“You’re in trouble now,” Lula said to Punky. “I bet Vinnie likes greased-up fat men. People tell me Vinnie used to be romantically involved with a duck. I bet he’s gonna think you’re just fine.”

I hustled down the stairs and out the front door to the Escape. I called Vinnie on the way to my parents’ house and gave him the word on Punky.

“What are you, nuts?” Vinnie yelled at me. “I’m not gonna go out to pick up some greased-up naked guy. I write bonds. I don’t do pickups. Read my lips . . . you’re the pickup person.”

“Fine. Then you go to my parents’ house and get my mother out of the bathroom.”

“All right, all right, I’ll do your pickup, but it’s come to a sad state of affairs when I’m the normal member of this family.”

I couldn’t argue with that one.

Grandma Mazur was waiting for me when I pulled to the curb. “She’s still in there,” Grandma said. “She won’t talk to me or nothing.”

I ran up the stairs and tried the door. Locked. I knocked. No answer. I yelled to my mother. Still no response. Damn. I ran down the stairs out to the garage and got a step ladder. I put the ladder up to the back stoop and climbed onto the small shingled roof that attached to the back of the house and gave me access to the bathroom window. I looked inside.

My mom was in the tub with earphones on, eyes closed, knees sticking out of the water like two smooth pink islands. I rapped on the window, and my mom opened her eyes and gave a shriek. She grabbed for the towel and continued to scream for a good sixty seconds. Finally she blinked, snapped her mouth shut, pointed straight-armed to the bathroom door, and mouthed the word go.

I scuttled off the roof, down the ladder, and slunk back to the house and up the stairs, followed by Grandma Mazur.

My mother was at the bathroom door, wrapped in a towel, waiting. “What the hell were you doing?” she yelled. “You scared the crap out of me. Dammit. Can’t I even relax in the tub?”

Grandma Mazur and I were speechless, standing rooted to the spot, our mouths open, our eyes wide. My mom never cursed. My mom was the practical, calming influence on the family. My mom went to church. My mom never said crap.

“It’s the change,” Grandma said.

“It is not the change,” my mother shouted. “I am not menopausal. I just want a half hour alone. Is that too much to ask? A crappy half hour!”

“You were in there for an hour and a half,” Grandma said. “I thought you might have had a heart attack. You wouldn’t answer me.”

“I was listening to music. I didn’t hear you. I had the headset on.”

“I can see that now,” Grandma said. “Maybe I should try that sometime.”

My mother leaned forward and took a closer look at my shirt. “What on earth do you have all over you? It’s in your hair and on your shirt and you have big grease stains on your jeans. It looks like . . . Vaseline.”