“Mom, I really don’t want to talk about this right now,” I lied. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree and I desperately wanted to talk about myself. “Anyway, everything will be fine. How are you?”

“You” was all it took, and the next thing I knew was that Aunty Priya had screwed over Aunty Sudha (Sanjay’s mother) and how everyone at the Hindu center was taking sides. The Reston Aunty Posse never let you down. My mom was in the middle of explaining a particularly fascinating vindication (involving a sari heist) on the part of Aunty Radha (against Aunty Priya for said Sudha screw-over) when James came knocking. I managed to extricate myself from the subcontinental intrigue and let James in. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. Turned out, he’d spent the day with one. Well, an almost one.

“Sheila,” he said, and plowed past me into the apartment and onto my couch, “this is awful. This is beyond awful. I don’t know what to do. For real.” His eyes got big. I’d never seen James so freaked out. Before I could ask any questions, he pulled a beer out of his pocket. Hidden booze wasn’t a good sign. He opened the bottle on the edge of my coffee table, took a long swig, and continued. “It’s, it’s unimaginable. The guy. My judge. [Swig.] He can’t walk. He’s got some heinous gout or something, and he can’t walk but refuses to retire. [Swig.] He gets around on an electric scooter. With a basket. And a horn. [Swig.]” OK, an old robed dude on an electric bike with a basket may have been more bizarre than a short, squat deranged old lady with a dancing bun.

“James. Deep breaths. Was he sick when you interviewed with him? And what about Rebecca?” I asked, optimistically hoping that his coclerk could provide a silver lining.