Now, hang on a briefen short second there, Eisenstein, Paul Sr. said in her mind. Let’s poise a hyperthetical: Say you were born to gimps, and grew up in a tiny house, and never had und potten to piss in? Mightn’t you have turned out a strange lost gal with twelve or so marriages behind you and a tragic runaway daughter?

No, she answered. I wouldn’t have.

You know that for a certainty? Paul Sr. said. Well, maybe I’m just dull. Perhaps I fail to grasp your immensely higher logic. Maybe, having lived a perfect life, you’ve got all the answers.

Don’t.

Do not.

Do not defend that one there.

I merely pose the query, he said.

He was bearing down on her in that way of his, not even giving the other person a chance to—­

Wong or white, snook? he said. Clock’s ticking! Answer, please!

Well, how should she know? Who she’d be if she weren’t her? Why would you want to even know that? It didn’t amount to anything.

“Ma, you want to go over, say hi?” Pammy said. “She’s an old friend, right?”

“Well, she’s old,” Alma said. “But she’s no friend of mine.”

“Ma, God,” Pammy said.

“We never had nothing to do with her,” Alma said. “Big hippie. Never meant nothing to us.”

Not much.

Not much she hadn’t.

Zowie! Here came Alma Carlson. Up Pine. Daughter in tow. Pammy or Kimmie or whoever. She’d seen the son, Paulie, at Wegmans yesterday, arms full of flowers. For Alma (!). Not sure how that worked: Mean Old Thing (Alma) gets Mother’s Day flowers; Nice, Generous Mom (her, Debi) gets—­

Lord, what a face: shriveled apple. Drawstring purse pulled tight.

When was God or whoever going to lower the boom? On a meanie like that? Or did she just get to live out her life, mean as all get-out? Oh God, Schmod, she, Debi, wasn’t a big believer in God or Hell or any of that male-based crap. She’d been no angel herself, having done (yes) a few drugs in her day, and also she didn’t exactly love the idea of showing up at the pearly gates or whatnot and having Saint Whoever look her up in his book and go: Whoa, hey, I was just sitting here tabulating the number of guys you had in your life, and, yikes, can you wait here a second while I go check with God on what the limit is?

Sweep, sweep.

(Why did we use that word when the actual sound was more like swep?)

Swep, swep.