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everyone; no one knew what to say. One couldn’t say, “I’m so sorry that you’re suddenly poor.” It wasn’t the same in Londonton as in other less wealthy towns; wives couldn’t rush over to the Pratts’ house with casseroles and cakes, and no one could pass the hat to help them make it through a month’s mortgage. Instead, everyone in town had simply left the Pratts alone, which seemed the kindest thing to do. To his credit, Harry had rallied, and now was a manager of one of the local clothing stores. Once more the Pratts were a central part of the Londonton social life. But what a strain they had caused the community for a while!
    Near the Pratts sat Liza Howard, who was just a whore. Judy couldn’t imagine why she was allowed in church; everyone knew she had the morals of an alley cat. Judy made it a point to snub her, cut her dead, at every occasion. Liza was beautiful, that was a simple fact, but it still was a puzzle to Judy that Liza could attract men so easily. Only a fool would want to get involved with someone who was so cheap.
    Judy felt valuable and smug by contrast. Here she sat in the sanctuary of the church, with her handsome husband on one side and her handsome son on the other. She was wearing a light gray houndstooth-check suit with a melon-colored silk shirt and gray suede pumps. Her hair hung in a rich, competent, braided rope down her back. Once, years ago, a little old lady named Dotty Dinkman had accosted Judy after church. Laying her wrinkled hand on Judy’s arm, she had said, “Dear, I just want to tell you what beautiful hair you have. I sat staring at your nice braid all through the sermon, and it gave me the greatest pleasure—your hair is such a pretty color, and that braid is so—well— satisfying ! I hope I’m not embarrassing you by telling you this.” But Judy was not embarrassed, and she thanked Dotty Dinkman with real gratitude. That was just the sortof remark that Judy rearranged her life by, and since that day she had not entered the church without that agreeable memory returning to her mind. She, too, found the neat interweaving of substance greatly satisfying; and she found herself fancying from time to time what a pleasure it must be to God, who could look down with His magical eye to see the way the lives of the people of this town interwove with one another in intricate and congenial designs.
    Everyone had problems, yet life was good. Judy was devoted to the idea of a good life, and determined to have one. No one could ever say that she did not work hard to bring this about. And she liked to work at it, at life; she was not afraid of work. If only fear were not such an intimate part of her life. If only God would speak to her with the same sweeping authority that Carlos Aranguren had.
    Carlos Aranguren taught French and Spanish at the local college; his wife taught German. They were a marvelous couple, always in demand for parties and occasions because they were so majestically entertaining. Now, in church, they sat slightly out of Judy’s sight; she would have to turn her head rudely in order to see that pair of elegant heads: the serenely blond Ursula, the dramatically brunet Carlos. They were certainly the most glamorous couple at the college, if not in the entire town. They had reached Ron and Judy’s age without ever having children, and this did not seem to be an absence in their lives—they were always traveling here and there, and adding on unusual sections to their house, and having dinner parties replete with exotic foods, and they went about in such romantic clothes: tunics, caftans, ponchos, capes. Still they were respectable—no one taught at the college who was not respectable—and while this couple more than any other held the promise of doing something adventurous, outside the social pale, they had as yet done nothing outrageous. They were the town’s darlings consistently whetting the social appetite for scandal, and as consistently keeping