Work Text:
When she answered the door, they were crammed together at the shoulder and hunched over with grocery bags, Oliver in a floral print scarf in lilac, and Charles in a navy pork pie hat. Mabel wondered how many hats he owned, all told. She knew how many Oliver had (dozens), courtesy of crashing with him for the past few weeks.
She also knew he had a several step ladders. She'd watched, low-key appalled yet fascinated, as he'd painstakingly decorated an artificial Christmas tree - a purple artificial tree - swathing it generously in gold garland and hanging it with little Tony Award replicas. The star on top was also a Tony, but life-sized, she assumed. She'd never seen one in person, but she was 99% sure this was not an actual award. At least, not one addressed to Oliver.
"We got your message," Oliver said excitedly. As always, he was hungry for any hint of drama.
"You said it was an emergency!" added Charles, clearly agitated on her behalf.
Mabel ignored them, instead rummaging in the nearest grocery bag until she found her prize. She took the pint of ice cream with her and flopped back on Oliver's sofa. Prying it open, she peeled back the cover and leaned over to snag the spoon set in a conspicuously empty tub of store brand Fudge Ripple, she licked it clean and then jabbed it into the fresh container.
“Mabel, what happened? What are you doing!?” asked Charles, setting the groceries he held down on the table and taking the remaining bags from Oliver.
“I’m eating my weight in Chunky Monkey.” She probably sounded like a petulant teenager. To be fair, she felt like one.
“And why are we drowning our sorrows?” queried Oliver, perching beside her on the couch.
“Girl trouble,” Charles said sagely.
Mabel nodded gloomily and dipped her spoon into the container again.
“It’s a cliché because it’s true. Alice moved to LA. We agreed that Long Distance wouldn’t work. I’m just kind of bummed about it.”
“You know what?" Oliver touched her forearm lightly. "We're all at sixes and sevens because we're bored. We need excitement, intellectual stimulation, we need enrichment—you know, the way they put pumpkins stuffed with meat in the tiger enclosure at the zoo on Halloween?”
At their twin blank looks Oliver added, “Well, that's what happened when I went to the zoo with my grandchildren in October.”
“I would have thought Mrs. Gambolini was enough wildlife for you,” Charles commented.
“Accursed beast. You know, she’s the most difficult animal I've ever directed and I directed a production of the elephant man with —"
"Yeah yeah, we know, a real elephant. You should probably be in jail for crimes against the ASPCA," Mabel pointed out dryly.
“That’s it! That’s it exactly! We’ve had no crimes to solve. Nothing to set our minds to. Nothing since March! I’m absolutely pining for a little mystery.”
“Huh. We could stage your disappearance, I guess.”
“Oh, you could go to your own funeral, you’d love that!” said Charles, apparently enthused.
“I like that energy,” said Oliver, pointing at Charles. “But I had something else in mind. A murder!”
"Oliver! We don't need, like, a blood sacrifice to get through the day, Jesus.”
“Nothing so gauche. We just need something to look forward to. A sneak preview, if you will.”
“What are you saying?” asked Charles cautiously.
“I’m saying we need a psychic!”
Mabel rolled her eyes. “Wow. You know, Oliver, we can get you some of those mini ornamental gourds and stuff them with hummus for you. That way you can get your enrichment while NOT enriching a con artist.”
“Not a believer? While I agree that many a fraud hangs a shingle, genuine psychics assuredly do exist. I once had a very stimulating conversation with Laurence Olivier in 1975 via a medium in Red Hook.”
“But didn’t he die in ‘89?” Charles wondered.
Oliver waved his hand dismissively.
“That’s neither here nor there. All we need to do is find a reputable one and then we can plan ahead a little. Oh, Mabel, you should be more open to the unknown, isn’t your generation supposed to be ‘not religious but spiritual’?”
"My 'generation' is supposed to kill the diamond industry, paper napkins and, fingers crossed, golf," she replied.
‘‘Now that Brazzos has wrapped for the season, I am getting a little antsy,” Charles admitted. He shrugged at Mable. “It’ll get us all out of the building, anyway. We can get dinner at Librizzi’s on the way back.”
“And we can take Winnie for walkies,” Oliver said with a decisive clap. “It’s time for her Santa hat and jingle bells!”
*
“Hello Lester. Hope the holiday tips are good this year,” said Oliver pleasantly.
