“Or Jasmine might ask: ‘What sort of grown man lives with his grandmother and his grandmother’s maid and his grandfather’s ghost?’ I think that’s actually a worse question, kiddo,” Nora told me, with Em nodding.

“Definitely worse,” Mary said.

“I don’t live with my grandmother or her maid or my grandfather’s ghost anymore,” I felt it was necessary to tell Mary.

I hadn’t heard about Dottie. We had been in the habit of keeping in touch with postcards. I had sent her a few unanswered postcards; someone in Dottie’s family would eventually write me back, but not for a year. There was a lighthouse on the postcard, as on other postcards from Maine. “Dottie is dead—don’t write her here no more,” the postcard said.

“Do you like older women, Fred?” Nora asked. “Jasmine is older than Adam’s mother. How old is Jasmine now?” Nora asked me.

“Jasmine is only one year older than my mom—Jasmine would be fifty-seven now,” I said.

“I see—too old for Fred, I think,” Mary said. Em was back to the ballroom dancing. She merely meant to remind Fred that Jasmine’s vagina was as big as a ballroom. I was relieved that Em would spare us (even Fred) her pantomime of Jasmine’s pussy as a subway station; Em was crawling around the greenroom on all fours, seizing hold of our ankles. Fred was the touchiest about having his ankles seized. Em’s narrative moved on; she was on her feet, shadowboxing, or perhaps she was shadow-wrestling.

“If we get through the reading and the Q and A without a deeply embarrassing disturbance, we need a plan about how to deal with Jasmine at the book signing,” Mary Marinelli was saying, not realizing that Em was pantomiming a plan.

“Em and I will pull Jasmine out of the signing line,” Nora started to explain. “Em can grab hold of Jasmine’s ankles, not letting her get away. I’ll beat the shit out of Jasmine—I’ll break her arms, or just one of her arms,” Nora was saying. “Then we can drag the old subway pussy out to the sidewalk, and dump her there,” Nora said. Em just nodded.

“Maybe not that plan,” Mary Marinelli said. “You must have some security personnel on hand, don’t you?” Mary asked Fred.

“We don’t usually need security personnel at a fiction reading or a book signing,” Fred said in his pissy way.

“I see,” Mary said again, before she shut herself in the washroom once more. Fred was reflected in the greenroom mirror; he was bent over the telephone on the makeup counter.

“I know he’s just a fiction writer, but I think security personnel at the book signing is merited,” Fred was saying into the phone.