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It's as if I'm still dreaming when, after supper, with all of us slumped on the front porch, the sound of Grampie Nadel's horn punctures the twilit air. My father, shooing away a mosquito, says, "Oh God, no!" My mother, a little tipsy, lets out a sharp laugh. "Why not? She's his guilt as well as ours." "She's none of ours," my father says quickly. "Don't I wish," my mother says and watches the stuttering smile that comes over Mamie, who's already on her feet and heading down the path. "Stop her!" "Not for a million dollars," my mother says. Mamie leans into the car, but we don't hear her say anything. We don't hear anything from Grampie Nadel either. 
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"Maybe he doesn't recognize her," my father says, and the three of us follow Mamie's route to the car, where Grampie Nadel sits frozen behind the wheel with such a queer expression on his face that we aren't sure if he is going to laugh, cry, or mess his pants. "You poor dear," Mamie says, her eyes on his bare bean, and in trying to stroke it nearly pushes much of herself through the open window. Aghast, Grampie Nadel tries to dodge her touch, but her fingers reach his scalp, the scene fantasy billowing into crime. "Get this frigging nut away from me!" he screams, and in the next instant Mamie's nails shred skin as from a peach. My father grabs one shapeless leg, I the other, and together we yank Mamie from the car. Behind us, my mother drops to the ground, into a  |
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