DeDe’s mother, then doyenne of Halcyon Hill, had summoned Mary Ann to the estate to break the news of her daughter’s socially embarrassing return from the dead. DeDe and D’or and the kids had just arrived in Miami in a boatload of gay Cuban refugees.

  And now those kids had kids! “Who do they belong to?” she asked DeDe. “The grandkids, I mean.”

  “Both of them. Anna and Sergei have two of their own, and Edgar and Stephen adopted a seven-year-old last year. Where the hell is she? D’or! There you are. Get your svelte butt over here! It’s Mary Ann! Yeah, that Mary Ann.”

  All this joyful fanfare—and the squeals of children in the background—made Mary Ann wonder if she should do this on the telephone. But she couldn’t afford another moment’s delay if she was going to change doctors in midstream.

  “DeDe, listen, I wanna come visit you guys, but I need—”

  “Mary Ann! Girlfriend!” D’or was on the phone now, apparently in the very midst of all those screaming children. “It’s a friend, Milo . . . no, nobody you know . . . go play with Juniper . . . she needs you at the space station. I’m sorry, Mary Ann. How the hell are you? Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m here,” she responded feebly.

  “In Hillsborough?”

  “No, up in the city.”

  “Is Bob with you?”

  “No, that’s part of why . . . listen, it’s wonderful to hear your voice, but . . . could you maybe ask DeDe to take the phone to a quieter place? There’s something kind of important I need to—”

  “Gotcha. No sweat. Talk to you later, doll. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

  If only.

  WHEN THE SUN DIPPED BEHIND Twin Peaks, she went for a walk around the neighborhood, mostly to lift her spirits. Like Russian Hill, this side of town was etched with bowered stairs and secret alleys, and she’d always been a pushover for that kind of charm. Back in Connecticut, whenever she’d grown homesick—or whatever the word might be—it wouldn’t be the bridge or the pyramid or the cable cars that would call her back to San Francisco; it would be the raw essence of the place, its DNA, something that was everywhere but nowhere: a snippet of bay filigreed with trees, or a row of houses on a fogbound hillside, glowing like fairy lights buried in angel hair.

  She made herself wander for an hour. She tried to pretend that her pain wasn’t portable, that she was still capable of starting over, still the sort of woman who could be saved by geography. Never mind that it hadn’t saved her for many years. Not on her trips to Paris or Prague or St. Barts. Not during her six months in cooking school in Tuscany or even her volunteer work with Habitat in New Orleans after Katrina. A mess who traveled was, ultimately, just a traveling mess. Travel might be broadening for a while, but sooner or later it just narrowed your illusions about what you could be.

  On the way home she stopped to catch her breath on the steep street flanking Michael and Ben’s house. There was an old guy across the street who was doing the same thing, so she felt a moment of senior solidarity with him, though he was much older than she was and didn’t notice her standing there. He seemed to be admiring the new cottage, the one where she was living now, and that somehow made her happy. She considered engaging him but settled on solitude, holding back until he was gone.

  Chapter 10

  A Force for Good

  Pasta made the most sense, Ben decided, since they were cooking for Mary Ann that night, and it was best not to overwhelm her with one of his all-veggie extravaganzas. Nobody thought pasta was weird. He could make a nice penne dish with a little Gimme Lean sausage and his basil-and-cashew pesto. He had Googled “vegan + uterine cancer” at his Norfolk Street workspace that morning to find what he had expected: a documented correlation between cancer and animal-food consumption. A vegan diet could not in itself cure cancer, the experts said, but it could limit the places where cancer could live. That was good to know if Mary Ann’s cancer had yet to spread beyond her uterus.

  Leaving his workspace with Roman just after four, he drove to the Whole Foods on Potrero Hill and shopped for dinner. (Michael, like many, had always called this market “Whole Paycheck,” which was certainly true enough, but Ben couldn’t resist the scope of its organic inventory.) When Ben returned to the parking garage, Roman was sitting up in the front seat with a look of quizzical pathos on his face.

  “What is it, Mr. Doodle? You wanna go to the park?”

  The dog reacted with disproportionate glee, panting his reply.

  “No,” said Ben, sensing a misunderstanding, “not the beach . . . the park.”

  Roman just looked puzzled now.

  “You like the park. All your friends are there. Don’t you wanna see Mercy? And Blossom and Cliff? And Crazy Amy Winehouse Lady?”

