Babycakes by Armistead Maupin Page A

“Is her face as delicious as the rest of her?”
“Better,” said Brian. That was somewhat of an exaggeration, but he enjoyed being an expert on Theresa Cross.
The lieutenant breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God!”
“Why?”
“Well, one doesn’t enjoy seeing one’s fantasies dashed on the rocks.”
“Yeah.” Brian nodded. “I guess that’s true.”
The lieutenant looked down at the album again. “I banged the bishop over this one more times than I care to count.”
Brian didn’t get it. “I think you’d better run that by me again.”
The lieutenant chuckled. “You know.” He made a jerking-off gesture with his fist.
Brian grinned. “Banging the bishop?”
“Right.”
“Where did that come from?”
The lieutenant thought for a moment. “I haven’t the foggiest.”
They shared a brief laugh. The lieutenant returned the album to its place on the shelf. Brian decided to take advantage of the silence. “So,” he said, “why aren’t you in chains by now?”
The lieutenant seemed little disconcerted by his direct approach. “I think you’ve been reading too much Melville. The modern navy isn’t nearly as stringent as you might think.”
“Yeah, but … you jumped ship, didn’t you?”
“More or less.”
“Well, isn’t that a court-martial offense?”
“Sometimes,” answered the lieutenant. “It can vary, though, depending on the individual.”
Brian looked him squarely in the eye. “You mean you have friends in high places?”
The lieutenant seemed tremendously uncomfortable. He was about to say something, when Mary Ann bounded into the room, letting him off the hook. “Well,” she said, “I’m afraid she’s not home yet.” She glanced apologetically at their guest. “This is so disappointing. It’s such wonderful stuff. She named it after the Queen Mother and everything.”
The lieutenant looked puzzled.
Brian translated for him: “Our landlady names her pot plants after women she admires.”
“I see.”
Mary Ann turned to Brian. “I checked Michael’s too. He isn’t back from Death Valley yet. I could look for roaches in the ashtray in the car.”
“Too late,” he answered. “I did that last week. We’ll just have to face your chicken straight.”
She gave him an evil eye before addressing the lieutenant. “I can get you some wine.”
“Lovely,” he said.
Mary Ann disappeared into the kitchen. The lieutenant sidled to the window, turning his back to Brian. “That beacon must be Alcatraz,” he said. He obviously had no intention of picking up where they’d left off.
“That’s it,” said Brian.
“They don’t still keep prisoners, do they?”
“No. It’s empty. Has been for a long time.”
“I see. Lovely view from here.”
“Yeah,” said Brian. “It’s not bad.”
Mary Ann sailed into the room with the wine stuff on a tray. “Have you ever had Eye of the Swan?”
The lieutenant turned around. “No … I can’t say that I have.”
“It’s a white Pinot noir. Very dry.” She set the tray down on the coffee table, then knelt in front of it and began pouring.
“Glasses and everything,” murmured Brian.
She handed him a glass, ignoring the remark.
“So,” she chirped, giving the lieutenant a glass. “You’ve been having trouble finding a place to stay?”
“Not exactly,” he replied. “I took a room at the Holiday Inn on Fisherman’s Wharf.”
Brian and Mary Ann groaned in unison.
The lieutenant chuckled. “Yes, it is, rather. I was hoping for something with a little more character. I don’t fancy breaking that little paper seal every day.”
“What seal?” asked Mary Ann.
“You know … on the toilet.”
“Oh.” She laughed a little nervously, Brian thought. “How long do you plan on staying?”
“Oh … about a month, I plan on returning to London several days after Easter.”
Mary Ann frowned. “That makes renting a little difficult.”
“Actually,” said the lieutenant, “I was rather hoping for a swap.”
“A swap?”
“My