“The Angus Barn,” my mother says. “Isn’t that the place out on Highway 70 where they wheel around the raw steaks and let you choose the one you want? I believe I went there once with Les when Dale was a baby.”

“Les this, Les that,” Margery says. “Let it go! You’re a fool to even speak that man’s name. You’re allowing him to live rent-free in your head. Now’s the time to let go of the past and move on! Look at me, I’ve moved ahead like you wouldn’t believe. If you want my opinion, you’re lucky that the man is dead and buried. Divorce is a lot worse than death, trust me. In death you get a lot more money. In divorce you get nothing but the same old promises — that coupled with the chance of running into the fat creep every time you leave the house. Look at me, I ran into my ex-husband just this afternoon, at Clawsons.”

“Which one?” I ask.

“The one on Glenwood Avenue,” she answers, mocking my voice, high-pitched and acidic.

I meant which ex-husband, and she knows it.

“I ran into Terry Berringer and hardly recognized him. He looks like a snowman except, you know, made out of flesh. That man must have gained himself a good one hundred and fifty pounds since I left him. There he was pushing a cart like a death wish — all of the food was fatty and cancerous. God, that man can shovel it in. Even his eyes have gotten fat.” She crosses her legs and dents her empty beer can. “I hope I never get fat eyes like that,” she whispers, squinting at her reflection in the dark window.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Margery,” my mother says. “You’ve got very slim eyes.”

“Everyone tells me I’ve got pretty eyes,” Margery says. “Everyone. They start in with my eyes and work their way down. Eyes are the mirror of your soul; they reflect what’s there, that’s their job.” She places her hands to the side of her face and leans into them, removing the creases. That’s the oldest trick in the book, that attempt to appear both young and pensive. You see it all the time in magazines. “Eyes,” she says. “I don’t know why I even brought them up. Here I am carrying on and on when my problems are nothing compared to yours. Here you are without a pot to pee in, pardon my French, while I’m speaking philosophy.”

My mother rubs a washrag into the palm of her hand.

“Dale, run upstairs and get me another beer,” Aunt Margery says.

“Another what?”

“Beer,” she says. “Can’t you understand English — BEER.”

“Go upstairs and get you an ear?” I am hoping to break my record.