Episode 3

The largest thing that had ever whispered in her ear was a blue whale, but the room was the largest thing Mab had ever seen. It was almost a house inside her house, but when you stood at the door and opened it, you could only see the preview version. You had to walk in and rub the bronze laughing Buddha’s stomach to see the full version of the room. Stuffed to bursting with a collection of the strangest things you’d ever seen, the “room” was as cozy as a small closed-up island of red oxide floor could be–warm in the winter, cool in the summer, dry and with a rainbow during the long monsoon months. But the best thing about the room had to be Miles Davis. Dewey cleared his throat and started playing again. It was important to set the mood. It had to be the 1959 magnum opus. It was great actually. Mab had learnt to ignore the fact that it was indeed just the trumpet playing all the time, with no double bass or piano or percussion. Not even a tuba. But if she listened hard enough–which she didn’t–it did kind of sound like Kind of Blue.

Mab sat in a giant easy chair and sipped Darjeeling Tea, looking at Lady for opinions, advice, bouquets or brickbats. With Lady, one often wished it wasn’t either bouquets or brickbats, because Lady had a strong throwing arm and an endless supply of both. But she just sat there and licked herself, occasionally glancing at Mab as if sizing her up before lifting her off the chair and nailing her to the wall.

“Know what you’re going to say?”

“Not entirely. I was thinking about ‘damned bastard’, though. As an opening, I mean. Take it from there.” Mab winced. “Hail Mary, full of…”

“FULL OF GRAPES!” growled Lady. “YOU LISTEN TO ME. YOU WON'T PUSSFOOT ROUND THIS ONE. STRAP ON A PAIR, BUT GET THE JOB DONE.” She cleared her throat. “Or you want me to gouge his eyes out.”

The trumpeting grew louder, and Mab could almost hear John Coltrane pipe in. Dewey hated raised voices. He briefly came out of his corner, and wandered around the room, swishing his big grey backside at Lady. As if she cared.

“No. I think I can handle this. He’s a nice guy. Just needs to be told what’s what and all that.”

“Shmice. Macavity bastard.” Lady spat out a fur ball. “You’re a wimp. What’re you going to wear anyway.” Lady stuck a leg out in the air and started licking. It was hard to think about clothes in front of a naked grooming cat, but Mab dived into her cup of tea and thought hard.

“I was thinking about the white dress with yellow flowers. It’s his favourite.”

“Wimp. You should probably try to look sexy and severe, as opposed to weak and wimpy and girly. I don’t particularly think he’s going to be intimidated by this Katherine Heigl thing you have going. Got any balls? You might want to take them along. And your best Linda Hamilton.”

“Umm. I don’t know these women you’re talking about…I was just going to go with the flow…see what he has to say.” If Mab had ever had a comfort zone, she was out of it now. She loved Lady, but never knew how to react to her incredible knowledge of popular human culture, across decades.

Dewey stopped playing to clear his throat again. Not the best kind of silence.

“Where’re you going to talk to him anyway. Take him to the attic. It’s scary up there.”

“I was thinking of the garden actually. Some tea and sunshine…” A brickbat whizzed within inches of Mab’s head.

“Garden! Sunshine! What are you on, uppers? Take him to the library. The words of thousands of great men should intimidate him into a moment’s silence at least. Give you an opportunity to try your “damned bastard, hail Mary full of grace” line.

Dewey kicked into the familiar lilt of My Favourite Things. His idea of easing the tension that hung like a heavy cloud over the room.

Lady stopped her grooming and glared at Dewey with her clear green eyes.
“You could even bring him in here you know. If you can ignore the elephant in the room.”

Dewey wished for the millionth time that he still had his tusks.