Read Michael Tolliver Lives Online
Authors: Armistead Maupin
Michael Tolliver Lives (27 page)
“It’s okay,” I said softly. “I didn’t much care for it myself.”
Her laughter came in a short violent burst, and that set free her tears. I rose from my chair and joined her on the sofa, collecting her in my arms while she sobbed. She felt so tiny there and her hair smelled clean and lemony.
“Get it out,” I told her. “We’ve got a celebration to attend.”
It helped that we were all there for Anna. Brian and Shawna (and Mary Ann, for that matter) were largely relieved of the problem of finding something meaningful to say at their reunion. The afternoon was strictly about Anna, so there was only a brief exchange of hugs in the lobby and a heartbreaking moment—well, heartbreaking to me—when, on our way down the hallway, Mary Ann touched Shawna’s back and complimented her on her black onyx earrings. Brian, for the most part, remained stoic throughout, handling the other introductions—Ben and Jake and the flatmates—with surprising grace. He could pull it together when he wanted to.
Marguerite, as usual, provided the update:
“She’s off the respirator,” she told us.
I knew what that had meant in my mother’s case, so I wasn’t sure how to react. Was there cause for celebration or…cause for another type of celebration?
“What does that mean?” asked Shawna.
“She woke up briefly this morning and just yanked it off when the doctors weren’t here. She’s been sleeping without it.”
I was frowning now. “And the doctors said that’s okay?”
“Absolutely,” said Selina. “Her vital signs are definitely improving.” It was the longest phrase I’d heard her speak since Anna had been at the hospital, but there was something about her certainty that sounded wishful and forced.
“Is she able to talk?” asked Mary Ann.
“Just in her sleep,” said Jake. “It’s not makin’ a lotta sense.”
“Like what?” asked Brian.
“You know,” said Selina, obviously putting on a brave face. “The way anybody sounds when they talk in their sleep.”
Mary Ann nodded soberly, casting her eyes at Brian and Shawna.
Ben moved next to me and slipped his arm around my waist with a small but significant smile. He seemed to be telling me that we weren’t out of the woods yet.
Brain damage
is what I was thinking.
All seven of us were in Anna’s room now. Her bed was no longer flat, but she was fast asleep. Someone—Selina or Marguerite, I presume—had made a gallant effort at making her presentable, fluffing her hair and adding color to her cheeks. Anna’s eyes were closed but fluttering as she murmured unintelligibly. Brian, as already agreed upon, stood next to her and did all the talking—at least initially.
“Anna…if you can hear me…everyone’s here now.”
He’s being the man of the family,
I thought.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to wake up. We’re just here to tell you how much we love you and appreciate everything you’ve—”
He was interrupted by a groan from Anna, twitching in her sleep.
“—everything you’ve done for us.”
“Mona?” Anna murmured. “Is that you?”
My heart caught in my throat as Brian gazed toward me for guidance. I shook my head, telling him not to go there. Mary Ann caught this interaction and grimaced in confusion.
She doesn’t know,
I thought.
We never even got to that
.
“It’s Brian, Anna…and Mary Ann’s here, too. She flew in all the way from Connecticut just to see you. And Selina and Marguerite are here. They’re responsible for the beautiful red satin pajamas you’re wearing. And Ben and Michael, of course, and Shawna, who’s moving to New York next week to—”
Another moan from Anna, this one louder, more guttural.
“—to become the world’s best writer. Or at least the next Susie Bright, right? And we’re all very proud of her…”
Shawna leaned over and whispered, “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
Selina, I noticed, was already slipping out of the room, apparently shaken by Anna’s failure to respond to Brian’s wedding-reception-MC approach. Marguerite followed, whispering reassurances to her friend. Anna, meanwhile, was speaking again, her eyes still closed, her words slurred and cryptic.
“What’s she saying?” asked Mary Ann.
Brian leaned closer. Anna’s lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear much of anything from where I was standing.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” said Brian. “It’s gibberish.”
“Like what?” said Shawna.
“It sounded like ‘There is no…fisted nation.’”
“Fisted nation?” said Jake, wrinkling his nose.
Anna spoke again, apparently repeating herself, so Brian moved his ear closer to her mouth. “No,” he said, looking up at us, “it’s ‘fifth destination.’ She said, ‘There is no fifth destination.’”
It took a moment, but it hit me hard. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
asked Mary Ann. “What does that mean?”
I was looking at Ben now, flabbergasted. “It’s what Carlotta says.”
“Who’s Carlotta?” asked Brian.
“Our car,” said Ben.
Mary Ann frowned. “Your car says things?”
I was still gaping at Ben, looking for the deeper meaning of this conundrum, this snake eating its tail. I remembered what Ben had said when we first heard Carlotta’s stern pronouncement on the fifth destination:
If that’s the answer, what is the question?
And here was Mrs. Madrigal, drifting in dreams between life and death, mumbling this phrase we’d already mocked and lovingly made our own.
Is this how she would leave, winking at us across the cosmos?
“This is the weirdest thing,” I said. “I can’t begin to imagine how—”
“I told her, honey.” Ben was smiling gently, having burst my metaphysical bubble. “After the hula show at the Palace. We had a good laugh about it.”
“Right,” said Shawna. “She was vaporizing that night.”
“God,” said Mary Ann, “will somebody please speak English?”
The patient cleared her throat noisily. All eyes turned to the bed as Anna’s eyes fluttered open. She took us in, one at a time, with a smile blooming on her face.
“Children,” she said weakly.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mary Ann. “We’re here.”
“You’ll never guess…” Anna’s voice trailed off.
“What?” I asked. “Never guess what?”
“Where I’ve been,” she replied.
