We could, barely. Aaron half-lifted, half-dragged him across the threshold and through the small entry, into the room beyond. Here in the brighter light, I could see how unlovely Oscar looked, his face splotchy and swollen, a butterfly bandage and stitches on the welt in his eyebrow. There was a lot for me to take in, including Viridian herself, who always eluded any quick first glance. As well as the room we stood in and the two or three other people in it. I was tired and a little drunk and I kept yawning and wondering how I’d gotten my head so far up my ass as to be here.

Viridian—I might as well call her that, it was her name—said, “He’s getting too old for this.”

Her voice, as before, husky, with a roughness that must have been age.

“I am not.”

“Oh do be quiet, Oscar. Can you see my finger? Can you follow it?” She didn’t seem all that worried, only grim, in a way that did not bode well for Oscar. She was wearing black pants and a loose white shirt.

Aaron said, “Where do you want him?” He was still propping up Oscar’s not quite dead weight. Viridian said they should get him upstairs to bed.

I wasn’t all that anxious to help tuck Oscar in. So I stayed behind while Aaron did the heavy work of bumping and laboring Oscar down a corridor, with Viridian following them.

The two women in the room with me, the one with the black hair and goofy glasses, and one with sandy hair and a dry little face, looked me over, sized me up as a temporary interloper, and spoke around and over me.

“I don’t know why she puts up with it.”

“She has the kindest heart.”

“Too kind.”

“He certainly takes advantage.”

A third woman came in then, carrying a tray of ceramic mugs. “I’m making some matcha. It’s sustaining.”

“Oh I love matcha.”

“White dragon matcha with pine pollen, reishi mushroom, and coconut cream.”

“That sounds amazing.”

“I’d wait until—”

“Of course.”

“She should be more careful. You never know who—”

“Exactly.”

They weren’t bothering to whisper. It seemed that I was included in the contagion that was Oscar, another piece of riffraff for them to disapprove of. This third woman was, like the others, about my mom’s age, that is, forty-something. She and the others had an artsy-funky look (earrings, ethnic print fabrics), which my mom would have described as “rich hippie.” I thought of what Oscar had called them, the hens, and I decided I didn’t like them any better than they liked me.