"Can I come in?"
I could see he was trying to peer behind me into the house. I pulled the
door all the way closed except for a crack. "Mom and Dad wouldn't want
me to let you in," I said. "Until they talk to their attorney," I added to
impress him. "Just tell me what it is you're after, and I'll pass on the
message."
The man said that someone whose name he was not at liberty to disclose
had called his office recommending an inquiry into conditions at 93
Little Hobart Street, where it was possible that dependent children might
be living in a state of neglect.
"No one's neglecting us," I said.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure, mister."
"Dad work?"
"Of course," I said. "He does odd jobs. And he's an entrepreneur. He's
developing a technology to burn low-grade bituminous coal safely and
efficiently."
"And your mother?"
"She's an artist," I said. "And a writer and a teacher."
"Really?" The man made a note on a pad. "Where?"
"I don't think Mom and Dad would want me talking to you without them
here," I said. "Come back when they're here. They'll answer your
questions."