“Not bad, not bad,” said Lester modestly. “Those cookies were out of this world, by the way, Ms. Mabel. My wife asked for the recipe.”
“Oh, I’ll text it to you. I just stole it from Smitten Kitchen.”
“How nice,” Oliver said briskly. “Lester, we come to you in need of your encyclopedic knowledge of the city - where might we find a first class psychic?”
Lester was surprisingly prompt with his answer.
“As it happens, I do know one. They're over the Lady Cake Boutique on 78th and Park.” He rummaged briefly in his desk and came up with a business card he handed to Oliver: embossed coffee-colored cardboard with a pointed lack of website or phone number. It held only a name and the aforementioned address, in plain white san serif capitals.
“Now that’s a stage name,” said Oliver admiringly.
“Avis Volāre, Clairaudient, They/Them,” Charles read over Oliver’s shoulder. "What's a Clairaudient?" he asked.
"I think that instead of seeing the future, they hear it, instead?" Mabel responded, unsure.
"I hope they'll be able to hear a murder over all the accolades for my next play," Oliver said, swanning out the door ahead of them.
*
It was a fourth floor walk-up, with a little brass placard by the call box in the same font as the business card. Charles scooped Winnie into his arms with a jingle. “I don’t think you’re up for that many stairs, old girl,” he told her. Once on the landing, he set her down again and gave a hesitant knock.
“Come back later!” said a voice muffled by the door.
Ignoring Charles's shrug, Oliver reached past him and turned the knob, and Mabel followed them in.
The door opened on a surprisingly spacious kitchen, with peachy adobe tile and a simple white wooden dining table and matching chairs.
A frowning brown-skinned person with close cropped hair, dyed white blonde, gave them an unimpressed look from their dining chair. They wore unlatched bib overalls over a red tee shirt emblazoned with the slogan The Dark Meat Is Where The Flavor Is, and orange Chucks. Their lipstick was a vivid red, and their nails were the same shade. They were apparently in the process of finishing a final coat of polish on the last finger of their left hand. There was a dainty, shiny diamond chip embedded toward the razor sharp tip of each nail. They dropped their eyes to affix a final jewel with a pair of tweezers and then lifted a hand to blow on the still-wet polish, regarding them with a bored air.
“Forgive us for barging in, but we had no way of making an appointment and we have an errand of the utmost urgency,” began Oliver. "Are you Avis, the Clairaudient?"
There were no scarves or crystals in evidence, no chimes or incense, just the sharp smell of drying nail polish and Murphy’s Oil Soap, signaling that the floor had been recently mopped.
"I am," they admitted.
"So how does all this work? Are there accoutrements? Oh, do you use a stethoscope to hear our thoughts, something like that?"
Languidly waving their freshly painted nails, they pursed their mouth and merely stared at Oliver.
"Trade secrets, I suppose," Oliver offered nervously. "Perhaps as long as we're here, we could make an appointment for another time. Do you have a datebook?"
Avis tapped their nails on the tabletop; it sounded like a hundred tiny horses galloping across a street.
“I can’t do an individual reading,” they said eventually.
“Why not!? We’re very willing to pay you for your psychic insights,” Oliver assured them.
“Your energies are… linked." Avis gestured vaguely; to Mabel it was a very Mr. Miyagi-like Wax On circle indicating their whole thing, apparently. "I can do a short session, and then you can leave. Now shut up.” And they closed their eyes and tilted their head, as if listening to music in another room.
“Shouldn’t we at least tell you what we want to know?” Charles asked.
Avis lifted one finger to quell him, frown deepening.
“You will witness a death. And you will find a family.”
“I don’t suppose you could tell us which order those might occur. Or give us a time frame, maybe?” Oliver asked hopefully.
Avis opened their eyes. “That’ll be two hundred.” They studied Mable, who swallowed hard, feeling like she'd been X-rayed and doing everything she could to keep herself from gushing about their style and asking where they'd gotten their lipstick. They then regarded Charles and Winnie each in turn for a moment before returning a flat stare to Oliver. “Apiece.”
“The dog, too?” Charles asked.
Patting at his pockets, Oliver gave a fluttery titter.
“I don’t have much in the way of cash on me just at the moment,” he said.
There was a dismissive shrug. “You can VenMo me at Clairaudience.”
