slight air of strain around them, as if they were avoiding something. As, indeed, they were.
Rose Conger was maintaining an almost grim good cheer, doing her best to prevent the silence that was normal for Sarah from becoming the norm for them all But she knew no one was paying any attention to her. She could see Jack, his face mostly hidden, trying desperately to concentrate on his morning paper. And she knew that Elizabeth was devoting more energy to getting food into Sarah than she was to listening to her mother.
“And, of course,” Rose chirped, “they have a son.” She waited for a reaction, but there was none. She said, a little more loudly, “A fourteen-year-old son.” She was gratified to note that she suddenly had her older daughter’s attention.
“Who does?” Elizabeth said, putting down the knife she had been using to slice Sarah’s sausages.
“You haven’t been listening. The new neighbors. If you hadn’t been so engrossed, you’d have heard me.”
Elizabeth smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” she said, with a grin that let it be known that she was apologizing more for the sake of form than for anything else. “Don’t tell me you actually sold the Barneses’ old place.” She made a face. “I hate that house. Who would want to live there?”
“It’s a family,” Rose said, smoothing the tablecloth unconsciously. “An architect and an artist And their son. His name’s Jeff.”
“A boy,” squealed Elizabeth. “A real live boy! What’s he look like?”
“I’m sure he’ll be terribly handsome,” Rose replied. “Isn’t the boy next door always supposed to be terribly handsome?”
Elizabeth blushed, and the sudden flushing disconcerted Rose. And then it hit her that she had somehow come to think of Elizabeth as being older than she was. She had to remind herself that Elizabeth was only thirteen, and that thirteen-year-old girls are very likely to blush when boys are mentioned.
“Actually, I don’t know what he looks like. But well all know over the weekend. Carl and Barbara—they’re the new neighbors,” she added for the benefit of Jack, who had finally put his paper down. “Carl and Barbara Stevens will be coming down this morning, and I’m going to spend most of the day with them.” Jack looked at her questioningly.
“Well,” Rose went on, a little uncomfortably, “since the Barneses aren’t around, somebody has to show them how the house works. Particularly a house like that” She saw a shadow of doubt cross Jack’s face.
“All right,” she said, putting down her napkin. “Also, I feel like being a busybody neighbor and seeing what I can find out about them. So far they seem to be a delight, and I think it would be nice to have neighbors who are also friends. It would be fun to have people we like close enough for dropping in, and I intend to promote it.”
“Well,” Jack said, the shadow of doubt now growing into a cloud. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.” Rose saw his eyes flick involuntarily toward Sarah. It was so fast that she was sure he wasn’t aware that he had done it; she was equally sure she hadn’t imagined it. She decided to face the issue directly. She began folding the napkin into smaller and smaller squares.
“I see no reason why we should behave like hermits,” she said slowly. “If there is a reason, I’d like to know what it is.”
The color drained from Jack’s face, and he stared at his wife.
“I—I should think—” he began. Then he fell into an uncomfortable silence.
“I should think,” Rose said definitely, “that we should keep in mind what century we are living in. Having a daughter in White Oaks School is not something we need to be ashamed of. If you think it is, then you have more of a problem than Sarah does.” She paused as she saw Jack signaling with his eyes to where Elizabeth sat, listening to what her mother was saying. Making up her mind, Rose turned to Elizabeth.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“About what?” Elizabeth asked carefully, unsure of the direction things were taking.
“Well,” Rose said, casting about in her mind for the proper words. “About Sarah, I suppose.”
Elizabeth looked directly at her mother—almost accusingly, Rose thought She seemed to be struggling with herself, and almost on the verge of tears. Then, she found her voice as her tears overflowed.
“I think,” she said, fighting back a sob with a small, choking sound, “that we all should remember that Sarah isn’t deaf. She doesn’t talk, but