Merilee hustled me past several vending machines and a broken ping pong table and into a three-story building. We walked down a narrow corridor, our feet soundless on the red and black carpet, patterned with clubs and hearts, diamonds and spades like in a casino. The smell of grease clung to walls the color of wet clay. Merilee abruptly stopped in front of a door marked “Number Seventeen” and began fumbling around in her purse.

I reached for the buzzer. She slapped my hand away. “Wouldja’ keep your shirt on?” She pulled out her compact and scrutinized herself.

I took off my headband and shook out my tangled hair.

“Listen to me Jacqueline, no matter what she says, don’t let her fool you.”

“Is she mean?”

“Well, she’s a witch is all I can say.”

“I want to go home.”

“Oh, go on,” Merilee said, twisting her fingers through her blonde locks. “You can ring the bell now, she’s not going to hurt you.”

“What’s her name?” I whispered.

“Marva, I told you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

She gave me a little push. “Go on.”

I pressed the buzzer and we waited. A minute or so went by, and I put my ear to the door. “I don’t hear anything.” I knocked. “Hello?” I called into the keyhole before turning hopefully. “Maybe she forgot.”

“Probably passed out.” Merilee used her compact to give the door a series of hard raps. From inside, I heard a chair being pushed back and seconds later, the door swung open.

She sure didn’t look like any grandmother I’d ever seen, nor did she appear witch-like. In kitten heels, she was close to six feet tall with wavy, platinum hair that slanted over one eye. Blazing red lipstick seeped into the deep smoker’s lines that ringed her mouth. She wore her gauzy, animal print blouse unbuttoned, revealing sun-whipped cleavage and the top of a lacy brassiere. Under beige culottes hung a pair of shapely legs that, except for the extra pouches of skin at the knees, matched my mother’s. In her hand was a giant plastic cup from 7-Eleven.

“You’re forty-five minutes late,” Marva said, looking down at her bony wrist. She was not wearing a watch.

“We’ve been ringing forever,” Merilee snapped.

“Buzzer’s broke.”

Nervously, I reached for my mother, but her fingers turned to mercury, slipping through my hand as she sauntered past Marva into the dark apartment. My grandmother frowned. Then, turning to me, she smiled. Sharp lines shot out from the corners of her pale blue eyes.

“So, you’re Jackie.” She pressed something moist and crumpled into my hand.

“Please call her Jacqueline,” my mother sang from across the room.

“Well, okay, Miss Fancy Pants,” Marva croaked brightly. “I gave you five dollars, now pucker up.”