Mrs. Rittenhouse looked at the Stars and Stripes hanging above her head and seemed to draw strength from it. It looked more like a vaudeville act than a genuine response, I thought. Mr. Rittenhouse walked in, a sweater-wearing, slouch-shouldered, mustached man on the other side of middle-aged. He nodded at me, bowed toward his wife, and disappeared down the hall. I always thought he was a kind, sympathetic man, with his downcast eyes and gentle smile, a former teacher himself, and I thought it was unfortunate he lived in the shadows of this silly woman because of a poor choice when he was young and foolish and looking for a comfortable life.
I watched Mrs. Rittenhouse, who acted as though the papers on her desk blocked her view of me, and I was flooded with disdain for her. I had always m
