Park Lane South, Queens by Mary Anne Kelly Page A

first place. Sure. Cause he thought Freddy was on his way to playing pro ball.”
    â€œWait a minute. The guy fooled you, didn’t he? Why shouldn’t he have fooled Daddy? You’re just mad at all men because Freddy turned out gay.”
    â€œJust the opposite. I never felt more gently inclined.” She made a vulgar, rhythmic movement that made Claire laugh. “Anyhow, I’m going up there tonight. To Freddy’s. You wanna come with me?”
    â€œNo. I’m afraid of Freddy. He’s so caustic and witty. He makes me feel vaguely stupid.”
    â€œHe thinks you’re beautiful. No. He says you’re not really beautiful but you have these moments when you shine through and emote pure beauty.”
    â€œFreddy said that ?”
    â€œIt’s disturbing, he says.”
    â€œHow horrible. Now I’ll never know when he’s watching me if he’s thinking I’m having a moment or not. Not that I should care … but women do care even if we don’t really. Something diabolical in us wants everyone we meet to fall in love with us if we think there’s a possibility, however remote. It pleases our ravenous vanity. Isn’t it unhealthy? How can women ever unite?”
    â€œWe can’t. So why don’t you come tonight?”
    â€œMoney, for one thing.”
    â€œI have money. Anyway, Freddy would never let us pay. I thought you said you had some money saved.”
    â€œYes. For rent. For Mom and Dad so I’m not a total parasite. And to pay for film, ciggies, coffee, chemicals.”
    â€œIn that order.”
    â€œThat’s not nothing, you know. And paper. Good-quality paper.” Claire’s eyes lit up when she said “good-quality paper.” “Besides. Why do you always have to go to Freddy’s?”
    Zinnie looped Michaelaen’s yo-yo around her finger and coiled it up. “I feel guilty not going. I feel like he needs my support. Only I can’t pick up anybody there or I’ll feel more guilty. In front of him, I mean. It’s a no-win sitch. What the hell is that?”
    â€œWhat?” She was trying to remember where she’d seen a roulette wheel cufflink before. Or had she never seen one?
    â€œThose. Those muddy pots.”
    â€œThey’re my herbs. The one you’re pointing to is borage. Or it will be. The others are basil, thyme, coriander, marjoram, chamomile, and comfrey.” She didn’t mention the cannabis she’d started in the yard. She’d only planted it for fun, really. To see how well it would flourish.
    Zinnie looked into the pots with distaste. “Yeah. But what are they for?”
    â€œI like them, Zin. Wait till they begin to grow. You’ll like them. You will.”
    â€œYou talk about them like they’re new little folks who just moved into the neighborhood.”
    Claire opened the refrigerator and idly watched its contents. Mary had a whole boat-load of ribs going on in there, soaking up something nice. That would be for tonight. There was a bowl of rhubarb. Hmm. A couple of fat, soggy leeks. A half a cantaloupe. Oh, no. A big hunk of Tilsit. She shut the door with self-preserving swiftness.
    â€œHow ’bout a little music?” suggested Zinnie, who shared her father’s passion for the stuff. Only her taste ran more to the Motown classics of the fifties and sixties. And whereas his were kept in an orderly file, hers were strewn about the house. She didn’t know where anything was, but she had all of them: the Temptations, the Supremes, Little Anthony and the Imperials, the Four Tops. She picked one up from behind the Mayor’s box and dusted it tenderly in a circle. “Here we go,” she blew on the needle and let it drop.
    â€œAaaa million to wa-un,” Zinnie sang along with the opening line, “—that’s what our folks think about this love of ow-ers.…”
    Claire clapped her hands with delight.