Babycakes by Armistead Maupin Page B

place in London in exchange for someone’s place here. Could such a thing be arranged?”
Mary Ann was already deep in thought.
“It’s a tatty little flat,” added the lieutenant, “but it’s in a colorful neighborhood and … well, it might be an adventure for someone.”
Mary Ann looked at Brian with dancing eyes. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.

Settling Up
N ED’S RED PICKUP AND ITS SEVEN WEARY PASSENGERS had survived sandstorms in Furnace Creek, snowstorms in South Lake Tahoe. and a blowout near Drytown by the time their ten-hour trans-California odyssey had ended.
Michael climbed from the truckbed, hoisted his bedroll to his shoulder, and trudged up the stairway to Barbary Lane, stopping long enough on the landing to wave goodbye to his campmates.
Ned answered with a toot of the horn. “Go to bed,” he yelled. Like a master mechanic who could diagnose an engine problem simply by listening, he knew that Michael’s emotional resistance was down.
Michael gave him a thumbs-up sign and followed the eucalyptus trees into the dark city canyon of the lane. He whistled during this last leg of the journey, warding off demons he was still unable to name.
Back at the apartment, he dumped his gear on the bedroom floor and drew a hot bath. He soaked for half an hour, already feeling the loss of his brothers, the dissolution of that safe little enclave they had shared in the desert.
After the bath, he put on the blue flannel pajamas he had bought the week before in Chinatown, then sat down at his desk and began composing a letter to his parents.
The warming sound of Brian’s laughter drifted through the window as a new moon peeked from behind the clouds. Then came another man’s laughter, less hearty than Brian’s but just as sincere. Michael set his pen down and listened to enough dialogue to determine that the visitor was British, then returned to the task at hand.
Boris, the neighborhood cat, slunk along the window-ledge, cruising for attention. When he spotted Michael, he stopped in his tracks, shimmied under the sill, and announced his arrival with a noise that sounded like a rusty hinge. Michael swung his chair away from the desk and prepared his lap for the inevitable. Boris kept his distance, though, rattling his tail like a saber as he loped about the room.
“O.K.,” said Michael. “Be that way.”
Boris creaked back at him.
“How old are you, anyway?” Another creak.
“A hundred and forty-two? Not bad.”
The tabby circled the room twice, then gazed up expectantly at the only human he could find.
“He’s not here,” said Michael. “There’s nobody to spoil you rotten now.”
Boris voiced his confusion.
“I know,” said Michael, “but I’m fresh out of Tender Vittles. That wasn’t my job, kiddo.”
There were footsteps outside the door. Boris jerked his head, then shot out the window.
“Mouse?” It was Mary Ann.
“It’s open,” he said.
She slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. “I heard talking. I hope I didn’t …”
“It was just Boris.”
“Oh.”
“I mean … I was talking to Boris.” She smiled. “Right.’’
“Sit down,” he said.
She perched on the edge of the sofa. “We have this really delightful Englishman upstairs.”
He nodded. “So I hear.”
“Oh … we haven’t been too …?”
“No,” he assured her. “It sounds nice.”
“He’s from the Britannia. He used to be a radio officer for the Queen.”
“Used to be?”
“Well … it’s a long story. The thing is … he needs a furnished apartment for a month, and he wants to swap with somebody from here. He’s got a cute flat in Nottingham Gate … or something like that. Anyway, it’s just sitting there waiting for somebody to come live in it.”
“And?”
“Well … doesn’t that sound perfect?”
“For me, you mean?”
“Sure! I’m sure Ned wouldn’t mind if …”
“We’re closed for a month,” he said.
“So there you go! It is perfect. It’s a ready-made