Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

decided to wait. Still, when roaming flea markets and garage sales, they thought nothing of splurging on an Indian blanket or a Fiesta pitcher or a mica-shaded floor lamp for the bedroom. Without ever stating it, they both seemed to realize the same thing: If there was nesting to be done, it had better be done now.

    A record hot spell had finally broken. Beyond their deck (which faced west into the sunset), the long-awaited fog tumbled into the valley like white lava. Michael stood at the rail and watched as it erased the spindly red television tower, until only its three topmost masts were left, sailing above Twin Peaks like the Flying Dutchman. He filled his lungs, held it, let it go, and breathed in again.
    His potted succulents were looking parched, so he uncoiled the hose and gave them a thorough drenching, taking as always a certain vicarious pleasure in their relief. When he was through, he aimed the cooling stream into a neighbor’s yard, where the scorched and curling fronds of a tree fern testified to its need. The fern, in fact, was the last patch of green in sight down there; even the luxuriant weeds of the past spring had turned to straw in the drought.
    “Hey,” said Thack, coming onto the deck from the kitchen. “We’re rationing, remember?”
    “I know.” Michael turned the nozzle to mist and gave the fern a final, guilty shower to wash away the dust.
    “They’re gonna fine us.”
    He turned off the water and began to coil the hose. “I didn’t take a shower this morning.”
    “So what?”
    “So the tree fern gets my water. It evens out.”
    His lover turned and headed back to the kitchen. “Since it’s not even our tree fern…”
    “I know. O.K.” He followed him through the sliding glass door.
    Thack opened the oven and knelt to study a bubbling casserole, pungent with shrimp and herbs. “Mrs. Bandoni says the new owners are gonna level the place.”
    “Figures,” said Michael, sitting at the kitchen table. He could see the tree fern from here, see the empty house with its streaky windows and cardboard boxes, the fading beefcake pinup taped to the refrigerator door. The sight of the place always made him shiver a little, like a deserted hamster cage with the straw still in it.
    “The foundation’s bad,” said Thack. “Whoever bought it will have to start from scratch.”
    The previous owner had been an architect or draftsman of some sort. A wiry little guy with a silvery crew cut and a fondness for jeans and sweatshirts. In the months before his death, Michael could see him at his table, hunched over his blueprints, removing his glasses, rubbing his rabbity eyes. Since his house fronted on another street, they had hardly ever spoken, except to yell neighborly things about the weather or the state of their respective gardens.
    He’d been a bachelor, Michael knew, but one who seemed comfortable in his solitude. His illness only became apparent, in fact, when visitors started showing up at his house. There were older folks mostly, people who might have been relatives, arriving with fresh linens and covered dishes, sometimes in groups of three or four. Once, when the man’s primroses were still in bloom, Michael looked down to see a uniformed nurse sneaking a cigarette in the garden.
    “I hope,” said Thack, “it’s not some hideous stucco-onplywood job.”
    Michael frowned at him, lost for a moment.
    “The new house,” said Thack.
    “Oh. Oh, yeah. Who knows? Probably.”
    Thack closed the oven door. “Go ahead and water the damn thing, if it bothers you that much.”
    “No,” said Michael. “You’re right.”
    His lover stood up, wiping his hands on his Levi’s. “Your mother called, by the way. She left a message on the machine.”
    Michael grunted. “About the weather, right?”
    “C’mon.”
    “Well, that’s usually what she says, isn’t it? ‘How’s the weather out there?’”
    “That’s because she’s afraid of you.”
    “ Afraid of me?”
    “Yeah, as a matter of fact.” Thack took two Fiesta platters from the cupboard and set them on the counter. “You treat her like shit, Michael.”
    “ I treat her like shit? When have you ever heard me say anything that could…?”
    “It’s not what you say, it’s how. The color just drains out of your voice. I can always tell when she’s on the other end. You don’t talk that way to anybody else.”
    He wondered what had brought this on. “Have you been talking to her or