As usual, Grandpa was driving. I got in and slammed the door, calling goodbye to my mother, who was waving from the porch in a way that meant she regretted leaving me to face God on my own. Grandpa gave me the almost smile that his face settles into when he isn’t trying to make it do anything special. I used to ask, “Grandpa, why are you smiling?” He always replied, “I’m not.” It became a joke between us. Now I see it as the expression of a good-natured person who wants to be obliging while keeping himself to himself.

When I was small and we went to their old church, Grandma wore flowered skirts and high heels. Since then she has sharpened up her fashion sense. Today she had on a black jacket with an Aztec design and a teal-colored blouse. Her necklace looked like silver finger bones. She kissed the air in my direction.

“Hello, sweetie. Nice hat!”

“Look, we match,” I said, getting in. My knitted beret with the brim happened to be the exact shade of Grandma’s blouse.

I leaned on my fist and watched the fire station go by, and the public library where I borrowed my books a million years ago, and the lavender house with the yellow trim, next door to the orange house with the white trim. That’s Takoma Park for you, the most original neighborhood this side of the Beltway. I always wondered who lived in those two houses and what they were like. Maybe I would knock on their doors one day without a hat on, and see what happened.

What is it with men and cars? Women are at least as good at driving, but if there’s a man around, he gets the keys and she’s the one who double-checks the traffic at intersections. Grandma didn’t seem to mind. She had on her own half smile, completely different from Grandpa’s. Hers said: Deep down the world is good and I want to be part of the goodness. She was humming. Maybe she was happy it was Palm Sunday. Or maybe she was happy to have me in the car. After all, I am her only granddaughter, and I was named after her. Madeleine Rose.

“Grandma,” I said, sitting up. “Do you mind if I call you Rose?”

Smiling, she twisted around, her rimless glasses winking. “If you like.” The thing about my grandmother is she genuinely finds me entertaining. “What brought that up?”

“Oh,” I said airily, “I’m not a baby anymore.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Besides, it’s my middle name. I should be able to use it.”

“Agreed,” she said, turning back.

“What about me?” Grandpa demanded, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.

“You already call her Rose.”

“Very funny.”

“You can still be Grandpa, if that’s what you mean.”

“As long as I’m not missing out on anything.”