On the long drive back from Syracuse she’d considered it. Well, she’d done more than just consider it. In her mind she pictured it’d be like that time she’d stood at the switchboard and scooped her arm under all those connected cords and in one fell swoop unplugged them all. She’d used her personal power to disrupt Wooster, and it had felt good, at first. The story about J. Ellis Reed would definitely disrupt Wooster, she’d thought as she drove that endless, barren stretch of highway between New York and Ohio, letting her mind wander in all sorts of directions. Vivian’s imagined version of the disrupting involved a dramatic scene where Betty Miller would be forced to read the details of the birth record aloud on television, during a commercial break for I Love Lucy.

Exposing J. Ellis Reed would’ve hurt that nasty Betty Miller the same way Betty’s rumor-spreading had hurt Vivian. And she might’ve done it, at some point, if someone else hadn’t beaten her to it. But . . . she also might’ve kept it a secret. It was all too muddled now to really be sure, but Vivian decided to give herself a little pat on the back for resisting temptation and keeping the document hidden in the hatbox. She decided to look at it as a spiritual boost, continuing to push her in the direction of Good. Everyone needed a little boost now and then.

The spiritual boost was almost as rewarding to Vivian as the reassurance she’d gotten from that birth record. She’d always sensed Gilbert and Flora weren’t suited as a couple. I know people, goddam—She stopped herself in mid-thought, suddenly conscious that “goddammit” was not exactly in keeping with her spiritual boost. If she planned to continue on her route to Good she’d better watch her thoughts. Anyway, that sneaky Gilbert Ogden’d been shot, but there’d been no word of Flora Parker. Vivian wouldn’t be one bit surprised if she was off somewhere with her husband, Bill, enjoying the rest of that Wayne Building & Loan money. Because those two had looked like a couple of lovebirds to Vivian, and Vivian knew people.

The typewriter in the little attic room at the Dalton house had seen a whole lot more poetry, and not quite as many desperate letters to civic officials, as a result of the spiritual boost and the route to Good. She found that the poetry brought her a more peaceful sensation in her stomach, but the knots hadn’t disappeared completely. It was as if they’d been soaked in liquid and shrunk in size, but were now also just a little bit tighter and just a mite more difficult to untie.

Vivian’s leather pumps slapped over the damp pavement as she passed Freedlander’s on her way to work. Last week’s snow had melted and it was looking like that groundhog might have been wrong after all. Let’s hope so, she thought. I’ve had enough of winter. I’m ready for spring. She hummed “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” as the runoff from the melted snow ran in a mini-river along the curb next to her.