"Can I be you when I grow up?" Mabel blurted. This earned her a raised eyebrow.
“Girl, what are you, 32?” Startled, Mable nodded. “You’re coming up on your Jesus year. Let your old self die and be reborn. Now get out.”
That was dismissal enough.
They all scurried back down the stairs.
*
It was just after four when they got back to the street, meaning it was coming up on full winter solstice darkness. Well, as dark as you could get in a city glittering with holiday regalia. In this part of town, the walkways were neatly shoveled, and every tree and door frame dripped with glowing lights. The snow that had fallen the night before glowed almost blue in the dappled dimness.
“Wasn’t that Janelle Monáe?” Charles asked suddenly.
“Do NOT embarrass me with old-timey racism, Charles,” Mabel sighed.
“I’m not kidding. The resemblance was uncanny. Lucy was crazy about them, she played Dirty Computer constantly. It really is an amazing album, it’s all Minneapolis Soul and Neopop--”
“Surprisingly hip playlist aside, you know not all black people look alike, right?”
“Fine. But it could have been them,” he said sulkily.
Shaking her head, Mabel turned to Oliver.
“Well, it was a pretty grim prophecy, but on the bright side, maybe Mrs. Gambolini is on her way out,” Mabel offered.
“Oh no, Will assures me that Mrs. Gambolini is in the prime of life. In fact, I’ll probably have to leave her to you in my will, Mabel. It’s Winnie I’m worried about. She’s coming up on a decade, which is long in the tooth for a bulldog, I’m told.” Winnie looked up as if she knew they were discussing her before looking away toward a flicker of movement and giving a single sharp bark.
Crossing to the building via the alley, there was a flurry and a scuffle - a scrawny calico cat had set upon a hapless bird.
“They are good,” Oliver murmured. ”We've witnessed a death!”
“Let’s see where she goes,” Mabel said, hunching down to watch the cat laboriously tug the bird by a wing back behind a dumpster.
“She? You can tell in this light?” asked Charles.
“Calico cats are almost always female,” Mable shrugged. Toggling the flashlight function on her phone, she peered behind the dumpster. The calico stared at her warily, pupils contracting in the sudden light, curled around two kittens so new their eyes hadn’t even opened yet.
“And found a family,” Charles observed.
*
It had been weirdly easy for Mabel to lure the mother cat with an open can of tuna into a pet crate borrowed from Howard. Charles gently placed the kittens beside her before closing the door, and Oliver, who had taken Winnie back to his place, had hunted up her second-best doggy bed and set it beside the gas fireplace for their new guests. Then he called Will to ask his professional opinion.
It so happened Will was near enough to drop by and examine them.
“I volunteer at the shelter nearby,” he explained to Mabel when she opened the door. He pulled his woolly snow-flecked cap off his head and held up a little medic case. “I can give the mom her shots; I'll have to come back at some point for the kittens when they're older.”
“Thank you, Will,” Oliver said grandly. “Always so prepared!”
“We also brought the bird she caught,“ Mabel said, holding out a red New Balance shoe box. “It kind of looks like a little old man in a cartoon. But kind of fancy? But also like it flew face first into a wall.”
Will peered into the pile of ruffled feathers, at the bird's oddly long neck and button beak, its fashionable feathery leggings. “It’s a shortfaced tumbler. A kind of pigeon,” he clarified. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do for him. As for the cats, they’re both girls, the mom’s not chipped, and they seem healthy enough. Still, I don’t think the mother is producing enough milk. I did bring some kitten formula, though. They’ll need to be fed every two to four hours. Keep them warm.” He pressed a heavy little paper bag into Mabel’s hands before getting to his feet. “Well, I have to head home. My kids are in the school play tonight,” he smiled proudly. Everyone gave him that polite open-mouthed big-eyed head-tilt nod that said you were hearing something delightful about someone else's children.
Oliver hugged his son briskly and patted him on the shoulder before sending him out the door.
“You’re not going?” asked Charles, looking up from the calico busily downing the tuna they’d spooned onto a plate for her.
“Oh, I’ve been banned from live performances since Will played Curly in his high school’s version of Oklahoma. He’ll record it for me, and that way I can critique their performances at my leisure. And without making anyone cry.”
