She called it a gabfest for embassy wives. “It’s actually a luncheon for adult dependents of staff at the embassy,” Dad explained. He was in the living room, reading a week-old New York Times. I was looking for the comics section and beginning to realize that stupid newspaper didn’t have one. “How many of these adult dependents aren’t wives?” Mom asked. “Any husbands?” “I don’t think so,” Dad admitted. “Still, that doesn’t make it a gabfest.” “If it’s anything like the officers’ wives luncheons in the air force, it’s a gabfest,” she insisted. “Don’t go, then.” “I didn’t say that I didn’t like a good gabfest.” She looked at her skirt and grimaced. “I need to iron this.” “You look fine, honey,” Dad said, not looking up from his paper. “Smashing, even.” Mom didn’t hear. She was already headed to the laundry room. It was raining pretty hard that day, so I guessed swimming was out. I called Matt and asked him if he wanted to play Pellucidar.
