Lula muscled past Sally into the kitchen. "Lord," she said, "will you look at this . . . cakes as far as the eye could see."

Sugar was at the counter, kneading bread dough. He looked up when we came in and gave us an embarrassed smile. "You probably think I'm weird to be doing all this baking."

"Honey, I think you're cute as a button," Lula said. "You ever want a new roommate you give me a call."

"I like the way it smells when you have something in the oven," Sugar said. "Like home."

"We're going to Atlantic City," I said to Sugar. "Would you like to join us?"

"Thanks, but I have a pie ready to go in, and this dough has to rise, and then I have some ironing . . . "

"Damn," Lula said, "you sound like Cinderella."

Sugar poked at his dough. "I'm not much of a gambler."

We each took a cookie from a plate on the counter and herded ourselves out of the kitchen, down the hall and into the elevator.

"What a sad little guy," Lula said. "He don't look like he has much fun."

"He's a lot more fun when he's in a dress," Sally said. "You put him in a dress and his whole personality changes."

"Then why don't he always wear a dress?" Lula wanted to know.

Sally shrugged. "I don't know. Guess that doesn't feel right, either."

We crossed the sleek marble lobby and walked the flower-bordered path to the lot.

"Over here," I said to Sally. "The blue-and-white Buick."

Sally's mascared lashes snapped open. "The Buick? Holy shit, is this your car? It's got portholes. Fucking portholes! What's under the hood."

"A V-eight."

"Yow! A V-eight! A fucking V-eight!"

"Good thing he don't have them tuck underpants on," Lula said. "He'd rupture himself."

The Buick was a man thing. Women hated it. Men loved it. I thought it must have something to do with the size of the tires. Or maybe it was the bulbous, egglike shape . . . sort of like a Porsche on steroids.

"We'd better get going," I said to Sally.

He took the keys out of my hand and slid behind the wheel.

"Excuse me," I said. "This is my car. I get to drive."

"You need someone with balls to drive this car," Sally said.

Lula stood hip stuck out, hand on hip. "Hah! And you think we don't have balls? Look again, Tiny Tim."

Sally held tight to the wheel. "Okay, what'll it take? I'll give you fifty bucks if you let me drive."

"I don't want money," I said. "If you want to drive the car, all you have to do is ask."

"Yeah, you just don't go pulling this macho shit on us," Lula said. "We don't stand for none of that. We don't take that bus."

"This is gonna be great," Sally said. "I always wanted to drive one of these."

Grandma and Lula piled in back, and I got in front.