Abel’s house was a lot smaller than mine. And a lot less inviting. The couches and chairs were covered in thick yellowy plastic and every room smelled like boiled chicken. Abel’s mother appreciated the flowers and said, “At least there’s one gentleman in the house this evening” and put them in a vase in the middle of the table.
During the meal, Abel’s father, who looked like Groucho Marx but without the sense of humour, sat at the head of the table, while Abel’s mother and sister, in bare feet, ran back and forth between the table and the kitchen. Abel’s mother, who kept wiping her forehead and neck with a napkin, had long toenails that curled over her toes and clicked on the floor whenever she took a step, which made it hard to eat anything. I’d noticed them as soon as I came in and trie
