I should have gone straight over to Susan’s house.

At ten o’clock, Hunter still hadn’t come home. My mother finished her book and went to bed. Nana put her hair up in pin curls and slathered cold cream all over her face. Now I was stuck. I couldn’t leave my grandmother. If Hunter called, too drunk to drive, she’d go pick him up; it didn’t matter where he was or how late he called. Nana was a terrible driver. She’d learned out of necessity at forty-five when my grandfather lost his license for a year. She did everything by the book. Her hands gripped the wheel at ten and two. She signaled for lane changes in heavy traffic. She checked her mirrors constantly. It took her half an hour to drive the three miles from our house to downtown.

Reluctantly, I called Susan. She was still out, so I left a message on her answering machine. I apologized for standing her up and said that I’d see her on Sunday night since I had to work on Sunday morning.

I pulled up a chair and sat down next to Nana.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and stared at the glowing end of her cigarette. Whenever I suggested that she quit smoking, she said that she didn’t want to get fat. Fat chance. She was at least twenty pounds underweight. The only thing round was her face. The women in my grandmother’s family didn’t wrinkle; instead, their cheeks fell into what my mother called the Abernathy jowls.

Nana had been beautiful as a young woman. She was still beautiful at sixty-four. I had a picture of her in my bedroom that was taken in 1941, not long after she married Hunter. Nana was posed in front of a paper moon, smiling broadly. She was only twenty. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be married at twenty with a high school diploma, no college, and, in two more years, a baby. The idea of it gave me the creeps.

“Why are you waiting up for him?” I asked. “Go to bed.”

“He might come home. Someone’s got to let him in.”

“He’s got a key.”

“He won’t use it, or he won’t be able to use it. He’d rather beat the door down.”

“In which case you’ll hear him when he gets here, so there’s no need to wait up.”

“I have to get to him before the neighbors call the police,” she replied irritably.

“Why? Let him beat the door down. Let the police pick him up. He’s out there somewhere right now, probably driving around drunk. Why don’t I call the sheriff ’s department and give them his license tag number?”

She grabbed my arm. “Sit down,” she said, “and behave. I’ve got enough to worry about without you acting up.”

“So much for all that stuff they tell you in Al-Anon about Let Go and Let God. As long as you keep saving him from the consequences of his own actions . . . ”

“I don’t want him arrested on my doorstep,” she said, making swirls in the ashtray with the end of her cigarette. “And I don’t want you to provoke him.”

“I don’t provoke him.”

“You do. You always want to argue with him.”

“He’s always wrong.”

“Turn on the TV,” she said. “See if you can find something worth watching.”

The dog and I were curled up together asleep on the sofa when the front door opened and Hunter fell in with a crash and a moan.

“Goddamn carpet. Son of a bitch tripped me on purpose!”

“Come in,” Nana hissed, looking around as if she feared the neighbors were all on their front porches, watching. “It’s after midnight. For heaven’s sake, close the door!”

Maurice growled. My grandfather, still lying on the floor, pointed a finger at him. “You shut up, you sawhorse son of a bitch.”

I put an arm around the dog, hooking a finger through his collar. Maurice was an idiot. At five years old, he couldn’t sit, stay, or be counted on not to pee in the house. He had only one talent—he could smell booze on the breath at twenty paces. The dog was infallible, better than a Breathalyzer bag.

Hunter got up on all fours and crawled through the front door, which my grandmother closed and locked behind him. She reached a hand down to help him up, but he waved her away.

“You know why I’m down here, don’t you?” he said sadly, shaking his head. “I am down here because God threw me down, down on the dirty floor.” For emphasis, he slapped the carpet with the palm of his hand, raising a stir of dust and dog hairs. He glared up at Nana. “Is the vacuum cleaner broken?”

“Why would God throw you down?” I said, tightening my hold on Maurice’s collar.

“Because he’s a selfish son of a bitch! I get something, and he takes it away. I can’t have anything.”

“Your god is a jealous god.”

Nana gave me a sharp look. “Get up,” she said, reaching down to take Hunter by the elbow. “You need to go to bed.”

“Not a goddamn thing,” he repeated. “Nothing. Do you know what?”

He was looking at me, so I said, “What?”

“I lost my Masonic ring.” He held up his right hand and pointed to his ring finger. “He reached down and snatched it right off my goddamn finger.”

“Who did?”

“God did, goddamn it! What the hell’s the matter with you, are you deaf? He took my Masonic ring.” He shook off my grandmother’s hand and dropped back down onto the carpet. “I don’t know where it is.”

“It’s in heaven,” I said. “I don’t know why God would want it, of course. His fingers are probably bigger than yours.”

That did it. He staggered to his feet and pointed at me, panting with the effort. “You’ve got enough mouth for another row of teeth. And you,” he shook his fist at the dog, “stop growling at me. I’ll get a shotgun and blow your ugly head off. How would you like that?”

“Come to bed, Hunter,” Nana said, taking his arm. “We’ll find your ring in the morning. You probably dropped it out in the yard somewhere. Come on now.”

He shook her off a couple of times, but she persisted, and soon he was leaning against her as if the bones in his legs had melted away. They began a slow shuffle toward the bedroom, my grandmother cajoling, my grandfather muttering. Maurice had begun to growl again, so I tightened my grip on his collar.

Hunter paused at the end of the sofa and stared at us, his head cocked to one side.

“Go on,” I said quickly. “I’ve got him.”

Maurice put on a good display. He bared his fangs, but I could feel him shaking. Hunter stuck his hands in his pockets and stood there, jiggling his change.

“You going to bite me?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette lighter. He flipped the lid back and leaned over the edge of the sofa, running his thumb across the sparking wheel.