Carolyn Nolan's first thought after she'd met Bill Pierce was that all the good ones were taken. When she came up the outside stairs to the Aldersgate UMC, Bill was at the top carrying a baby. He was tall and handsome, if a little old for her.

"First time?" he'd asked. Carolyn had nodded. "Welcome. I'm Bill."

"Carolyn." They shook.

"And this is Alice." His tone implied that the baby was more important than anyone else. Alice, who was clearly Asian, gave Carolyn a grin. Then Bill continued pacing while Carolyn went in to be greeted and given a bulletin by a lady.

It was at coffee hour after the next service when she learned that Bill wasn't taken. A man was changing another baby on one of the tables. Bill was on the other side of the table, holding both the baby's hands and leaning over talking to it. It was easy to tell that this wasn't Alice. Not only was the baby bigger and white, he was -- temporarily -- naked below the waist, demonstrating that he was a boy. When the other man had put the new diaper and pants on the kid, he handed him to Bill. Bill brought him over to Carolyn.

"Carolyn, have you met Stan?" She shook her head. "And Stanford, this pretty lady is Carolyn." The kid wiggled in his arms, and he set him down. "Go to Daddy!" The kid raced off. Bill walked her to the line, and they chatted for a minute. He asked her how she liked the church and what she did. She did like the people, and he seemed used to grad students; she wasn't the only one in the room. He asked her department right off, showing his familiarity with the concept. When they'd each got a cup and a plate of food -- the monthly 'coffee hour' was liberally interpreted -- he introduced her to several other people and left her at a table of unmarried graduate students. Still, she had questions about Bill that she didn't want to ask them. For one thing, they'd pick up on her interest. When she'd drained her cup, she went back for a refill past a table which held Alice in a carrier.

"Hello Alice." Alice, who was bored by all the attention, was more interested in pulling off her shoe than in meeting another stranger. "I'm Carolyn. I met Alice in Bill's arms."

"I'm Nancy Hashimoto, and this is my husband, Carl. Yeah. I was the official greeter last week. Bill was managing Alice while I handed out bulletins. Actually, he'll hold her any time we're both willing, and Alice is almost always willing."

"I'm sorry. We did meet."

"No problem. You come in to a mob of people; they're all new to you. You're one new person to them." She got her coffee and returned to her previous place.

As time went on, Carolyn got drawn into the fellowship of the congregation. She was pleased by the intellectual openness. Her home church back in Arkansas had been infested with fundamentalists. Mr. Bingham, who'd taught Carolyn's senior-high Sunday School class, was the local leader of the advocates for teaching creationism in schools. If anyone at Aldersgate doubted evolution, they kept as quiet as Carolyn's own parents had about their disagreement with Mr. Bingham.

Harold, a second-year grad student in chemistry, invited her to the first university dance. He tried to go further than Carolyn thought was appropriate on a first date, and she felt -- despite his field -- no chemistry. Still, he wasn't awful.

Miss Armbruster recruited her for the choir. The choir rehearsed on Thursdays and warmed up before service. Since they sat above the congregation and came in by another door to robe in the basement before the service, she no longer spoke with Bill except at the next coffee hour. Still, the man intrigued her. That interest didn't interfere with her social life. He residence hall hosted a mixer, and a fellow economics first-year took her to a movie. Then, one Sunday, she came to church on a bright, still-warm, morning; at noon, there was a heavy cold rain outside the doors. As she hesitated, Bill came up.

"That what you have for rain gear?"

"What I have here." She was wearing a light dress, which fit easily under a choir robe. He, on the other hand, was wearing a raincoat and holding an umbrella.

"'If you don't like the weather in Chicago, wait fifteen minutes.' I don't think that applies to this storm -- it looks closer to forty days and forty nights. Look, stay here until I honk. I'll drive you home." Without waiting for an answer, he opened his umbrella and dashed out into the storm. A few minutes later, a black Pontiac honked. It must be him. She dashed for the car, and the door opened as she got near. She got in beside him.

"Gee, thanks."

"Nothing. But I don't know where you live. What's the address." She gave it to him. "Settling into your studies? Midterms aren't coming up are they?"

"Not really."

"Look, how'd you like to go out to eat Friday night? I could pick you up there and take you to a restaurant I like."

"I'd be pleased." It wasn't the smoothest invitation for a date she'd ever received, but it would be a date. And, she guessed, dinner was what non-students do on first dates. They didn't have all those dances that Northwestern students have.

"Is six-thirty too late? I get back from the Loop, and have to get my car afterward. If I drove home from the Loop at rush hour, it would be even longer."

"Six thirty would be fine." By this time, they were stopped in front of her residence hall. He didn't seem anxious for her to get out, and the conversation didn't seem finished. It wasn't. He reached into his hip pocket to extract his wallet. He pulled out two cards and wrote something on the back of one of them.

"That's my home number. Day contact info is all on the front. Could you give me your number?" He passed her both cards and his pen. She wrote the number of the phone in her hall on the back of the card which he hadn't written on and gave it and the pen back.

"Thanks for the ride." She reached for the door handle.

"The pleasure was mine." The car didn't move until she was inside the door. The card gave her Bill's last name, Pierce. The Hashimotos and the pastor and organist seemed the only people at Aldersgate with last names, and she only knew the pastor's because it was on the bulletin. He introduced himself as "Jake."

Anyway, the card said that Bill Pierce was assistant sales manager for Andalusia Pharmaceuticals. They provided 'ethical drugs,' whatever those were.

Friday morning, after her shower, she dressed in her tightest jeans. She wanted Bill to notice her shape. After class, she changed into a frilly blouse and the bra that went with it. She finished the last of her assignment for her Saturday-morning class while she was waiting. A little after six, there was a shout in the hall -- "Carolyn." Carolyn Schneider got there first.