Winnie, still jingling softly in her outdoor holiday getup, ventured close to the cat. She seemed indifferent to the attention, even when Winnie nosed at the calico’s kittens. Mrs. Gambolini barked twice, catching the cat’s attention, and then meowed at her, trailing off into a rumbling purr.
“It’s all very friendly here, at least,” Oliver decided, patting Winnie on her squat skull.
Peering sadly at the shoebox full of feathers, Mabel asked, “What should we do with this little guy? It’s not like a regular pigeon. It was probably somebody’s pet.”
“Oh, I’ll see if it has a band. Like a dog license,” Charles said, probing delicately at the bird’s fluffy booties with a pencil. He revealed a bright blue plastic band around one foot. “There’s an address. And a scroll of paper with a note on it!” He unspooled it and handed the scrap to Mabel.
“It’s just a list of numbers,” Mabel said.
“Could it be a code?" Oliver asked brightly.
"No, I think it’s just a series of regular phone numbers," Mabel answered, puzzled.
“What about the address, then?” Oliver gazed at Charles attentively.
“It’s. The penthouse. Here. At the Arconia!”
“You two go,” Oliver decided. ”I’ll stay and keep an eye on the kittens. And I’m going to give Winnie some treats for being such a gracious hostess. Yes, you’re so hospitable, aren’t you, girl?”
*
No one answered the door when they knocked.
“I know Amy moved out,” Mabel said. “Do you think Lester knows who the new tenant is yet?”
Looking thoughtful, Charles peered into the box and then out one of the penthouse hallway’s luminous windows.
“You know. You keep pigeons in a pigeon coop.”
“And you keep a pigeon coop…” Mabel added.
“On the roof!” they said together.
*
The roof was not exactly Mabel’s favorite place, what with Zoe and all, but the promise of a mystery was tantalizing enough to lead her there again.
“There’s a pigeon coop all right,” Charles said.
“How long has it been here?”
“And who owns it? You know, Bunny would have flipped her lid about this.”
“Well, Nina’s the new sheriff in town, and I guess she’s just more flexible.” There was a whirring and a soft chorus of coos from the structure, made of white painted wood and small gauge chicken wire.
As they approached, they saw several footprints in the scattered white bird crap near the cage. A dash of glitter caught Mabel’s eye and she stooped down to inspect it.
“Theydies and gentlethems, what have we got here?”
It was a diamond chip, identical to the one they’d seen Avis applying to their nails just that afternoon.
“And their place smelled like Murphy’s Oil!” Mabel exclaimed.
“And that means?”
“That means they had to mop up after stepping in bird shit,” said Mable confidently.
“But what were they doing up here?”
“Who knows? Maybe they own the coop, and lease it from the board? Maybe they’re one of Lester’s birding buddies. He did have their card.”
“Let’s ask him tomorrow. It’s my turn to feed the kittens and we should probably order some take out.”
*
Sitting crosslegged on the rug near the fireplace, in the gaudy shadow of Oliver's tree, Mabel stroked the calico in her lap contemplatively. Charles was bottle-feeding a kitten and Oliver had employed a celery stick to consume a container of baba ghanoush. Winnie panted at his feet, leaning on his shins.
“We should find homes for them,” Charles announced. “Right away. Before anyone gets too attached.”
“You are absolutely right. But what with Winnie and that winged demon there, I’m already halfway to a pet shop. Why can’t you just keep them, Charles?” Oliver asked.
“I’m just not a cat guy,” Charles insisted, re-settling the kitten in the crook of his arm.
“Well what about you, Mabel?”
“I’m kind of surfing on your couch? So. I don’t really have a place to put a cat. Even a gorgeous prizefighter like this one,” she said, tapping the calico’s nose gently. It stretched and yawned and blinked at Mabel sleepily before curling back into a contented, purring ball.
“We could always ask Uma, I suppose,” said Oliver vaguely.
“Harold already has at least one pet,” Charles suggested. “And he’s a cat guy for sure, he could take one or two.”
“And then we could visit,” Mable said, snuggling the mama cat a little closer.
“You’ve already named her, haven’t you,” Oliver accused.
“What? No. Maybe. Okay yes.”
“And what did you call her?”
“Jamma. Because she’s a bad mammajamma. A single mom out there bringing down a fresh kill moments after giving birth! She’s one tough lady.”
“And what have you dubbed your charge, Charles?”