  Ben knew he was babbling like a lunatic—to a dog, no less—but he felt no shame about it. Most people were babbling these days, some of them into a headset, others just tweeting into the void, into the gray ether of faceless strangers. At least he knew Roman was listening. At least he knew Roman was trying his best to understand.

  That’s what Ben
liked about the dog park. It was nothing if not a constant effort at direct communication. Even the people there were actively engaged in the practice. Today, for instance, seven or eight of them had pulled their white plastic chairs into a circle and were shooting the breeze like old men on the porch of a country store. All of them, in fact, were male, and most of them could easily fit someone’s definition of old. Not a problem for Ben, of course, except that one of them, a writer named Gabriel Noone, who told stories on NPR, had come on to Ben in the locker room at the Y, and Ben, put off by the guy’s needy posturing, had politely declined. Better to go it alone today.

  So he sat on one of the benches against the fence while Roman went nuts with a scrappy Boston terrier. He didn’t remain alone for long, however, because Cliff came into the park with Blossom, spotted Ben and Roman, and began making his way slowly toward the bench. The old man was wearing a faded green car coat that Ben recognized from previous visits. He used its many pockets to store dog treats, tennis balls and assorted squeaky toys—all for the enjoyment of Blossom and her friends.

  Seeing Cliff, Roman parted company with the Boston terrier and made a beeline for the old man’s pocket. “Well, look at ol’ Roman come running.”

  “Make him sit for it, Cliff. Don’t let him jump on you.”

  “Okay then, sit,” the old man told Roman. “No . . . stay . . . sit. That’s a good boy. You want another?”

  “Just one more,” Ben said. “Otherwise he’ll never leave you alone.”

  The dog was sitting attentively, waiting for the next bonanza, when a nerve-jangling scream made him jerk his head toward Collingwood Street. At that end of the park the cyclone fence was four times taller than elsewhere and covered with canvas panels, not only to keep balls from escaping but presumably to shield the neighbors from the undesirable sight of dogs at play. It was therefore impossible to find the source of the scream—even when another one came, followed by a string of explosive words:

  “I’M ONTO YOU, YOU FUCKIN’ MISERABLE PIECE OF SHIT! YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY FROM ME, MOTHERFUCKER? YOU COCKSUCKING SORRY-ASS EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING!”

  “Uh-oh,” said Cliff, cocking an eyebrow at Ben. “She’s back.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Some schizo. She comes by here from time to time. Her brain is fried. I’m surprised you’ve never seen her.”

  “Or heard her, at least.”

  “THAT’S RIGHT YOU, YOU FUCKIN’ BASTARD. I’M ONTO YOU. THE WORM WILL TURN, YOU SCUMMY SON OF A BITCH! THE WORM WILL TURN! EAT SHIT AND DIE, MOTHERFUCKER! YOU HEAR THAT?”

  By now Roman had abandoned the treats altogether and moved between Ben’s legs for protection. The men in the circle of chairs all had nervous smirks on their faces, but they were obviously trying not to look toward the big canvas wall.

  “Who’s she talking to?” Ben asked.

  The old man shrugged. “Somebody in her head, I suppose. Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact or she’ll try to come in. She’s got a hunting knife strapped to her leg. I’ve seen her pull it on people.”

  “I can’t see her anyway,” said Ben.

  “Nah, look . . . she’s pulled the canvas back.”

  Ben shot a quick furtive glance in that direction. The sidewalk was lower than the fence at that point, so all he could see was the woman’s head and upper body: a beet-red fist of a face above what appeared to be a filthy red tracksuit.

  Then she dropped the canvas and disappeared from sight again.

  BEN HAD AN ARMFUL OF groceries when he returned to the house, so, as soon as the door was open, Roman wriggled past him and bolted toward the human who was dozing in the window seat. He licked her face extravagantly, causing her to wake with a small cry of alarm. “Roman, no!” Ben yelped, though the damage was already done.

  Mary Ann sat up, swiping at her face. “It’s okay,” she said. “That’s more action than I’ve had in months.” She had changed into sweats, Ben noticed, and her face was completely free of makeup. Her short silver hair suited the shape of her head, he thought, and her fine-boned prettiness had carried her gracefully to the brink of sixty.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been here.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have my own perfect little house, for heaven’s sake.” She reached for one of the grocery bags. “Let me help with that.”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve got it. And you sleep wherever you want.”

  She followed him into the kitchen. “Let me help unload, at least.”

