Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

tray again. “What’s your first guess?”
    Sighing noisily, Mona read from the paper: “DARLING AMANA.”
    “DARLING AMANA? What does that mean?”
    Mona frowned peevishly. “It means you’re a cute refrigerator.”
    “Indeed. Next.”
    “A GRANDMA IN LA.”
    “A GRANDMA IN LA,” repeated the landlady. “My, my. Now that’s a dark secret!” She looked up briefly at Mona, who was scowling exactly like a certain madam from Winnemucca. “Go on, dear. This is wonderful!”
    “A GRAND ANIMAL.”
    Mrs. Madrigal roared, nearly spilling the dope. “I adore that one! A GRAND ANIMAL! I am indeed!”
    “That’s it?”
    “Nope.”
    Mona rolled her eyes. “I hate this game.”
    “Go on. What’s next?”
    “That’s it, goddammit.”
    “What about LAD IN ANAGRAM?”
    Mona dropped the paper and stared at her father. “LAD IN ANAGRAM? You’re kidding!”
    Mrs. Madrigal smiled faintly. “Yes. But I rather like it just the same.”
    “You’re sick,” said Mona.
    “Give me that pencil,” said the landlady.
    Mona obeyed her. The landlady scrawled five words at the bottom of her daughter’s list: A MAN AND A GIRL.
    Mona blinked at it in disbelief. “This … this is it?”
    Mrs. Madrigal nodded.
    “God … it’s so … sexist.”
    “I beg your pardon, young lady.”
    “Girl?” gasped Mona. “You’re a woman!”
    Mrs. Madrigal shook her head. “You’re a woman, dear. I’m a girl. And proud of it.”
    Mona smiled. “My own goddamn father … a sexist!”
    “My darling daughter,” said Mrs. Madrigal, “transsexuals can never be sexists!”
    “Then … you’re a transsexist!”
    The landlady leaned over and kissed Mona on the cheek. “Forgive me, won’t you? I’m terribly old-fashioned.”

Happy Ending
    M OTHER’S DAY, 1977.
    The mistress of Halcyon Hill sat in her late husband’s study, listening to a Bobby Short album and sipping a Mai Tai. Her maid, Emma, entered the room, carrying a stack of mail.
    “There’s a card from Miss DeDe, Miss Frances.”
    The matriarch set down her drink. “Thank heavens!”
    “I knew she’d write her mama,” said Emma. “She’s a good child.” She handed the mail to Frannie and remained standing by the side of the wingback chair. Emma’s lonely too, thought Frannie. She wants to talk about DeDe.
    Making a face, Frannie set aside the latest issue of New West. The cover story was “Inside the Cannibal Cult” by Burke Andrew. “I won’t even look at that,” said the matriarch. “I simply can’t believe what’s happening to this city.”
    Emma grunted her agreement. “Some folks get mighty serious about religion.” The remark, Frannie knew, was more an indictment of Episcopalians than anything else. She declined to defend the church, however. She had too many crosses to bear already.
    “Where’s the card, Emma?”
    “There, next to the phone bill, Miss Frances.”
    To Frannie’s disappointment, it wasn’t a picture postcard; it was one of DeDe’s own Florentine gilt-and-green things, and the message was thoughtlessly terse:
Mother,
Happily settled in now. Babies are just fine, and I feel all tan and healthy. I’ve met so many nice people here. This is my first job ever, and I love it. Miss you much, but think this is for the best. D’or sends hugs.
All my love,
DEDE
    Frannie sighed noisily and laid the card down. Emma reached out and touched her shoulder consolingly. “Don’t you fret, Miss Frances. She’ll grow out o’ that. She’s a smart child. She’ll come to her senses.”
    The matriarch shook her head, then dabbed her eyes with a cocktail napkin. “It’s too much, Emma.”
    “What you mean?”
    “It’s Mother’s Day, Emma. Edgar usually brought me some Godiva chocolates or something. Sometimes I just forget that he’s gone, and it’s like losing him all over again. And now Beauchamp’s gone … and DeDe … and my only grandchildren.”
    Emma squeezed her mistress’ shoulder. “You gotta be strong, Miss Frances.”
    Frannie was silent for a moment, then smiled wanly at her maid. “You’re so wise, Emma.”
    “Just don’t you fret.”
    Frannie nodded decisively and picked up the postcard again. Squinting slightly, she examined the stamp and postmark. “I don’t even know where Guyana is, ” she said. Back in the courtyard of 28 Barbary Lane, Michael Tolliver was testing his legs like a newborn colt. Mary Ann emerged from the house. “I just talked to Mildred,” she yelled.
    “Yeah?”
    “It’s