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family reunion so that I could question everybody. It had to be a member of the family that had sent me these clippings. Who else would have done it? Who else would have known about it?
    There was also the fact that somebody had actually killed my great-grandfather. It was unsettling to think that somebody didn’t like my ancestor enough to kill him. Don’t ask me why, there was no logical reason that I felt this way. I just did. Even though I knew that my ancestors weren’t angels. In no way, shape, or form. I even had a murderer in the family tree, way back there. Maybe it was because my great-grandfather was alive in this century. It made him more real to me.
    I had pictures of this man. I had pictures of this man sitting on my mantel with my great-grandmother, his wife, Della Ruth.
    I rewound the microfilm and put it away. I stopped on the way out and checked out a book on how to quilt. I’d been wanting to try my hand at it for a while, and even though we didn’t live in St. Louis County, I could have a library card if I paid for it.
    I was on Lindbergh and made a left back on to Clayton. I followed Clayton all the way down to Ballas, watching all the beautiful estates outside my window. Big red bows and wreaths hung from the large doors. This was the neighborhood of money. I made a right on to Ballas and then up to St. John’s Hospital for my doctor’s appointment.
    My doctor was in the office building connected to the hospital. I went in, reported that I was there, took a seat and began thumbing through one of the books that I had checked out. Christmas music was piped in through the little round speaker in the ceiling above me. Watercolors in cheap metal frames hung on two walls and the usual rack of health-related pamphlets hung next to the office window.
    The nurse came out and called my name. Of course she said Victoria, instead of Victory. Nobody ever gets that right.
    My doctor was a small, sweaty man with big nostrils and a bald head. He had a great sense of humor and had never failed to correctly diagnose what was wrong with me. Well, at least not that I knew of.
    â€œWhat’s the problem today, Torie?” he asked. He tapped me on the knee with my file folder and smiled, his stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck.
    â€œI think I might have mono,” I said. “It was going around the school and I have felt really run down and tired and just not myself lately.” It was a prepared statement. I always did that when I went to the doctor. I rehearsed before going in, practicing exactly what it was I wanted to say.
    â€œSore throat?” he asked.
    â€œNo, not really,” I said.
    â€œSwollen glands?”
    â€œI can’t tell,” I said.
    He felt my neck and made me say aaah with one of those popsicle stick things, which of course I gagged on. “Fever?”
    â€œNo, not really,” I said.
    He reached in a cabinet, pulled out a box and removed a stick covered in plastic. He handed it to me. “Go pee on this.”
    I looked at him like he was crazy.
    â€œGo on,” he said. “And then come back in here. I’ll be waiting for you.”
    I did what he said. As I was walking back to his office I noticed that the stick had turned blue. I gave it to him as I walked back in and sat down on the examining table again.
    â€œYou’re pregnant,” he said.
    â€œYeah, right,” I said and laughed. I continued to laugh until I noticed that he was not laughing. “You … you can’t be serious.”
    â€œYes,” he stated.
    â€œThat’s not possible.”
    â€œThat’s what everybody says.”
    â€œNo, really, Doc. That’s not possible. Rudy and I are very careful.”
    â€œObviously not careful enough.”
    I did not believe him. Even though he was standing there with one hand on his hip and my blue stick in the other hand, I still didn’t believe him. “You told me to pee