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He led him inside and the screen door closed with a slow, faint squeak.
Shirley stared at her shoes. She was puzzled. What’s the drill? She wondered if Jesuits went to confession.
Faint rumble of thunder. She looked up at the sky. Would it rain? … the resurrection of the …
Yeah. Yeah, sure. Next Tuesday. Flashes of lightning crackled in the distance. Don’t call us, kid, we’ll call you.
She tugged up her coat collar and slowly moved on. She hoped it would pour.

In a minute she was home. She made a dash for the bathroom. After that, she walked into the kitchen.
“Hi, Shirl, how’d it go?”
Pretty blonde in her twenties sitting at the table. Lori Spencer. Fresh. From Oregon. For the last three years, she'd been tutor to Stephanie and social secretary to Shirley.
“Oh, the usual crock.” Shirley paused by the door to switch on the light. Gray Formica-topped counters and the polished stainless steel sink immediately reflected the dazzle from the electric light. She sauntered to the table and began to sift messages. “Anything exciting?”
“Do you want to have dinner next week at the White House?”
“Oh, I dunno, Marty; whadda you feel like doin’?”
“Eating candy and getting sick.”
Shirley chuckled. “Where’s Steffi, by the way?”
“Downstairs in the playroom.”
“What doin’?”
“Sculpting. She’s making a bird, I think. It’s for you.”
“Yeah, I need one,” Shirley murmured. She moved to the stove and poured a cup of hot coffee. “Were you kidding me about that dinner?” she asked.