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rang at three out of habit, and Dotty put on her green wool jacket, the knitted hat of many colors she’d made for herself, and her galoshes and headed for home. Jud dragged behind her. It was Friday. The snow still held off.
    â€œDon’t forget the store,” Jud reminded her. She had forgotten, but she didn’t say, “Thanks.”
    â€œHello there, missy,” said Mr. Evans, the store owner and a church vestryman who never missed a Sunday and was not well liked in town. “What can I do for you?” His large red nose was crisscrossed by tiny lines that reminded Dotty of rivers marked on a map. His sleeves were rolled above his elbows, and his filthy, stained apron stretched itself taut against his middle. His hands were enormous, red and cracked, like his elbows. Dotty wondered if he was red all over, and didn’t suppose she’d ever find out.
    â€œThey catch those robbers yet?” Mr. Evans leaned on his glass case, his voice jovial. “Imagine those boys are way over in the next county by now.” He was not a jovial man, but he worked at it. Frequently he was heard hollering at his wife and kids at day’s end. Being jovial when it’s not your nature must be a strain, Dotty figured.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” he repeated in a sharper voice.
    â€œI want a pound of hamburger, a quart of milk, and a loaf of bread. It’s for my aunt,” Dotty explained. “She said to tell you she wants the hamburger to be lean. She said last time you sold her some it was fatty.”
    â€œThat aunt of yours is a caution.” Mr. Evans threw back his head and laughed as if he had said something vastly amusing.
    He put some meat on the scale and began adding to it, his hands the same color as the hamburger. While he was busy, Dotty sidled over to the magazine rack to see what was new. She kept close tabs on the movie magazines, careful not to miss anything. Photoplay was her favorite, with Motion Picture running a close second. They printed articles about what the stars ate, wore, showed pictures of the cars they drove and the rooms they slept in. Here was a picture of Carole Lombard’s kitchen! Somehow the idea that Carole Lombard had a kitchen had never occurred to Dotty. This one didn’t look as if it was ever used, but there was a picture of Carole, smiling, smiling, and whipping up what they said was an omelet. Imagine. And on to Joan Crawford’s bedroom. Everything here seemed to be white. White rug, white bedspread, white sofas and chairs. Imagine keeping all that stuff clean. Still, Joan had maids and butlers to do the dirty work.
    A thin woman wearing a hat that looked like a mushroom came in and asked Mr. Evans how much a stewing chicken cost. Mr. Evans took a chicken from his case and held it up by its feet. The chicken looked so much like a skinny little person that Dotty had to turn away in embarrassment.
    The woman protested the price, but she said, “Cut it up and mind you don’t leave out the giblets.” Dotty went on to the Saturday Evening Post , which advertised on its cover an “Exclusive! New Pictures of Dionne Quintuplets!” Jud was leaning against the penny-candy case, breathing circles on the glass and drawing faces in the circles. It was a good thing Mr. Evans was busy cutting up the chicken.
    Dotty opened the magazine to the right page. There were the Dionne quintuplets, five girl babies born all at the same time to a lady up in Canada. Entirely too much fuss was being made over those babies. You’d think they were one of the seven wonders of the world, the way folks were carrying on. There they were, ten beady eyes set in five fat faces, staring out at her. Dotty couldn’t help wondering what Mrs. Dionne did if all five of those kids had a load in their pants at the same time. Mr. Dionne didn’t look as if he’d be much help. He was a wispy little man whose face wore a look that seemed to say,