Read Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn for Free Online

housewife, someone who had long ago sold out everything for a man who could “provide.”
    “So what was the problem?” he asked.
    She took another slug of the vodka and set it down. “I caught him fucking someone.”
    “Well … that would do it.”
    “Someone I know, in fact. My life coach.”
    “Your life coach ? Whatshername, you mean? Calliope?”
    She nodded dolefully.
    “The woman you want to be when you grow up?”
    She winced. “I don’t think I put it quite that way, but …” She didn’t bother to deny it; that was exactly the way she had put it, and Michael knew that better than anyone. She had raved about Calliope for hours on end—her womanly wisdom, her impeccable sense of style, her absolute commitment to Mary Ann’s fulfillment.
    Michael’s lip flickered in a way that she recognized all too well.
    “Go ahead and laugh,” she told him.
    “Sorry … it’s just a little—”
    “No. It’s a scream. You think I don’t know that? Remember how she was always chastising me for my wudda/cudda/shudda? ‘Stop with the wudda/cudda/shudda, Mary Ann!’ Well, she wudda and she cudda and she did.”
    Michael smiled, but his eyes were glassy with sympathy.
    “Maybe,” he offered tentatively, “it was just a one-time thing. Maybe it wasn’t even serious.”
    She shook her head. “It was serious. Venice is always serious.”
    He frowned. “You were in Venice?”
    “ They were in Venice. I was in Darien.”
    “Then how could you walk in on them?”
    “I didn’t walk in on them. We were Skyping.”
    His expression told her nothing.
    “You know what that is, right?”
    “Of course … Oprah uses it. I’m just trying to visualize this.”
    “Bob thought it would be nice if we could see each other when he was on the road. He’s on a ton of boards all over the world.” She could feel angry tears assembling behind her eyes, but held them back, knowing they’d be better spent later. Michael, meanwhile, was tugging methodically on his silver mustache, already deep in speculation.
    “Anyway,” she continued, “he was in Venice at the Gritti Palace—supposedly meeting with this group of investors—and I had something really important to tell him, so we Skyped for about fifteen minutes, and he blew me a kiss good-night, and the stupid son of a bitch forgot to turn off the Webcam.”
    Michael parenthesized his head with his hands, waiting.
    “It was kind of sweet at first … strangely intimate. He drifted off and I could watch him snoozing on this beautiful hand-painted bed with a gorgeous view of the Grand Canal. Then Calliope came into the room with an armful of Dolce and Gabbana shopping bags and crawled onto the bed with him.”
    “Fuck me,” said Michael.
    Mary Ann nodded. “That’s more or less what she said.” She picked up the glass again and polished off the remains with a grimace. “The sick part is, I couldn’t stop looking. I watched until the bitter goddamn end. Like some crummy porno with a flat-assed old man pounding away on a Botoxed crack-whore.”
    Michael blinked at her. “His ass is flat? You never told me that. ”
    “Mouse … can we stay on the subject.” The ancient nickname just tumbled out of its own accord, now that she was finally coming clean.
    He picked up her glass. “Want another one?”
    She shook her head. “That was enough, thanks.”
    He set down the glass and slipped his arm across her shoulder. “You know … I can’t say I’m terribly surprised.”
    “I can’t, either. He hasn’t been … you know … present emotionally for several years. The sex wasn’t much to speak of, but we weren’t that young anymore and I just thought we were entering … the cozy stage. I was kind of relieved, to tell you the truth.” She realized too late that she had said this to someone her own age who—to hear him tell it, at least—was having the best sex of his life. She hoped he wouldn’t bring that up.
    “So what was it you called to tell