“Her name is Oscar,” said Charles with some dignity.
“Oh, goody, then the other one can be Felix. She’s so dainty and neat when she drinks her milk, aren’t you, sweetie?” Oliver murmured, reaching down to her perch on the dog bed to stroke her paws.
“Not like the Odd Couple, like Oscar the Grouch. She has his grumpy little face.” Somehow the kitten did have some resemblance; maybe in its draggled fur, or the tabby stripe that suggested a Frida Kahlo monobrow. “I worked with him once. We did a Brazzos sketch for Sesame Street about learning your left from right. This sends the investigation into a whole new direction."
*
Oliver made popcorn and put The Muppet Christmas Carol on. Once Michael Caine had turned over a new leaf and Tiny Tim had blessed them, every one, Oliver sighed happily, stating, "Every costume was period appropriate, you know. They really paid a fabulous amount of attention to every detail."
“Speaking of details," Mabel said, taking out her phone and the scroll. "It's only nine o'clock."
"Not too late to call one of the numbers on the list, you mean," said Oliver perking up from his stuffed chair. Mabel nodded.
But all she got when she dialed was weird static and some creepy gong sounds.
“What was that?” Oliver asked.
“I tried one of the numbers, but it’s just a recording of, like, a clock tower or something.” She tapped the speaker button and let the gongs sound out. A woman’s voice began to speak, reciting a series of numbers.
“It sounds like a numbers station,” Charles declared. “During the Cold War, spies used to send each other coded messages using ham radios.”
“So what you’re saying is… spies could be using the pigeons to carry messages?” Mabel asked.
“Anything’s possible.”
“I smell a mystery,” Oliver crowed.
“Well, Mr. Mystery, it’s your turn to feed the kittens,” Mable pointed out. “We’ll talk to Lester in the morning.”
“Already? Fatherhood 2.0 is so fraught. Charles, you’re on shift again in four hours - why don’t you take a nap in my spare room and Mable will come get you when it’s your turn.”
“I can just take the elevator--”
“No no, I insist. We all have to nurture them. They need the closeness of family.”
As a former child of the foster system, Oliver probably felt that sentiment keenly. She and Charles shared a look.
“All right then. Come get me later, Mable.”
Nodding, Mable smirked, “Sweet dreams, old man.”
*
The next morning found them in the elevator, with Winnie for her morning constitutional, and the dead bird, still in its shoebox coffin.
“I think Lester is part of a bird watching society,” Mabel recalled. “Maybe he’ll know something about this kind of pigeon?”
Approaching Lester's desk, Mabel held out the box. "What do you know about the pigeon coop on the roof?"
"Oh, and the new tenant in the penthouse!" Charles added.
"Well, the new tenant is a Mr. Montero Lamar Hill, and the pigeon coop is his. As a birdwatcher, it’s a real bonanza for me. He has fantails and a pied imperial! Even an Antwerp Smerle. It’s really something, I’ll tell ya.”
"Montero… you mean Little Nas X?" Mabel asked incredulously.
Just then, the elevator door slid open to the lobby, and a handsome dark-skinned young man in a fringed leather vest walked past, saluting Lester, a phone lifted to his gold-studded ear.
“Little Nas X!” whisper-screamed Mabel. She nearly dropped the bird in her excitement.
“Oh, so he can be Mr. Old Town Road, but I didn’t see Janel Monáe?” sniped Charles under his breath.
"Mr. Hill," Lester called pleasantly, "We were just talking about your pigeon coop. These folks found a bird outside, which to my eyes is a shortfaced tumbler. I'm sure your expertise would be appreciated."
Drawing closer, Little Nas X peered into Mabel's shoebox.
“Rupert!” he exclaimed, face crumpling. "What happened to him?"
“Oh, the bird," Mabel realized. "I’m sorry. A cat got him. We took him to a vet, but. It was too late."
“Aw dang, Rupert. You had the fluffiest style, boy,” he said sorrowfully.
Gingerly, Charles took the box from Mabel and then held it out to Little Nas.
“Um. My condolences, Mr. X. Sir,” he gulped.
“I guess I’ll take him back to my place,” Little Nas sighed. “Thanks for finding him, I guess.” He nodded at them gravely and returned to the elevator, leaving them in the lobby.