O
n the day before Thanksgiving there were already fat red berries on the holly bush at the foot of our garden. Ben and I were stretched out on our double chaise beneath a blue enamel sky, discussing our contribution to Anna’s annual feast.
“What about blackberry cobbler?” I suggested.
Ben shook his head. “Brian’s doing dessert. And we’ll be eating it…by the way…in the Winnebago.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“He’s parking it across the street from Anna’s. Says he wants our vibes in there before he leaves for Mesa Verde.”
I thought for a moment. “Okay, then…sweet potatoes.”
“Kinda boring,” said Ben. “And we did that last year.”
“Did we?” I had no memory of that whatsoever.
Ben smiled at me indulgently.
“Hey,” I said, “some guys my age can’t remember the seventies. You’re getting off real easy with sweet potatoes.” (Faulty memory aside, I love the fact that we’re starting to repeat ourselves, settling into comfy familial rituals.)
“What about a green bean casserole?” Ben offered.
“No, wait! The brussels sprouts with maple syrup! Nobody’s had that one, for sure.”
“There’s a reason for that,” said Ben.
“Okay. Fine.”
Ben leaned into me, nuzzling my neck. “Don’t be hurt, honey. It was a noble effort.” He threaded his fingers through mine as we gazed up at the perfect cerulean sky. “Hey…the nipple toys have arrived from eBay.”
“And the swallows have come back to Capistrano.”
He laughed. “You’re gonna love ’em.”
“They’re from eBay? They’re
used
nipple toys?”
“C’mon.” Ben tugged my nipple through my polo shirt. “That would run you a whole lot more.”
I chuckled. “You’re right. There’s probably heavy bidding on celebrity nipple toys.”
“Speaking of which,” said Ben. “Shawna’s gonna be on
The Daily Show
next week.”
I laughed sourly. “Nice segue.”
“Isn’t that great, though? She called all excited while you were in the shower. From a bar in Chelsea. She’s asked Mary Ann to be in the audience.”
I felt a tinge of jealousy, I have to admit. “Has she even seen Shawna’s website?”
“I would presume. Or she’s boning up on it as we speak.”
“It’s her husband who’s boning up on it.”
Ben scolded me with a smile. “Don’t be a fussy old uncle.”
We lay there silently, watching a pair of ravens circle the old cypress in a neighbor’s yard. Ben says that ravens mate for life, so it’s always nice when they offer us their blessing. Looking at them, Ben gave my belly a Buddha rub, a gesture that still makes me self-conscious, as much as I love being loved in my entirety.
“You know what I’d like to do today?” he said.
“What?”
“I’d like you to take me to Barbary Lane.”
“There’s nothing to see, sweetie. There must be three planks left from the old house.”
“I just wanna see the lane. It’s a perfect day for it, and I’ve never even climbed those steps.”
“Okay, then…sure. We can eat lunch in North Beach.”
“Should we take Anna with us?”
I shook my head. “The steps are too much for her. And she says she’d rather remember it the way it was.”
Ben took that in for a moment. “They’re the same steps, though, right?”
“Actually, no. They replaced them just after I left.”
“Oh.”
“They look the same, though. They’re almost as rickety now.”
As I spoke these words I was gazing at the old cypress. It was over a century old and its limbs were elaborately trussed with steel cables to keep them from snapping in a high wind. Like a lot of the cypresses in Golden Gate Park, this one was nearing the end of its cycle. (I confess that I sometimes make bets with it as to which one of us will outlast the other, which one will remain king of the hill.)
I looked over at my husband and reminded myself for the umpteenth time that his youth was not contagious. It would certainly make the journey more pleasant, but it wouldn’t save me from my destination. He had once offered me thirty years, but I’d happily settle for twenty. Hell, this day alone was enough for now.
And more than I’d ever expected.
F
or good company and wise counsel during the writing of this novel, I’m especially grateful to Don Bachardy, Karen Barbour, Steven Barclay, Alison Barrow, Joanna Barton, Sara Bixler, Curt Branom, Charles Busch, Alison Callahan, Jimmie Clark, Andrew Coile, Kirk Dalrymple, Gregg De Meza, Lou DiMattei, Mike Fulton, Patrick Gale, Todd Hargis, Jake Heggie, Nick Hongola, Peggy Knickerbocker, Jerry Lasley, James Lecesne, Mark Leno, Pam Ling, Laura Linney, Jean Maupin, Tony Maupin, Ian McKellen, John Cameron Mitchell, Stuart Myers, Davia Nelson, Luke Parker Bowles, Jeanette Perez, Alan Poul, Joshua Robison, Marc Schauer, Bill Scott-Kerr, David Sheff, Jim Simmons, Patrick Stettner, Amy Tan, Michael Tilson Thomas, Alicia Turner, Binky Urban, Darryl Vance, Louise Vance, Rob Waring, Colton Weeks, Mark Weigle, Judd Winick, Stephen Winter, and Jane Yates.
Armistead Maupin
is the author of
Tales of the City
,
More Tales of the City
,
Further Tales of the City
,
Babycakes
,
Significant Others
,
Sure of You
,
Maybe the Moon
, and
The Night Listener
. Three television miniseries starring Olympia Dukakis and Laura Linney were made from the first three Tales novels.
The Night Listener
became a feature film starring Robin Williams and Toni Collette. Maupin lives in San Francisco with his husband, Christopher Turner.
www.ArmisteadMaupin.com
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N
OVELS
Tales of the City
More Tales of the City
Further Tales of the City
Babycakes
Significant Others
Sure of You
Maybe the Moon
The Night Listener
C
OLLECTIONS
28 Barbary Lane
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Jacket design by Will Staehle
Jacket illustration by Paul Catherall/The Art Market
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MICHAEL TOLLIVER LIVES. Copyright © 2007 by Armistead Maupin. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
