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It was the little tragedies that brought New Yorkers together.
A crowd gathered on the sidewalk, staring forlornly at the store’s Permanently Closed sign. “How could this have happened?” muttered a Ulysses S. Grant lookalike in a gray fedora, wide-eyed with shock. “I was just here on Tuesday.”
Mabel shrugged. “Everything dies.”
The group eyed her nervously and edged a noticeable step away. Yeah, that was maybe a little dark for the closing of the neighborhood Starbucks.
Mabel walked on, leaving them to mourn the day caffeine died.
Across the street, the sidewalk was closed where a building was being pulled down, an enormous crane digging out what was left of the structure’s guts. She passed the boarded-up nail salon that had been standing empty since she was in high school, the ghostly note promising to reopen soon stained and faded, barely legible. In the next block, a moving truck sat parked at the curb, and large men streamed out of the building with someone’s worldly possessions, past a notice announcing apartments for rent. Out with the old, in with the new.
Nothing lasted forever.
That was why Mabel would never see the point of marking milestones. Wasn’t the constant flux of the surrounding world enough of a reminder that time was passing? Did anyone really need a card with a kitten and a punny greeting to drive home that they were another year older? Or a cake with candles, more and more of them as the years passed until it was more fire hazard than celebration? Mabel certainly didn’t need anyone wishing her happy birthday as a reminder of anything.
Her phone rang. Not that people didn’t insist on doing it anyway.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, baby.” Her mother’s voice was, as always, equal parts warmth and practical no-nonsense, the fabric of Mabel’s childhood. That shouldn’t have made something clench in her chest, but somehow it did. “I just called to see what you’re up to.”
That wasn’t really the reason, they both knew, but Mabel answered the question anyway, “I did some laundry this morning. I’m taking a walk now, getting some air. It’s just another Tuesday, you know?”
“Mabel—"
“It’s okay, Mami. I’m okay. I just—” There was no point in saying it.
“I know.” Sadness tinged the words. “Me too. I hope you have a good Tuesday. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Mabel had only gone another block when her phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Oliver.
What’s uuuuuup! Unfortunately, the answer is the volume on Charles’s Alexa. While we are quite proud of ourselves for getting it to work, there is the small matter of Olivia Newton-John making the walls shake. I would very much like to escape from Xanadu, but we can’t seem to turn it off.
Oliver’s texting had improved somewhat, although he still tended toward complete, fully punctuated sentences and decades-old catchphrases, not to mention his indecipherable use of emojis. Why was his plea for help followed by three Estonian flags? It was the great unanswerable question of their time.
Her phone buzzed again. Not surprisingly, it was Charles, who would probably always text like a soldier writing home from war.
Dear Mabel,
I hope this note finds you well. When last we spoke about installing the Alexa, you said that you would take care of it when you got a chance. However, the instructions really did seem simple, and Doug from Big Air Productions keeps asking me how I like it and saying that maybe they should have gotten me something more age-appropriate, which is terribly embarrassing. If I understand the principle correctly, then Alexa should turn the volume down upon request. However, she is ignoring all our pleas, and everything we’ve tried has just made it louder. Uma has already come to complain. Apparently, “Have You Never Been Mellow” was playing when her ex-husband told her he was leaving her for the Big Apple Circus’s assistant head juggler. Oliver and I (and Uma too presumably) would be abjectly grateful for your help.
Warm Regards,
Charles-Haden Savage
Mabel let out a sigh. Honestly, the Brazzos production company should have gotten Charles something more age-appropriate. It was a mystery why anyone ever thought an Alexa was the right kind of swag for a 75-year-old man who still referred to the Internet as “the World Wide Web” with a sense of wonder like it was some new invention and not older than Mabel herself.
For a moment, she considered telling them just to unplug the Alexa, because how could that go wrong? Then she considered the possible answers to that question and texted back in their group chat, Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right there.
