Treasure Island!!!

of those instances where you’re confusing age with experience. Maybe
this
is something you ought to discuss with a licensed therapist.” Here she clearly took offense, but in an effort to keep things civilized she said, “Well,
that’s
the pot calling the kettle black.” “Well, don’t you think
the old grey mare
just ain’t what she used to be?” And so on and so on, strangling our points in a hideous macramé of clichés. I wouldn’t judge a book by its cover. I’m not judging the book by its cover, I’m just saying all that glitters is not gold. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. I had only cried, “Don’t blame the messenger,” when Adrianna grabbed a Lucite paperweight from the coffee table. “Somebody has to
send
for a messenger,” she howled.
    “Ladies!” said Mr. Tatum.
    There were no ladies present—it was an imaginary appeal—but it got her to put the paperweight down. They had a brief struggle themselves, which involved an embarrassing number of clutches and endearments I tried not to witness, and then Adrianna tore out of the house and drove off before I could explain—especially that she was my ride.
    Mr. Tatum looked at me with quiet dismay.
    “Do you want to sit down?” he said.
    “Not where she was sitting.”
    I was aiming to lighten the tense situation, but he didn’t get it. He was
so old
.
    “You’ve had a shock. Why don’t you sit down on the Chesterfield?” He indicated a high-backed leather sofa, tufted and cracked. “I’ll get you some water.”
    Once he had passed me the green rippled Depression glass, he began: “It’s not what you think . . . ”
    “You don’t know what I think, Mr. Tatum.”
    He raised a purple-veined, age-spotted hand. “Please. I’ve known you forever. Call me Don.”
    “And I’ve known you,” I scoffed, “since you were fifty.” I sat with my arms folded, ankles crossed. “Where is Mrs. Tatum right now? Tutoring refugees? Shopping for Christmas presents? Taking your grandchildren to dinner?”
    “My wife died eight years ago,” he said softly. “I believe you came to the funeral.”
    “Did I?” Oh god. There rose a dim memory of being dragged to a funeral parlor for some lady’s untimely demise, a vague recollection of a woman who had somehow seemed to die of her femaleness. I couldn’t recall the details, but I wasn’t about to be disarmed by pity, so I expressed my condolences to Mr. Tatum swiftly, and then reminded him that this match with my sister was hardly what anyone in my family might have hoped for. The fact that he and Adrianna were carrying on in secrecy indicated that he already knew as much.
    He answered my objections in the blustery pseudo-sophisticated way you’d expect. A matter of privacy, not secrecy. Two consensual adults. An unexpected and noisy bit of sunshine in his quiet not to say cloudy life. Once I took a moment to collect myself and understand the facts, I might even discover I wanted to apologize for my intrusion. I imagine this is how he spoke to the delinquent adolescents he met in his office: reasonable, slightly disappointed, even-handed, with a note of self-pity, convincing you that he was the wronged party.
    “Mr. Tatum, are your hands shaking right now because you’re nervous, or because you’re old?”
    He withdrew his hands, in surprise, and folded them in his lap. “My dear, I do think you’re over-reacting. Your sister isn’t underage.”
    “No, but she’s under-used. She’s never had a boyfriend. Has she told you that?”
    He smiled indulgently and tsk-tsked me. “You always
were
the provocative one.”
    “I was the good-looking one, if you want to know the truth, and I don’t like your thinking you can mess around with Adrianna just because she’s the ugly duckling.”
    He looked taken aback. “You underestimate your sister, surely. She is anything but ugly.” He rose to indicate our interview was over. “I think you should have the rest of this conversation with Adrianna.”
    “Fine. But I don’t have a way home.”
    “How did you get here?”
    And then that old embarrassing conversation. You didn’t drive? No, didn’t drive. Don’t you drive? Well, yes, can drive, but don’t have a car. No car? Well, phobic about driving. “All right,” he said icily. “I’ll drive you home.”
    That was a fun ride.
     

CHAPTER 15

     
    A drianna didn’t talk to me for two weeks. In the absence of her explanations, I began to consider her