Last December it had been Freedlander’s, with their foul, grossly inebriated Santa Claus, endangering the innocence and wonder of Wooster’s children, and polluting the very idea and spirit of Christmas. Jesus Christ was not born in a straw-filled manger in Bethlehem so that some filthy, drunken hobo could wreak havoc in the toy department of Freedlander’s and desecrate the holiness of Our Lord and Savior’s special day. That was what Betty had said to all her friends, who had then faithfully followed her boycott of the department store until Drunk Santa had been fired.

The year before that, Betty’s ire had been unleashed upon Wooster’s superintendent of schools for having the gall to consider integrating Quinby Elementary. The Negroes lived south of Bowman Street, and that was where they would be most comfortable attending school. It was positively ludicrous to make them travel outside their own neighborhoods, which had perfectly fine schools. It simply did not make sense. Betty and her husband, Charles, had also had to discourage the Hammonds down the road from selling their house to a black family in 1949. They just wouldn’t have fit in with the rest of the neighborhood, and Betty wanted to ensure that everyone in Wooster fit in where they belonged. That was just common sense when organizing a community. “Everyone has their place, dear,” she had said; surprised she had to belabor the point to Marilyn Dean during an afternoon tea party at Clara Weaver’s. And you wouldn’t want to get her started on the embezzlement scandal at her father’s bank this past summer. You simply would not.

And now she had just been presented with some extremely intriguing information about Vivian Dalton’s family. She had almost recoiled at Vivian’s waving to her through Freedlander’s window earlier. And in that Bechtel’s hat. Who did she think she was, waving to Betty so casually like that? Accidental eye contact did not always warrant a familiar greeting. But Vivian did sometimes have difficulty remembering her place. She often led her family to sit in one of the first five on Sundays. Betty had seen that happen at least twice in the past year. She didn’t think she should have to remind anyone that the first five pews should be reserved for the worshippers who donated at least a thousand dollars to Forest Chapel Methodist each year. Betty knew for a fact that the Daltons contributed far less than that.

Her family, Betty thought smugly, and then croaked out a hoarse laugh before slapping a soft, pale hand over her mouth. She didn’t want to wake the children. They were so hard to put to bed these days. They’d get all wound up after Howdy Doody, with the hooting and hollering and that demonic clown honking his horn every two seconds. “Clarabell, Mom, it’s Clarabell!” Now there was the added excitement about the upcoming school holidays and Christmas. She groaned, thinking of the increased noise level in the house, and the long days of sloppy wet snow, the children’s clothing and boots tracking dirt and slush onto her pristine carpet.