The Days of Anna Madrigal by Armistead Maupin

necessary.”
    Jake touched her back lightly, feeling the sharp parenthesis of her shoulder blade beneath the smooth satin of her kimono. “She really doesn’t mind,” he told her. “I think she sort of misses you, in fact.”
    â€œIt’s not that, dear. I just won’t be here.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œBrian and Wren are absconding with me.”
    Jake slapped a smile on his face and turned to Brian. “No shit? Where to?” Despite his best effort, he could already feel the jealousy burning in his cheeks.
    Brian looked uncomfortable. “Just a little joy ride in the buggy.”
    Wren glanced at her husband, then back at Anna.
    â€œTo Winnemucca,” Anna said at last, almost as if it were a confession.

Chapter 9
    CURLICUES
    A customer at the Blue Moon had left behind a fancy leather valise that, after a decent interval, Margaret gave to Andy. He kept it in his room, knowing that its sophisticated air would have invited ridicule at school. He used it to store treasures (a Barlow knife, some arrowheads, a large ivory brooch he had once told Mama was part of his “pirate costume”). Andy loved that valise—loved the buttery French sound of it: my valise —so he despaired at the thought that one day some big-city hotshot might return for another Dambuilder’s Delight with Margaret and, in a moment of clarity, remember exactly where he’d left his most prized possession.
    The valise was the perfect size for Richard Halliburton’s Book of Marvels . Andy would have felt foolish walking into the Martin Hotel with that bruiser of a book under his arm, and a paper bag would have made him look like an Okie, but the valise, he thought, was just the ticket. It looked sporty in his hand as he gave himself a once-over in the closet-door mirror. He had broken out his best slacks and a sky-blue gingham shirt with cowboy stitching on the pockets. Feeling a sting in his nostrils, he wondered if he might have slapped on too much bay rum.
    Mama settled that issue down in the driveway.
    â€œLord, son, you smell like a cathouse!”
    Mortified, he touched his tainted cheek. Mama had made that joke with him more than once—not out of meanness, he reckoned, but because it showed she wasn’t ashamed of the life she was leading. “Should I go wash my face?” he asked.
    â€œNah. You’re fine. It’ll die down by the time you get to town.”
    He opened the door of the truck and climbed onto the running board. “You look right spiffy, son.” She was beaming up at him, happy as a lark because he had lied to her—well, sort of lied to her—about why he needed the truck. He had told her he was meeting friends for supper at the Martin (friends plural, since only one would have aroused suspicion), and she had asked if “that nice Watson girl” would be among them. His answer had been a shrug and a rogue’s smile, but that had been enough for Mama. The mere hope of Gloria Watson was worthy of transportation.
    Once he was behind the wheel, she barked instructions: “Don’t drive ’er too fast. The hubcaps come off when you hit the potholes. And don’t let the sheriff see you, for pity’s sake. And park her around back, so folks can’t see it, or they’ll think I’m pickin’ up a pussyhound at the train station. You don’t need that kinda talk.”
    He knew all that already.
    â€œAnd don’t kiss ’er till it’s time to say good night.”
    She wasn’t talking about the truck anymore. “C’mon, Mama.”
    â€œOtherwise she’ll think you think she’s loose.” She slapped the side of the truck as if it were a poky horse being released into a corral. “Go on now. Git!”
    A dusty pink twilight had settled over Winnemucca by the time Andy arrived at the Martin. He had parked near Pioneer Park and crossed the sluggish river on foot, leaving