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photograph. She brought the photograph to Christine. "This is my Brett," she said.
    Christine smiled as she studied the photograph: It showed Marilyn and a tanned, mustached; patrician-nosed man in his late thirties or early forties—a very good-looking man.
    "He doesn't have that awful mustache anymore," Marilyn said. "I told him to shave it off; it made him look so . . . so radical. Don't you think he looks radical?"
    "I think he's quite handsome." She felt Marilyn stiffen suddenly, felt tension begin to rise between them. "I mean," she amended, "in a . . . a very distinguished way. A fatherly way."
    Marilyn took the photograph from her, returned it to the armoire. She went silently to the rococo couch, sat primly, arranged her housedress. "We use all these rooms, you know. We have occasional visitors and so we need the space. It was quite a chore furnishing each room, but very much worth it." Her tone became low, secretive. "I even have a room of my own that no one knows about, because no one ever uses it. Not even me. Except, of course, when I clean it. I'm saving it."
    "Saving it?"
    "Don't ask me for what. It's just a big, airy room and it's mine. I guess I'm leaving it . . . uncorrupted." She stopped. Christine saw her focus on something in the archway, and turned her head. Marilyn said, "Come in, Gregory."
    Greg Courtney hesitated a moment, then stepped slowly into the room. "I just wanted you to know I was home, Mommy."
    Marilyn held her arms out. "Well, aren't you going to give me a kiss?"
    Greg hurried across the room and into her arms. Christine saw the bandage around his right hand. "Did he hurt himself, Marilyn?"
    "Don't boys always hurt themselves, Christine? He was playing with some of his rowdy friends—some friends I have forbidden him to play with—and he fell and sprained his hand. Thank God it's not a serious injury."
    Greg straightened, turned—Christine saw that his face was blank—and left the room.
    "And that," Marilyn said, "is my Gregory."
    "He looks a lot like your husband."
    "Yes, he does; everyone says so. He's my little sweetheart." She sighed. "All right, enough of that nonsense. How would you like some more tea, Christine?"
    "No, thank you. I should be getting home."
    Marilyn stood. "Yes. We've had a nice afternoon, haven't we? Let's do it again very soon."
    Â 
    "I was over to see Marilyn today," Christine said. "Who?" Tim asked.
    "Marilyn Courtney"—she nodded in the direction of the Courtney house—"the woman next door."
    "Oh, her."
    "You don't like her very much, do you, Tim." "I really can't say. I don't know her that well, and frankly—"
    "Frankly, you don't want to know her?"
    Tim thought a moment. "I guess that's true. Yes."
    "That's not at all like you, Tim." Her tone was one of question and criticism. "You could at least give her a chance."
    "I gave her a chance."
    "I mean a fair chance."
    Tim sighed. "You sound like I decided out of the blue to dislike the woman, as if I didn't have reasons ."
    "You have reasons?"
    "Of course I do." He paused to collect his thoughts. "They're pretty subtle. I mean, I can't say that I dislike her because of her political beliefs or because she's a snob or because . . . because she put that ugly fence up—"
    "It's not that ugly, Tim."
    "I think it is, but that's not the point. The point is . . . the point is. . . ."
    "Yes?" Christine coaxed.
    "The point is, she's a phony."
    "That's not a revelation, Tim."
    "I happen not to like phonies."
    "Tim, we're all phonies in one way or another; Marilyn Courtney is just more obvious about it. It's almost as if she wants you to know she's a phony, as if she's saying, 'Look, there's a real person underneath all this.'"
    Tim was puzzled. "I didn't see that , exactly."
    "Because you didn't look." She grinned smugly. "You haven't cornered the market on sensitivity, Christine. Sure there's a real person underneath that mask of hers; a mask has to cover something, after all. I'm just