Despite several of her so-called friends drawing comparisons, she saw zero similarities between Edward Dalton’s secret first marriage scandal and her own father’s alleged illegitimate children scandal. She became pointedly resolute in proving that the photostat of the birth record had somehow been faked. It was impossible and inconceivable that her father, her father, would have done something so shameful.

Once the people of Wooster wrapped their heads around the fact that Gilbert and Flora had been of mixed race, they then began whispering that Gilbert and Flora had in fact looked a little like J. Ellis Reed. Something in the forehead, and maybe the jawline.

“Non-sense!” and “Pre-post-er-ous!” Betty had exclaimed.

Bystanders would have said she was shrieking, but Betty Miller did not shriek, she spoke very distinctly. The man who had impregnated the Negro woman (Betty made no distinction between mulatto and Negro), then abandoned her to raise two children alone (a shame, really, that was true), must surely have been someone else. She refused to believe it, even after her father admitted his wrongdoing.

He stated it very plainly Saturday afternoon (after everyone and their mothers had read both Daily Record articles about Gilbert Ogden), in the parlor of the Reeds’ house. Betty was there, in the smart new skirt and jacket set she’d bought at Beulah Bechtel’s, because she’d needed a little pick-me-up. In spite of the cost, the skirt and jacket hadn’t quite done it, so after shopping she tried, repeatedly and unsuccessfully, to telephone Dr. Charlton at home to request a prescription for Dexamyl. The Bell telephone lines seemed to be backed up again, which was proving to be quite the regular problem.

Her younger brother, Johnston, was at the house (and in need of a haircut), as was their mother. She sat pale and silent, but as lovely as ever, in the Prussian-blue dress set against the coral damask of the wing chair. Her father would not make eye contact with any of them, but he spoke clearly. He admitted everything, from the love affair with Isabelle Jacobs to the unplanned pregnancy to when he fled town. He even cried a little bit, but squeezed his eyes shut tight to fight back the tears. And still, Betty wouldn’t believe it. Her face became a grinning mask, like one of the Howdy Doody characters on the back panel of the Kellogg’s Rice Krispies box in her pantry. Her body was so rigid she was getting muscle spasms in her neck and back, and her hands had been clenched into fists for what seemed like days, the little Charitable Thoughts angel charm hanging impotent and forgotten from her wristwatch. She had braced herself for that family meeting, and the truth her father was trying to impart just bounced right off her invisible shield, deflected.

Betty didn’t try to understand why her father would have had a romantic relationship with a Negro, because to her it simply never happened. She might have tried to comfort her mother, like John was doing, but there was nothing to comfort her about. Everything was just fine. Mother was probably just tired. Betty was able to give her father a tight hug, because he was a wonderful man who had been treated very badly by the newspapers. Make no mistake, The Daily Record would be getting an earful from her. There were myriad ways she would make that paper suffer. She was privy to dozens and dozens of secrets and scandals of the people in Wooster, and she’d use that leverage to her advantage. Perhaps she would start her own newspaper. The kind of publication that would put out proper, wholesome content that would benefit the people of Wooster.