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Mrs. Margaret Wood didn’t look at my mother. Instead she just bent her head and scrubbed even harder at the crustings of flap-jack batter that stuck resolutely to her old second-hand stovetop. She’d been scrubbing when we knocked, and she didn’t meet my mother’s eyes even when she opened the kitchen door; rather, she studied me as she invited us in. She said she bet all I was taller than I had been yesterday. I didn’t dare to speak or smile, what with trying to feel sorry for her like Miss Cecelia said I ought, but I managed to nod and not make any silly faces. Mother didn’t like when I made faces at people, but it made David laugh, so I often did. This afternoon though, I was on my best behavior. Mrs. Margaret was a suffering soul, and suffering souls warranted respect.

“How are you getting along, Greta?” Mother said. It was odd to hear mother call another married lady by her first name, but then, Mrs. Margaret hardly seemed like a married lady. She wasn’t like any of the other housewives in Mayberly. She was young and pretty and her hair was cut like the actresses in the moving pictures.

“I’m alright.” Was all Mrs. Margaret said in reply. She suddenly stopped her ferocious torture of the batter drops and straightened up. She was really not much taller than me, or at least she didn’t seem to be now. I noticed she was barefoot. That was why. Ladies like her wore those high-heeled pumps that made them taller in public. She swabbed at her forehead with the back of her hand and breadcrumbs from the stove fell into her hair. “I’m really doing just fine. That’s what scares me. Everyone’s been looking after me, like I’m a church fence that needs a fresh coat of paint. Once the novelty wears off, they’ll all start in on the gossip and the shakin' their heads. They do it now, I know they do, only they's too careful not to do it to my face.” She sniffed loudly, and I thought maybe she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She just started back in on her scrubbing.

“Rosealeen May, go outside and see if Mrs. Wood’s cat has any kittens you like. She says you can take one home to keep if you would like to.” My mother spoke to me, but she was looking all the time at Mrs. Margaret. Her eyes had that light in them that made me suspect something was up. But the prospect of a kitten was too much to resist, so I slid to the edge of my chair and stood, scooping my skirt back down where it belonged. Grown-ups’ chairs were a nuisance to my wardrobe and dignity.