When she hurried off the elevator on Charles’s floor, the hallway was unexpectedly quiet, and the creeping suspicion that the whole thing had been a set-up was confirmed when Charles and Oliver jointly answered the door, both wearing festive hats straight off the shelf from Party City.
She pointed out the obvious, “I don’t hear Olivia Newton-John.”
“Yes, Alexa finally learned to take direction,” Oliver said, with a big smile. “It’s a miracle.”
Mabel regarded them stonily. “What did I say? We have one rule.”
Oliver cocked his head thoughtfully. “Is it just one, though?”
Charles started counting on his fingers. “Don’t embarrass you in front of your friends. Don’t suspect someone just because they’re wearing a hoodie. Okay, that is a good rule, actually.”
Oliver took over adding to the list, “Don’t use the term ‘dawg’. Don’t pass out thirty-year-old psychedelic drugs at your parties. Stop telling stories about Liza Minelli. I put the number of rules closer to 147.”
“Also, who says this is for you?” Charles swept out his arm.
Two homemade banners hung over the entrance to the living room, the smell of fresh Sharpie pungent even from the doorway.
Congrats, Charles, on becoming marginally less socially awkward!
6 minutes and counting since your last ridiculous celebrity story…Way to go, Oliver!
Clearly, they had created each other’s signs.
“Honestly,” Oliver scoffed. “Millennials always make everything about them.”
Mabel rolled her eyes. “Guys, complaining about Millennials has already had its moment, Also, stop reading New York Times op-eds.”
“Anyway,” Oliver said brightly, drawing Mabel inside. “Since you’re here, you should come join the celebration of how Charles and I are growing as people. There are dips.”
“Also, charcuterie, hot wings, fruit salad, those little pastry things you like with the filling,” Charles listed out the options. “You’re allowed to eat something besides dip.”
Oliver’s expression shifted between scandalized and perplexed. “Why would you ever want to?”
“I see what you’re doing here,” Mabel felt the need to inform them, although she didn’t put up much of a fight as they swept her off to the kitchen.
There was quite a spread set out on the table, even champagne chilling in an ice bucket and the crystal flutes Charles had broken out the last time they had something to celebrate lined up beside it. He picked up the bottle and raised a questioning eyebrow. She nodded, because who said no to champagne? Anyway, she did like those little pastry things. She sat and started filling a plate.
“So, Charles, marginally less socially awkward, huh?” she said, inviting details.
Oliver jumped in before Charles could get a word out, “He’s managed to take three entire elevator rides without making the vibe so tense that someone got off before their actual floor.”
Charles cut a look at him. “Well, Oliver broke his streak of no celebrity stories about two minutes after the banner went up, so technically, there should be no dips for him.”
“That did not count as a celebrity story!” Oliver shot back huffily, circling a protective arm around the dips. “It was building hot goss. That’s an entirely different category of anecdote.” He glanced at Mabel. “Oh, you probably haven’t heard! Guess who’s moving into the east penthouse? None other than luminary legend of stage and screen Ralph Nathaniel Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes. I ran into him in the elevator, and we had the most delightful conversation about—”
Charles interrupted with an appeal to Mabel, “How is this not a celebrity story?”
Mabel was caught with a mouth full of mini spring roll, not that Oliver would have given her a chance to answer, anyway.
“Because it’s official podcast business,” he insisted. “I have an idea for what to do next, a pivot that will help us expand our audience. Introducing…Only Celebrities in the Building!” He made a big ta-dah flourish with his hands. “It’s a fresh, new take on the celebrity interview. We’ll go behind the scenes, beyond the glitz and glamor, and into the private sanctuaries of today’s most sought-after A-listers, for cozy-yet-frank conversations on the most important topics of the day, neighbor to neighbor.”
Charles made a skeptical face. “That’s your big idea?”
“Do you have a better one?” Oliver demanded, with an indignant upward tilt of the chin. “We can’t exactly rely on the Arconia’s body count to keep going up.”
“Recent evidence notwithstanding,” Charles said dryly.
