Mrs. Bennett’s eyes narrow. She gives Teresa a get real expression, then looks down at the end table and its cluster of brass-framed photographs. “Look at the whole gang!” She reaches over and picks up an old school photo. “This is Matthew, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“He and William used to spend so much time together. Did I tell you William’s slated to be chair of the economics department at Dartmouth?”

“Really?”

“It’s a done deal, from what he tells me. Where is Matthew now?”

Teresa glances over at Frankie, who’s done with his soup and is getting up from the table. He gathers their plates and bowls and carries them into the kitchen. She hears him turn on the faucet.

“Matt’s at Yale,” she says, lowering her voice a little. “He’s a research scientist.”

“That’s impressive. What field?”

“General.”

“And Joe?”

“He’s in Chicago. He runs a newspaper there.”

“I don’t envy him that. From what I hear, management’s a tough one. And this must be Katherine. She has your ex-husband’s eyes. Wait, that’s not right. She has a different father, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And Matthew too?”

“Yes.”

“They each have a different father?”

“No,” Teresa says leadenly; Mrs. Bennett already knows all this. “They’re from my first marriage. They have the same father.”

“And where is he?”

“Dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Mrs. Bennett sets the photo down. “It’s terrible, the way divorce scatters a family. And what’s Katherine doing now?”

“She’s in Paris,” Teresa says. “Designing fashion.”

“Good for her. I always used to say that girl had a look that could burn a hole through leather.” She laughs, sighs, and readjusts herself on the sofa. One of her fingernails taps against the clipboard.

The kitchen faucet shuts off.

“Seriously, Teresa, this petition isn’t just about the woods. There are health issues at stake. Let me ask you something: do you have a cell phone?”

“No.”

“Me, either,” Mrs. Bennett says. Then, as if singing a line from a jingle: “But a lot of people do.”

“Well, then, maybe we need the tower.”

“Oh, please. Those people are making millions of calls a day, and for no reason at all. Who knows how bad that is for you, all those signals flying around? If they put up this tower, we’re going to have phone calls burning tumors into our heads just so teenagers can tell each other what’s new on the hit parade. I don’t think you want that any more than I do.”

I hate you, Teresa thinks. You’re just a busybody. You don’t care about any of this; all you want is to be able to move on to the next house and talk about poor Mr. Patterson’s liver cancer and poor, alcoholic Mrs. Kerrigan and her decrepit son. “I haven’t decided,” she says.