Page 71 of Mad Mabel

It went on and on—each time one of us got it together, the other set us off again. We laughed so hard and for so long that we didn’t hear the front door open, or the heavy footfalls on the stairs. We didn’t hear anything at all until he was standing in the doorway.

“What the hell is going on in here?” my father roared.

And just like that, the laughter stopped.

42

NOW

Adeem and Libby arrive promptly at 9AMthe next morning.

Libby looks fresh and bright, while Adeem’s shirt is buttoned crookedly and the few strands of hair he has bear the telltale snarl of someone who slept with it wet and tried to fix it by adding more water. As for me, I’d had a good night’s sleep—unlike two nights before—and I was ready, even eager, for the conversation.

“Did you two drive here together?” I ask.

“I picked Ads up en route,” Libby says. “Didn’t trust him not to be late. He’s not a morning person.”

I give him the once-over. “Indeed.”

As if on cue, he yawns.

“I just put on a pot of coffee,” I tell him, as we all shuffle down my hallway. “That will sort you out.”

Adeem looks embarrassingly grateful. “Thanks, Elsie. White with one.”

I decide, without consultation, to leave out the “one.” He is far too young to become one of those men with a stomach that hangs over his belt.

“Coffee for you, Libby?”

“Tea,” she says. “Don’t worry, I brought my own.”

Libby produces a gold-edged box of loose-leaf green tea and a straining device. I am, naturally, appalled. After the ingenious invention of the tea bag! Only this generation. Next they’ll start boiling water on the stove for their bath instead of turning on a hot tap. But each to their own, I suppose.

She makes her own cup of tea because I refuse.

When we all have a hot beverage, we move to the round table. Adeem takes a sip of his coffee, then frowns, perhaps registering the lack of sugar.

“Well,” Libby says. “We have a lot to catch up on. The last time we saw you, you were attacked.”

“Indeed.” I hold up my wrist. “Would you like to sign my cast?”

“We got some footage of the attack,” Adeem says. “With your permission, we thought we could use it in the show.”

“Ads,” Libby says. “Too soon.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ve been a sideshow all my life, why not now?”

We talk a little more, then Libby suggests we begin.

“It is what we’re doing here,” I say, even though I’d have been just as happy to talk more about Libby and Adeem and what was going on with them. Young people are more interesting than I’d given them credit for, I’ll admit.

Adeem is staring into his coffee now, as if he might see his future in it.

“If I may,” Libby says, “I’d like to ask some questions about your father.”

I feel my body stiffen. “You may.”

“A lot has been written about your relationship with him,” Libby says gently.