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“Not me either,” my mother said.
I shrugged out of my jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, and sat down. “Anything new in the world of crime?” Grandma asked.
“Same ol, same ol,” I told her. “What's new with you?”
“I'm outta that glue stuff for my dentures. I was hoping you could run me out to the drugstore.”
“Sure.” I wolfed down the last of the cake and scraped back in my chair. “I can take you now, but then I need to get back to work.”
“I'll just go upstairs to get my purse,” Grandma said.
I leaned toward her and lowered my voice. “No gun.”
Grandma Mazur carried a. long barrel named Elsie. It wasn't registered, and she didn't have a permit to carry concealed. Grandma thought being old gave her license to pack. She called it the equalizer. My mother kept taking the gun away, and the gun kept mysteriously returning.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Grandma said.
“I've got enough problems with the police right now. I can't afford to get pulled over for a broken taillight and have them discover you're armed and dangerous.”
“I never go anywhere without Elsie,” Grandma said.
“What's all the whispering about?” my mother wanted to know.
“We were trying to decide if I needed to put on some fresh lipstick,” Grandma said.
I looked over at her. “You don't need lipstick.”
“A woman always needs lipstick.”
“Your lipstick is fine.”
“You're getting to be just like your mother,” Grandma said.
There was a time when that statement would have freaked me out, but now I was thinking maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have some of my mother’s qualities. She was a stabilizing influence on the family. She was the representative of accepted social behavior. She was the guardian of our health and security. She was the bran muffin that allowed us to be jelly doughnuts.
Grandma and I were at the front door, and I remembered the hole in the windshield. “Duct tape,” I called to my mother. 'Where would I find it, the garage or the cellar?"
My mother came with a roll. “I keep some in the kitchen. Are you fixing something?”
“I have a hole in my back window.”
Grandma Mazur squinted at the Vic. “Looks like a bullet hole.”
“Dear God,” my mother said. “It s not a bullet hole, is it?”
“No,” I told her. “Absolutely not.”
Grandma Mazur buttoned herself into her long royal blue wool coat. She buckled a little under the weight but managed to right herself and get to the car.
“Isn't this the kind of car the cops use?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Does it have one of them flashing lights?”
“No.”
“Bummer,” Grandma said.