"Well," said Oliver brusquely, "Why don't we get breakfast at the diner, and once we're all fueled up for the day, we can see about palming those kittens off on our unsuspecting neighbors."
"And how do you propose we do that?" Charles asked sourly.
"We'll tuck them into holiday stockings, adorn them with tiny Santa hats and go door to door. They'll be irresistible!"
*
In fact, the kittens seemed very resistible, especially to Uma.
"Oh, because I'm a single woman of a certain age, I should be knee deep in cats? Well I don't like cats. Too independent."
"What about dogs," Oliver ventured.
"Too needy," Uma proclaimed, arms crossed.
"Of course," Charles smiled weakly. "We'll just be on our way then."
*
Howard had opened the door on the pretense that they'd been returning the cat carrier, but when he saw them holding the kittens he gave a panicked squawk and slammed the door on them.
"I just can't," he said mournfully. "I have too many already!"
"Fair enough," Oliver agreed.
*
"Should we try our newest neighbor?" Oliver asked after both Arnav and Grover also turned them away.
"I guess," Mabel allowed.
This time, the door was answered promptly. Lil Nas was wearing a very soft and expensive looking set of canary silk pajamas that Mabel instantly coveted.
"Hey y'all."
"While we know you've recently had a loss, we were wondering if you could open your heart, and your home, to these adorable kittens?" Oliver held Felix to his cheek with a manic smile he no doubt thought was winning.
"And their mom," Mabel added.
"Sure," Lil Nas said affably. He reached for Felix and cupped her in his hands. "I just had a break up and my ex is allergic to cats. They'll keep me from drunk dialing them when I'm on tour. Won't you, honey?" he asked the kitten.
"Her name is Felix," Mabel explained.
"And this one is Oscar," Charles said, hesitantly leaving said kitten in Nas's free hand with obvious regret.
"Just out of curiosity, Mr. X, what are your thoughts on yellow headed amazon parrots?" Oliver wondered.
"Can it swear?"
"Fluently," Charles admitted.
"Then I'll take that, too. You can't really take pigeons on tour, you know?"
"Oh, indubitably," said Oliver, rubbing his hands together with all the anticipatory glee offloading Bunny's bird could inspire.
"You can bring it up with the mama cat, and we can get them all settled in. I'll make some sandwiches."
*
They had a beer with lunch (stacked corned beef and brown mustard on rye bread he'd baked himself that morning) and Nas talked a little about his recent heartbreak.
"You know what it is to be dickmatized by an ex, am I right?"
This sentiment was addressed to Oliver, who demurred graciously, "While I understand why you might direct that comment to me, given my ebullient sense of fashion, all of my sexual encounters have been of the distaff variety."
Nas wagged his head agreeably, "Sure, sure."
"Oh, and um, we found this on Rupert's leg." Mabel said, plucking the note from her pocket. "Sorry we didn't give it to you earlier. Were you sending a message to someone?"
Nas shook his head, accepting the proffered paper. "No, Rupert wasn't so good at finding his way home. You know that old Sesame Street sketch with Brazzos? Rupert was always sending the investigation in a whole new direction, if you feel me."
"I'm Brazzos!" Charles blurted. "I mean. I played him on t.v. And they're rebooting the series. We just wrapped."
"That's cool." And Nas did seem pleased about it. "My dad's a big fan, would you sign a headshot for him?"
"I'll send it right up! Just write his name down for me so I spell it right."
Nas nodded vaguely as he perused the roll of paper. "Phone numbers?" he guessed, looking at the list.
"Yeah, but when we called the first one it was just weird gongs? And a lady saying numbers," Mabel explained.
Nas's expression went soft and hopeful.
"Really?" He grabbed his phone off the coffee table where Felix and Jamma were napping (Charles had Oscar in his lap). He dialed the number and held it to his ear. Everyone was quiet enough that Mabel could hear the tinny gongs issuing from Nas's phone. He closed his eyes, and a smile broke across his face
He ended the call and dialed another one.
"Baby," he said reverently. "You really want me back?"
"So much for keeping him from calling his ex," Mabel murmured.
They couldn't quite hear what the other person was saying, but Mable couldn't help thinking the voice sounded familiar somehow.
"Well, we should probably get going," Mabel prompted.
Oliver got to his feet. "Oh, yes, we wouldn't want to interrupt any romantic reunions."
