“Oh, Sam, just stop it.”

“Not even if we’re married for another thirty years.”

Fred flashed a rare smile. “Okay.”

“Fred, stop it! You too, Sam.” Mrs. Bimm helped her husband to his feet and hustled him out of the living room. Then she turned on her daughter.

“Fredrika.”

“Mom, put yourself in my fins.”

“Fredricka Shea Bimm.”

“Mom, he was fucking my mother. He’s a motherfucker! What would you have done?”

“Not tossed him halfway across the room,” her mother snapped, then puffed her bangs out of her face. “What in the world is wrong with you? You’re almost thirty, for heaven’s sake.”

“And you’re almost fifty! Way too old to be—to be—yech.”

Her mother stuck a stubby finger in Fred’s face. Everything about Moon Bimm was short and stubby, compared to Fred’s long lankiness. Even Fred’s nose was long, and while Mrs. Bimm’s mouth was permanently turned up in a smile, Fred’s everyday expression was a scowl. If Fred hadn’t seen the birth certificate, she would have doubted any birth relation to Moon Bimm. “Violence. Language. Manners. All unacceptable.”

“I overreacted, okay? I’m sorry, all right?”

“Not to me. To your father. Who is probably icing his back right this minute.”

“Hopefully he’s put some pants on first.” Fred looked around the small living room, which was artfully decorated in Cape Cod Tourist. “Why here, Mom? Why next to the pleather chair? The La-Z-Boy? Why not anywhere else?” Why not never? Never ever? “I mean… you’ve got a bed.”

“We are often strongly affected in the living room,” her mother said primly, then giggled (giggled! O gods of all the seas, kill me now and make it snappy) and marched out, trailing blanket fuzz behind her.

“Oh, fucking gross,” she muttered, following her mother.

Chapter Two

“It’s not as bad as you think, Fred,” the Defiler of Her Mother said, wincing when he moved the bag of frozen peas to better cover his lower back. He had, thankfully, put on pants. Said frozen peas were stuffed in back of said pants. Fred’s mom was still prancing around in the couch blanket, all “nature’s never wrong” and “be empowered, not embarrassed” and “you shouldn’t cover up God’s handiwork.”

Is there anything sillier than a grown-up hippie?

“I’m sorry you had to catch us in an intimate moment—”

“Bird watching Wednesday,” my mother said solemnly, then giggled again.

Fred groaned and looked around for a fork or a spoon or a gravy boat to gouge out her eyes. And ears. Because Moon Bimm was referring to the cardinal tattooed on her left butt cheek. Other mothers had laugh lines and wrinkles. Not animal tattoos.

She rested her forehead on her hands, her blue hair brushing the table. She stared at the kelp-colored strands and thought, That’s it. I’m running away for sure. Again. Twenty-nine-year-olds run away all the time. It’s perfectly normal. It’s—

“Why,” she muttered, “did you call me over in the first place?” And why didn’t I come yesterday, when she actually called?