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Show in my father's house/ 249 for fear of spies or investigators, his time distended with visits from people inside and outside the group who came to talk about the Gospel or personal troubles. He went to bed late and arose early to study scripture before his day began. When he talked, his voice held a note of complaint, but he never spoke directly to me, or even acknowledged my presence at the white house. We survived as individuals. The great white circle that once drew us together had disappeared. Perhaps Aunt LaVona's leaving made my father so peevish and remote. Once, when I came looking for him, to tell him hello and kiss him after his day at work, he was reading some church book or another, his body pitched forward as if at the table, eating. Occasionally he fumbled in his shirt pocket for a pen and furiously jotted notes in the margin. I stood for a long time in the doorway, hoping he would look up and say something. Finally, I mustered the courage to go and put a hand on his shoulder. Then he glanced up vaguely, and received my kiss silently, not encouraging me by any look or gesture to speak. But as I left the room, I could feel his eyes on me, measuring my sudden growth. That summer, Aunt Sarah also moved her family into town, taking a position as housekeeper for one of my father's colleagues. I was glad to see the other families again, although I always focused on the changes, the differences wrought by years and growth, rather than the pure pleasure of reunion. When we met for home evening each Monday at the white house, the other children surrounded my father. They jockeyed for positions near him as 1 once had. The older ones polished parts for the program - an accordion solo from Kevin, a duet from Corinne and Ray, an award-winning poem from Aunt |