Before Charles could tuck Oscar beside Jamma and her sister, there was a rapid knock at the door. Nas leapt to open it.
"Baby?"
"I was in the lobby when you called," came the dulcet tones of none other than Avis Volāre.
"Oh, how tidy," said Oliver, clearly pleased.
"You still owe me six hundred dollars," they said, unimpressed, before falling into Nas's arms.
"I can't believe you still want to collaborate on that single with me," Nas said softly.
"I can't believe I was gonna let you go. I bribed that doorman to let me up to your coop so you could hear the samples."
"There's our mystery solved," Charles noted.
"We'll just see ourselves out," Mabel said in a stage whisper, edging out of the room, one hand on Charles's wrist, the other curled in the fabric of Oliver's jacket.
When at last they had closed the door behind them, they heard someone sneeze.
*
"I miss Jamma," Mabel sighed, once again crosslegged on the rug in front of all the roaring Oliver's gas fireplace could provide. Lil Nas had taken the cats, the parrot, Avis and a lot of Benadryl on his tour bus two days before. Charles was on the couch with a glass of red wine, and Oliver was eating hummus out of a hollowed out delicata squash with a tiny spoon.
"Well, I don't have a kitten for you, but I do have this," he said with a flourish, holding out a scroll of paper tied with a golden ribbon. "Now, I know for the actual holiday, you'll be with your mother, Mabel, and Charles, you will be off with Lucy in… Tahoe, was it? And obviously I'll be doting on my grandchildren Christmas Morn. But I thought we could have a little gift exchange, just the same. This is from the both of us," he said, gesturing at Charles.
The paper had a surfboard clearly snipped out of a magazine neatly pasted above Charles's stern copperplate hand.
"Unlimited couch surfing, any time, no questions asked," read Mabel. She could feel her eyes fill up. "You guys…" she said, trailing off.
"Now now, no reason to get verklempt, we don't want to tarnish your reputation as a tough guy. But we just wanted you to know that you'll always be welcome here."
"Or at my place. Where I have food in the fridge, not just dips," Charles pointed out.
"Well, I have a little something for you guys, too. But we'll have to head for the basement. Will you be okay, Charles?" He had nearly been murdered down there.
He waved away her concern. "Not a problem."
*
"Lester let me have some space down here," Mabel explained.
Oliver's bird-bright eyes darted around, taking in the welding torch, the visor, the easel, the heap of copper wire. Charles drew close to the armature taking shape next to a cardboard box on an old cable spool serving as a table.
"But I thought you were a painter?" Oliver asked.
"I'm branching out. It was something Avis said. 'Let your old self die and be reborn.' It really resonated with me."
"I like it," Charles announced. "It's not done yet, but I like what you've got so far."
"Thanks. I like it, too." She smiled at her own handiwork briefly and then turned to face her friends. "I made three of these," she said, opening the box on the table and taking out two wrapped parcels. "One for each of us."
Oliver had made confetti of his gift wrap in the time it took Charles to carefully peel away one strip of tape.
“That’s from the building’s Halloween Party!” Charles smiled.
“You had it framed!” cooed Oliver, stepping closer to Charles so that he might admire it as well.
Mabel had been going for a sort of organic flowing water motif, so the frame was swoopy and swervy and silver. It held an 8 x 10 photograph of Mabel hugging a stuffed toy Scooby Doo under one arm, dressed as Daphne, in a smart, short purple dress with matching hairband. Her other hand rested on Oliver’s shoulder. He himself was resplendent in a white Tennis sweater and jaunty orange ascot. Charles stood beside them, in the middle of pushing a pair of thick glasses up his nose, in a schlubby orange turtleneck and dark orange widewale corduroys, wearing a brown pageboy wig with bangs.
“It was a good shot. We were really giving ‘Meddling Kids’, ya know?” Mabel pointed out.
“We really were,” said Oliver fondly.
"And I wanted to tell you. Alice wanted me to move to LA with her."
"She did?" Charles sounded stricken.
"And you didn't go?" Oliver sounded surprised.
"I like Alice. I could maybe see a future with her. And as for breaking into the art scene, she has connections that could help me. But. I have a little name recognition now. And this is my home. You know?"
"Oh, this calls for a group hug," Oliver decided, rushing over to set his arms around her. It did, Mabel agreed, so she looped an arm around Charles and towed him close, too.
END