  “Sure,” he said, since her need to feel useful was obvious. He wondered, somewhat guiltily, if she had sensed his reluctance about this new living arrangement. “The pantry’s right there,” he told her. “All of this packaged stuff goes on the top two roller shelves. It’s sort of free-for-all, so don’t worry about placement.”

  “Man after my own heart,” Mary Ann replied with strained jocularity. She removed the pasta bags and packaged soups from the canvas carryall and began to transfer them to the pantry. They were both silent for a while, grateful for the chance to bury their awkwardness in mindless activity.

  Finally, Ben said: “I’m sorry about . . . all of it.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “Thanks.”

  “I think you’re being remarkably strong.”

  “Either that. Or I’m in shock.”

  “Have you found a doctor?”

  “Not yet. I’ve got a friend working on it.”

  “Do you have many of those here?”

  “What? Friends?” She shook her head. “Not anymore. I mean . . . it’s been a long time. I wouldn’t even know how to find them.”

  “You should get on Facebook.”

  “Oh . . . God no, Ben. I hate the Internet.”

  “Why?”

  “People get so ugly. I used to read the Chronicle online back in Darien, just to . . . you know . . . because I liked seeing the names of familiar places. But I was always tempted to read the . . . What’s that part where the readers write in?”

  “The comment board?”

  “Yeah. They’re so depressing. All those bitter people gloating about someone else’s death or calling someone ugly or just being really hideous to each other. I couldn’t handle it. It wasn’t the San Francisco I remembered.”

  Ben handed her a bundle of kale. “That’s because they’re from Chico.”

  She laughed. “Not all of them, surely. Where does this go?”

  “Bottom bin in the fridge. The thing about Facebook is that it’s friendly. Most people use their real names, and you can block anyone who’s being an asshole. In my experience people are usually nice . . . even a little bit corny sometimes.”

  She squatted to stuff the kale into the vegetable bin, then looked up at him with a crooked smile. “Perfect for the old lady, in other words.”

  He chuckled. “I didn’t mean you were corny. I just thought you might enjoy the experience. It brings back the past like you wouldn’t believe. All sorts of people.”

  “That’s just it. Do I really want that?”

  “Why not?”

  She stood up again. “I’ve pretty much kept the friends I wanted to keep. If you lose someone along the way, there’s usually a good reason, isn’t there?”

  “What about fans, then? There must be a lot of them.”

  “Fans?”

  “Michael says you were a big star here back in the day.”

  She rolled her eyes conspicuously, but he could tell that she was pleased. “I had a local show. I was . . . you know . . . somebody for a while, but ‘star’ is pushing it.” She paused for a moment, then asked: “What’s this about, Ben?”

  He was asking himself the same question. Sure, he was trying to lift her spirits, but his other motive was undeniably self-serving. Mary Ann might not be so dependent on Michael, Ben figured, if she had a wider network of supportive friends.

  “I just thought you’d enjoy it,” he said. “It’s been fun for me, and—”

&
nbsp; “I wouldn’t even know how to do it. I’d probably—”

  “Well, that part’s easy. I could set it up for you in a few minutes. If you wanna use my computer, you could . . .” He cut himself off, suddenly wary of overselling it. “Sorry, I get like this. Just tell me to shut up.”

  She smiled and began folding the empty canvas bags on the butcher-block island. The act was so methodical and matter-of-fact that she might have always been tidying things away in this kitchen. “Where do these go?” she asked.

  “Just leave them. I keep them in the car.”

  She arranged the bags in a stack and gave them a nervous pat to indicate that she was done. Without looking up, she said: “I know how invasive this is.”

  He was thrown, so he feigned confusion. “What?”

  “Me being here. Leaching off your happiness.”

  Now she was gazing directly at him, waiting for his response. Where had this come from anyway? Could Michael have said something to her?

  “C’mon,” he said finally. “You’re not leaching off anything. We’re happy to have you.”

  “No, Ben, that’s sweet, but . . . I’m sort of borrowing your husband.”

  He shrugged. “Then make sure to give him back.”

  She laughed. “Well . . . okay . . . deal.”

  He picked up a tub of Earth Balance and tucked it into the butter bin on the refrigerator door. “I get it, Mary Ann. I know why you need him.”

  She seemed to study him for a moment. “Where on earth did he find you?”

  He gave her a heavy-lidded smile.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “The Internet.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s a force for good.”

  “I’m not looking for a man, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  “Could you set it up on my laptop?”

  “Set up what? Oh . . . sure.” He was amazed how quickly she’d capitulated. “Of course.”