He dropped his gaze to the blank face of the television for several moments. She tried to arrange the right words in her head, ready for anything that might come out of his mouth. But when he looked at her again, he said, “Okay.”

“Really?”

“They probably already know I’m going to do it.”

“They probably do,” she said. “And I think they understand.”

Several days into the portrait, just as they’re finishing lunch, the doorbell rings. Teresa gets up from the dining room table and steps toward the front window, peering through the gauzy curtains. “Oh, lord, it’s her.”

“Who?” Frankie asks.

“Mrs. Bennett.”

The doorbell rings again. Teresa moves out of view of the window and glances back at Frankie, who’s holding a soup spoon in front of his chin, watching her.

“What’ll I do?”

“Open the door.”

“The snoop. I can’t stand her.”

He shrugs. “Then don’t open it.”

“She already knows we’re here. She’s seen the car.”

Finally, as the bell rings a third time, Teresa smoothes a hand over her hair and opens the door.

“Hiding?” Mrs. Bennett asks with a smile. She’s wearing a billowy turquoise jogging suit and white tennis shoes. Her fuchsia-colored eyeglass frames are so large that they encompass—and magnify—both cheekbones and two scoops of forehead. The better to snoop with, Teresa thinks. When Roy left in ’76, Mrs. Bennett was so curious to know why that she questioned not only Teresa but Karen as well. She cornered Matt one afternoon when he was only twelve and asked him if he was the person who’d dropped the hypodermic she’d found in her yard. And now this business about asking an eight-year-old boy if Teresa drank. And Frankie told her yes! Teresa feels like slamming the door in her face, but worries about the rumors that might ensue. What do you suppose is going on in the Kerrigan house that Teresa would slam the door on me? she would ask, and then spill out a list of options: Drugs? Illicit sex? Drinking?

Mrs. Bennett has a clipboard in her hand and a smile plastered on her face.

“We weren’t hiding,” Teresa says, trying to sound pleasant. “We were just finishing lunch.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Mrs. Bennett replies, but then just stands there.

Teresa unlatches the screen door and reluctantly eases it open. “Would you like to come in?”

The woman steps into the house as if entering a museum. She runs her fuchsia-framed eyes over the drapes, the furniture, the carpet, looking for anything out of the ordinary that might be worth talking about later. “Do you know I can’t remember the last time I was in your home? Ages.”

Never, Teresa thinks.