I leaned against the back door. Jane often had an interesting tale to tell, and, thanks to the volume of her voice, it was easy to eavesdrop on her phone calls. Only the odd word or two escaped me.

“Well,” Jane declared, “the new Avon lady just left here. I sent her across the street to Janice’s house in case you needed time to straighten up. She caught me by surprise. I can’t imagine what she must have thought—my kitchen looks like the junk room on the Titanic.”

“I’m sure it was fine, Jane.” My mother glanced around at the collection of disasters that comprised our own kitchen. It was 1979. My father had begun installing green patterned wallboard in 1976. He’d put up two pieces, one on either side of the window, and then stopped. The floor was dirty, the table was covered with newspapers and coffee cups, and the sink was full of dishes. Sensing what was about to happen, I opened the back door.

My mother held up her hand. “Stop,” she said, and then, “No, not you, Jane.”

“I just thought I’d give you a heads up,” Jane went on. “Is Eddie at home?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, let’s just say that this Avon lady is quite a change from Mrs. Orlicki.”

“No mustache?”

Jane laughed. “No mustache, honey, and no babushka. She wouldn’t want to cover up that Farrah Fawcett hair-do. A piece of work, let me tell you—about as trashy as they come. Her name is Karen, but she pronounces it Kar-ahn.”

“Good lord. What’s her story?”

“She wants to be a model. She doesn’t have a prayer—she’s strictly Barbizon and boat show—but she thinks she’s big time. If I were you, I’d send Eddie to the store for a pack of cigarettes or some toilet paper. Men are fools for the peroxide bottle.”

“Hmph,” said my mother. “Thanks for the warning, Jane, but I don’t think I’ll bother. Eddie’s asleep. It would take an earthquake to wake him up. You’d better let me go so I can vacuum.”

“Of course, but call me back with a full report,” Jane insisted.

“Okay.” My mother turned to me as soon as she’d hung up the phone. “You know the drill,” she said. “You pick up the random debris and vacuum the living room. I’ll whip through the kitchen and bathroom. And here,” she picked the cat up off the counter and handed him to me. “Shut Fonzie in your bedroom. He can’t resist the smell of Avon lady. He’ll be up on her lap as soon as she sits down.”

“But Ma,” I objected, “Jack and I are . . .”

“Jack can wait.”

The cat didn’t take kindly to being relocated. Sucking on a freshly bitten finger, I cleared off the coffee table, emptied the ashtray, and kicked my father’s work shoes underneath the sofa. I could hear my mother in the kitchen shoving dirty dishes into the oven. I’d just taken the vacuum cleaner out of the coat closet when she came in carrying a can of pine-scented air freshener.

“What about Dad?” I asked. Lucky Eddie was asleep on the sofa, his feet propped up on the armrest.

“Never mind him,” she said, spraying his feet with the air freshener.

My father sat up. “What the hell . . .”

“Avon lady,” my mother explained. “Your feet smell like dead animals. Why don’t you go sleep in the bed like a human being?”

“Jesus Christ,” said my father, lying back down. “Take her into the kitchen.”

“I was planning to.” The doorbell rang. My mother gave the room at large a generous spray, tossed the can and the unused vacuum back into the closet, and opened the front door.

“Hello. You must be the new Avon lady.”

Karen Rostenkowski looked like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to be a prostitute or the head of General Motors. She wore a beige linen suit and a shiny red halter-top. Her high heels, which were also red, were a shade lighter than the halter-top but darker than the plastic headband that pushed back her blonde, wispy hair. As she stepped through the front door, she trailed a cloud of perfume so strong that it overwhelmed the pine spray. She introduced herself, smiling brightly.

My mother’s answering smile was polite but cool. I’d seen her use it on Avon ladies before, as well as Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses. It said that she was willing to look but that she wouldn’t be doing much buying. “I’m Barbara Koslowski, and this my daughter, Frances.” She gestured apologetically in the direction of my father. “Don’t worry about that body on the sofa. We’ve called the undertaker.”

Lucky Eddie opened one eye and prepared to roll over. Then he caught sight of Karen. He sat bolt upright.

“Sorry, I was just having a little nap there. I work nights.” He stood up and extended his hand. “I’m Eddie,” he oozed, “Eddie Koslowski.”

Ordinarily, my father couldn’t be blasted off the sofa with dynamite. It didn’t matter who knocked on the door—the Girl Scouts, his mother, or a SWAT team—Eddie woke up for no one. He was skilled in the art of interpersonal avoidance.

By the time Karen Rostenkowski arrived on our doorstep, Eddie had long since moved out of my mother’s bedroom and taken up permanent residence in the living room. He came home from work at six o’clock in the morning, kicked off his shoes, and slept on the sofa until five-thirty. Then he ate a TV dinner, took a shower, and went back to work. His routine never varied, and there was never any conversation. Eddie and my mother spoke to one another only when it was absolutely necessary, and, apart from yelling at Jack and me to get the hell out of the house and go play quietly somewhere else, he and I didn’t talk. The man who was now grinning like a fool and enthusiastically pumping the Avon lady’s hand was a stranger to me.