It quickly devolved into an argument over crime statistics and how the media made New York City seem far more dangerous than it actually was. Mabel was content to just sit back, stuff her face with snacks, and watch the Charles-and-Oliver show. Their bickering reminded her of old married couples she sometimes saw on the subway, carrying on arguments that had clearly been nurtured over decades as if they were beloved family heirlooms. It was oddly soothing somehow—just hanging out while her two lovably dysfunctional, semi-father figures zinged each other.
So, the sudden hot rush of tears in her eyes caught her completely off guard. Stupid birthdays. One minute you’re sitting there, cheerfully helping yourself to the taramosalata with Oliver’s beady eyes following the trajectory of your hand from dish to mouth as if calculating how much less dip that would mean for him, and the next, you’re on the verge of losing it in front of your two favorite septuagenarians in the most mortifying way imaginable.
Mabel hoped that Charles and Oliver were too busy one-upping each other to notice, but, yeah, no, they’d both frozen, trailing off mid-insult, watching her with matching deer-in-headlights expressions.
She sighed.
There were ways to play it off, of course. You’re boring me to tears was right there. But for some unaccountable reason, she went with honesty. “My father died four days before my 8th birthday.” Her voice didn’t break at least. She felt weirdly proud of that. “Stomach cancer. That’s why I don’t—”
Understanding lit their faces, followed quickly by lines of concern. Nightmare.
“Here.” Oliver pushed the tzatziki over to her, although it was his favorite, and she’d never known him to share it.
That was Oliver’s equivalent of a hug, a warm blanket draped around her shoulders, and a comforting mug of hot cocoa pushed into her hand, all rolled into one. Mabel’s eyes prickled even more hotly.
Charles’s expression had gone thoughtful. “My relationship with my father was complicated, as you know. But once he was gone—all the things we’d never done or said, and now would never do or say, the unfairness of the life he never got to live—” He shook his head. “After a while, though, there started to be just this little bit of comfort in the fact that I was so much like him, even though I’d spent my whole life hating it. Whenever I picked up a pair of scissors or a new musical instrument, it was like my dad was still there with me. Not in some ghostly or spiritual way. Just literally part of him makes up part of me, and for better or worse, I won’t ever be without him. It doesn’t make up for anything, for what we never were to each other, but it’s something, and that’s better than nothing.”
Mabel stared down at her hands in her lap that were just like her father’s. She could picture him so clearly in her head, turning over jigsaw pieces, the sureness in the movements, that little pinch of concentration between his eyes, his love of solving puzzles that was also hers. They’d had so little time together, but he’d poured everything he was, everything he had into her—his humor and his sense of justice, his tenacious need to figure things out for himself, his oddly philosophical approach to cooking, all of his love.
While her dad was alive, he’d always been there for her, and maybe, in a sense, he still was. Nothing would ever make up for losing him when she did, how she did, but Charles was right. It was something.
Mabel took a deep breath and let it out. She could never quite decide if Charles was actually wise or if he’d just been in so many Lifetime movies that he had a ready-made speech for every emotional occasion. She supposed all that really mattered was that he made her feel better.
“Thanks,” she said softly and then added much more firmly, “Also, we’re not interviewing celebrities on our podcast.”
Oliver raised a hand as if to protest, getting what she privately called his definitely dying on this hill expression. “Mabel, if I may—” A glare from Charles shut him down, at least for the moment. “We can talk about it later. Meanwhile—” His hand shot out to steal back the tzatziki.
Mabel wanted to laugh with relief. The moment had officially passed if Oliver was back to hoarding dips, and she’d come through it okay. No one had tried to make her talk about her feelings, but no one had ignored the fact that she actually had feelings, either. These guys really did get her in a way that other people just didn’t.
“Is there cake?” she asked hopefully. “Tell me there’s cake.”
“There’s cake,” Charles confirmed, looking pleased with himself. “From the good bakery on 92nd.”
