I wanted to know everything: How could anyone who'd lived with my gynecologically astute father let herself get pregnant? Did her serene smile mean that this was no accident? And how far was she broadcasting the news? I rang the president's doorbell late on a Friday afternoon. Laura Lee answered, looking a little peaked, but dressed as if it were her turn to host the bridge club in a navy blue shirtwaist dress of a lacy knit. "May I help you?" she asked, her gaze eluding me and resting on some piece of snowy Dewing landscape. I said, "You don't sound very friendly." "We're working," she said. "Bunny's here." "I'd like to talk to you," I said. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself and said, "It's too cold to be conducting a conversation with the door open." "Then invite me in," I said. She instructed me to take off my wet boots, after which we could talk for a few minutes in Eric's study, since he was in the administration building interviewing some candidates. "For what?" "That's not our business," she said.
