My mother never ceased to amaze me. “There was a time when you would have chased him out of the house with that carving knife.”
“He's changed.”
I tore into the sandwich. “So he tells me.”
“I hear he's a good cop.”
“A good cop is different from a good person.”
I woke up disoriented, staring at a ceiling from a previous life. Grandma Mazur's voice snapped me back to the present.
“If I don't get into that bathroom there's gonna be a big mess in the hall,” she yelled. “Last night's supper's going through me like goose grease.”
I heard the door open. Heard my father mumble something indiscernible. My eye started to twitch, and I squinched it closed. I focused my other eye on the bedside clock. Seven-thirty. Damn. I'd wanted to get to Spiro's early. I jumped out of bed and rummaged through the laundry basket for clean jeans and a shirt. I ran a brush through my hair, grabbed my pocketbook, and rushed into the hall.
“Grandma,” I hollered through the door. “Are you going to be long?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?” she yelled back.
All right, I could postpone the bathroom for half an hour. After all, if I'd gotten up at nine I wouldn't have used the bathroom for another hour and a half.
My mother caught me with my jacket in hand. “Where are you going?” she asked. “You haven't had breakfast.”
“I told Spiro I'd pick him up.”
“Spiro can wait. The dead people won't mind if he's fifteen minutes late. Come eat your breakfast.”
“I don't have time for breakfast.”
“I made some nice oatmeal. It's on the table. I poured your juice.” She looked down at my shoes. “What kind of shoes are they?”
“They're Doc Martens.”
“Your father wore shoes like that when he was in the army.”
“These are great shoes,” I said. “I love these shoes. Everyone wears shoes like this.”
“Women interested in getting m
arried to a nice man do not wear shoes like that. Women who like other women wear shoes like that. You don't have any funny ideas about women, do you?”
I clapped my hand over my eye.
“What's wrong with your eye?” my mother asked.
“It's twitching.”
“You're too nervous. It's that job. Look at you rushing out of the house. And what's that on your belt?”
“Pepper spray.”
“Your sister, Valerie, doesn't wear such things on her belt.”
I looked at my watch. If I ate real fast, I could still get to Spiro by eight.
My father was at the table, reading his paper, drinking coffee. “How's the Buick?” he asked. “You giving it high-test?”
“The Buick's fine. No problems.”