“That was my idea,” Oliver stage-whispered to her. “Charles would have gone to the Associated on 81st.”
Charles made a face at him. “Would not.”
“Well, we’ll never know now, will we?” Oliver grinned his big Cheshire cat grin.
This set off a fresh round of squabbling that threatened to derail cake time until Mabel reminded them, “Guys! Focus.”
“Right,” Charles said and went to open the bakery box.
When he returned with the cake, there were 3 lit candles, and he preempted any complaint from Mabel with, “We’re partners, so we each get to make a wish.”
“You’re really pushing your luck over there, Brazzos.” She might have been smiling, though, just a little bit.
Charles laughed with delight. “That’s me. A real rules-breaking renegade.”
Mabel didn’t believe in wishing for things. You either took a risk and made something happen, or you didn’t. Waiting around for God or fate or dumb luck was a sucker’s game. Just this one time, though, she could make an exception. She closed her eyes, went with the first thing that came to mind, and blew out her candle. Maybe we can do this again next year.
God, they were turning her into a sap. They could never, ever find out.
“We could take our cake and champagne into the living room and watch a movie?” Charles suggested. “If you’re not busy?” He fixed her with a questioning look.
Mabel shrugged, in what she hoped was a completely cool and unsappy way. “I could watch something.”
They filed over to the sofa and settled in, while Charles went around making sure that all of their champagne glasses were properly coastered.
“How about a musical?” Oliver suggested, and his eyes lit up. “I know! Cabaret. Actually, did I ever tell that while Liza was filming that, she would call me up at 3 am every night desperate for advice—”
“Putnam!” Mabel interjected before he could really get going.
“Oh, right,” he said, visibly deflating. “Rule #12.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that I was in a horror movie back in the 80s that developed something of a cult following. It was called, “The Bride of Bloody Grove.” In it, I played Rikki Vincenzo, a paranormal investigator who—"
Oliver interrupted, “How have I never heard of this? I’m a real buff of terrible B-movies from the 80s and 90s.”
Charles narrowed his eyes at Oliver.
“The X-Files movie,” Mabel blurted out. Charles and Oliver both turned to stare at her. Well, hell, it surprised her, too. But when she considered whether she wanted to take it back, she found that she didn’t. “My dad and I used to watch that show. It’s kind of sentimental.”
She liked to think that if her dad had lived long enough they could have spent birthdays together like this, not really doing anything, in a way that meant everything.
“The X-Files movie it is,” Charles declared, and Oliver nodded along.
Charles laboriously pecked away at his phone, searching for where it was streaming, and pulled it up on the TV.
They were barely thirty seconds into the opening credits when Oliver loud-whispered, “Did I ever tell you about the time I went ziplining with Gillian Anderson in the Brazilian rainforest?”
“Did I ever tell you that we don’t believe any of these stories of yours?” Charles shot back.
“My hand to God!” Oliver, drama king that he was, actually raised his hand. “It was a benefit for—oh, some organization trying to protect the Amazon, I forget which one. The hook was, they got together big-name stars and—”
“You were the hook?” Charles asked, deeply skeptical.
“Well, Gillian was there too, of course—"
Mabel slanted a look at them. “Are you two going to talk through the entire movie?”
“Sorry,” Charles said sheepishly.
Oliver held a finger up to his lips.
The not-talking lasted all of two minutes.
“She made a pass at me,” Oliver started up again. “I was married, of course, so I had to let her down gently.”
“Okay, for the record, that’s even less believable than the idea that you voluntarily hung from a wire in a jungle where there were bugs and humidity that would make your hair frizz, and that’s really saying something.”
“I’ll have you know—"
Yeah, they were definitely going to talk through the entire movie. Oddly enough, Mabel wouldn’t have it any other way. She settled cozily into the corner of the sofa, sipping her champagne and making her way through an enormous slice of red velvet, content to watch the movie while “The Odd Couple” remake unfolded in the living room starring her two best friends.