My father paused with the tub of margarine in one hand and the butter knife in the other, and for an irrational moment I thought he might stab Grandma Mazur.

“I don’t think Spiro wants to talk about underwear,” my mother said.

Spiro nodded and smiled at Grandma Mazur. “Trade secret.”

At ten minutes to seven Spiro finished off his second piece of cake and announced he would have to leave for the evening viewing.

Grandma Mazur waved to him as he pulled away. “That went pretty good,” she said. “I think he likes you.”

“Do you want more ice cream?” my mother asked. “Another cup of coffee?”

“No thanks. I’m stuffed. And besides, I have things to do tonight.”

“What things?”

“There are some funeral homes I need to visit.”

“What funeral homes?” Grandma yelled from the foyer.

“I’m starting with Sokolowsky’s.”

“Who’s at Sokolowsky’s?”

“Helen Martin.”

“Don’t know her, but maybe I should pay my respects all the same if you’re such good friends,” Grandma said.

“After Sokolowky’s I’m going to Mosel’s and then to The House of Eternal Slumber.”

“The House of Eternal Slumber? Never been to that one,” Grandma said. “Is it new? Is it in the burg?”

“It’s over on Stark Street.”

My mother crossed herself. “Give me strength,” she said.

“Stark Street isn’t that bad,” I told her.

“It’s full of drug dealers and murderers. You don’t belong on Stark Street. Frank, are you going to let her go to Stark Street at night?”

My father looked up from his plate at the mention of his name. “What?”

“Stephanie’s going to Stark Street.”

My father had been engrossed in his cake and was clearly lost. “Does she need a ride?”

My mother rolled her eyes. “You see what I live with.”

Grandma was on her feet. “Won’t take me a minute. Just let me get my pocketbook, and I’ll be ready to go.”

Grandma applied fresh lipstick in front of the hall mirror, buttoned herself into her “good wool” coat, and hooked her black patent leather purse over her arm. Her “good wool” coat was a brilliant royal blue with a mink collar. Over the years the coat had seemed to grow in volume in direct proportion to the rate at which Grandma was shrinking, so that the coat was now almost ankle length. I took her elbow and steered her to my Jeep half expecting her knees to buckle under the weight of the wool. I had visions of her lying helpless on the sidewalk in a pool of royal blue, looking like the Wicked Witch of the West with nothing showing but shoes.

We went to Sokolowsky’s first as planned. Helen Meyer looked fetching in a pale blue lace dress, her hair tinted to match. Grandma studied Helen’s makeup with the critical eye of a professional.

“Should have used the green-toned concealer under the eyes,” she said. “You got to use a lot of concealer when you got lighting like this. Now Stiva’s got recessed lighting in his new rooms and that makes all the difference.”