Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

family?”
    “DeDe and D’orothea.”
    “And the children?” he asked.
    “Mmm,” she replied. “Emma’s setting up a card table on the lawn. They won’t be trouble.”
    He wasn’t so sure about that.
    As it turned out, the children were remarkably subdued, keeping to themselves at the other table, showing no interest whatsoever in the grownups. Booter relaxed a little, soothed by the sunshine and the soporific tones of the talking women.
    “So,” Frannie was saying, “where did you end up going?”
    DeDe, he noticed, shot a quick glance at her friend before replying: “Eureka, ultimately. But we drove around a lot. Just … taking it easy.”
    “Did you stay in motels?” Frannie grimaced a little when she said the word.
    “No,” said D’orothea, with almost as much hauteur. “Bed-and-breakfast places.”
    “Some of them are very nice,” DeDe added defensively. “Carpeting and everything.”
    D’orothea rolled her eyes.
    “I’m sure you’re right,” Frannie said pleasantly, clearly intent on avoiding trouble. “I’m sure they’re very nice.”
    “What about you, Mother? What have you been up to?” DeDe shifted the spotlight rather deftly, he thought.
    “Oh … you know me. A little gardening, a few tiresome lunches. Lots of TV. I saw that woman, by the way, the one you like so much. This morning. On Mary Ann’s show.”
    “What woman?”
    “You know, that poetess who was on Broadway.”
    “Poet,” said D’orothea. “Sabra Landauer.”
    “Yes,” said Frannie. “That’s the one.”
    DeDe frowned. “She was on Mary Ann’s show?”
    Frannie nodded. “The whole time. Except for the last fifteen minutes, when they had a dog psychic.”
    Booter couldn’t let that pass. “A dog psychic?”
    “She’s quite extraordinary.” His wife reproved him with a look. “Don’t mock what you don’t understand.”
    DeDe kept her eyes down as she spaded her grapefruit. “Did the psychic say what was on Sabra’s mind?”
    Booter chuckled. DeDe fired off a good one every now and then.
    His wife turned to DeDe, looking puzzled. “I thought you admired her. For being a feminist.”
    “She’s all right,” said DeDe, as Emma arrived with a parsley-strewn platter of scrambled eggs and sausages. Booter detected another hurried visual exchange between DeDe and D’orothea.
    Frannie took the platter from the maid and said: “Well, she was much prettier than I expected.”
    DeDe grunted. “Did she read her poetry, or what?”
    “No,” replied Frannie. “She talked, mostly.”
    “About what?” asked D’orothea.
    “Oh … her fiancé, for one thing.”
    “Her fiancé?” This came from both young women at once.
    “He’s an actor,” said Frannie.
    “He would be,” said DeDe.
    Frannie added: “He was on St. Elsewhere last week. What do you mean, he would be?”
    “It’s a career move,” said DeDe.
    “I don’t understand.”
    “She’s gay, Mother.”
    D’orothea began to chuckle.
    Frannie was lost. “Then, why would she …?”
    “To throw people off the track.”
    “You mean she would …?”
    “She’s a star, Mother. Stars aren’t supposed to be gay.”
    “Well, I know, but … that poor man!”
    “Mother, he’s probably gay himself.”
    “He is?”
    “Yes. Now they’re both covered.”
    D’orothea’s laughter gathered steam. Pushing away from the table, she threw back her head and gasped for air.
    Frannie was plainly offended. “Well, just because I don’t know what her—”
    “No,” DeDe cut in, “she’s not laughing at you, Mother.”
    Frannie stuck out her chest like a pouter pigeon. “I mean … really!”
    “I’m sorry,” said D’orothea, rubbing her eyes, recovering control. “When are they getting married?”
    Frannie continued brooding.
    “Mother,” said DeDe, “when?”
    “Tomorrow, I think. That’s what she came here for.”
    D’orothea looked at DeDe and shrugged. “I must’ve been her bachelor party.”
    After breakfast, Booter withdrew from the women and strolled through the garden, savoring the pleasant predictability of home. Out on the lawn, the children were engaged in a raucous croquet match, which he watched from afar, enjoying their enthusiasm.
    When the boy came toward him in search of the ball, Booter seized the moment. “Son,” he said quietly. “Could I have a word with you?”
    Edgar approached almost guiltily. Good God, thought Booter, am I really that terrifying?
    “I wanted to thank you,” he said.