"Who is it?" She paused and then asked Carolyn, "You know a Bill Pierce?"

"Sorry," Bill said when she got the phone, "I'd forgotten what dorm phone service was like."

"I should have given you my last name. I didn't think."

"Yeah. Anyway, I'm back from work and about to go out the door. What's the drill? I forgot to ask you on Sunday. Do men just walk in? Will they call campus security if I try?"

"They're not that bad. There is an entrance area. You give my name, Carolyn Nolan, and they page me. There's even an inside area where you can go if I'm with you. If you're on the floor, then they call campus security."

"Will do." But knowing he was on his way, she met him downstairs. She brought a raincoat. He escorted her to his car and opened the door for her. When she was inside, he went around to get in the driver's seat. It wasn't a major positive; it was more that entering the car first or letting her open her own door would have been a negative.

"Do you like Chinese?" he asked. "Chinatown North, a section of Chicago, isn't too far from here." She agreed. The restaurant was a real restaurant, despite her image of 'eating Chinese.' He seated her and hung up their raincoats.

"So," she asked, "you manage to sell drugs which don't lie, cheat, or steal?" He looked blank. Well, he was courteous and prompt; people who knew him better than she did trusted him with their kids. He had some virtues even if he lacked a sense of humor. "What makes a drug ethical?"

"It's more how you get it. It was the drug industry until people started talking about street drugs. You want one of ours, you get a prescription first. For that matter, most of ours wouldn't interest a junkie. Representatives don't dare leave a sample case out where it can be seen in a car, even so. The company has a few over-the-counter products, too, but I don't deal with them. The marketing is entirely different."

As they ate, he described the tactics of getting his company's drugs prescribed. It didn't sound all that ethical to Carolyn. Still, he could make it sound interesting. She stuck to his field, having learned that the way to a man's heart did not pass through discussions of the marginal propensity to save. Boys weren't even interested in discussions of the marginal propensity to consume, which should -- after all -- have sounded sexier.

He drove her back, parked the car, and walked her in. When he kissed her, he didn't ask permission, but he moved slowly enough so she could have ducked it had she wished to. She definitely hadn't wished to. She like him, and she liked the kiss. Unlike her experience with Harold, there was considerable chemistry there. He let her go, but called the next day to thank her. The day after that was another coffee hour at church. He was carrying Alice again when he came up to her.

"I'd like to thank you again for coming out with me Friday."

"The pleasure was mine."

"Could I tempt you to come for another dinner next Sunday after church?"

"I'd be pleased." She usually smoked a cigarette on the way home from church, but she could delay one of her four cigarettes a day for another date.

And then Alice, who was clearly not used to having less than Bill's full attention, started climbing out of his arm. He laughed and walked away swinging her. He was waiting for her when she came out after the next service, though. That was the date when she learned that Bill wasn't only not taken, he wasn't a nice one either.

The date started well. The restaurant was a fancy one. Her Sunday clothes were on the less-formal side of the women's dress. He had a reservation, and the restaurant seemed to require them. The food tasted good, and she scored with her first question.

"Do people really rob your salesmen of their drug samples?"

"Not often. Replacing the windshield they break to get the case is the representative's responsibility. Only slow learners replace two windshields. And the drugs they carry aren't often anything the addicts want. But those aren't the smartest people.

"Look suppose that somebody has a blood pressure of one-eighty. The doctor prescribes one pill a day to bring it down below one-fifty, and that isn't really healthy. Now, what would happen if you took that pill? We really don't know, but if it lowered your blood pressure thirty points, you'd probably faint. They test these things out to see whether they deal with problems, not to see how they affect healthy people. Now, some addict gets those pills and gulps a dozen. If he survives, it's a miracle."

"I thought lower blood pressure was good."

"Well, for most people, it would be. We have huge numbers with high blood pressure -- we sell a lot of medicines for them. I haven't heard about anything to treat low blood pressure. On the other hand, a blood pressure of zero means you're dead." They went on that way until she thought this was a quite successful date. Then, somehow, the conversation turned to the economy.

"This Great-Society crap was bound to ruin the economy. Washington needs the discipline that businessmen deal with every day. Instead, they dole out this Keynesian bullshit."

"Well, first of all, the economy was doing all right -- spectacularly well, in fact -- when Kennedy and Johnson and their appointees were in control. The growth rate of real GDP was significantly higher than it was under Eisenhower. Somehow, the economy grows well when Keynesians are in control; it tanks when they're replaced with old-school economists -- somehow, that's supposed to demonstrate the weakness of Keynesian economics. After all," she tried to point out calmly, "this is macroeconomics. It's what I study."

"Well, it's what you're in your first quarter of studying. I have an MBA, and I studied it all." She'd heard about this 'I know enough' mindset, but she'd never run into it in her own field. Most of the people she'd dealt with who weren't econ majors themselves would go to sleep before you could get "demand curves are negatively sloped" out of your mouth.

"In the first place, I may have just begun my graduate study of macroeconomics, but I have a bachelor's degree in economics. I don't really see why they'd put much emphasis on macroeconomics in a business school. Microeconomics is what you do, after all."

"Micro, macro, economics is economics. You guys may get lots of theory, but I know how things work. I make it work every day." She swallowed her anger and took that as a lead.

"And in the business-school economics you studied, did they tell you that a decrease in price would lead to an increase in volume? That's standard for beginning micro. Well, you're operating in the real world -- drug sales. Would a decrease in price lead your doctors to prescribe more? We're both talking theory. It's just that the theory you learned is a little simplistic."

"Just shows how much theory is worth."

"And the statements you originally challenged weren't theoretical. They're the matter of statistics, statistics published in Economic Report of the President with Richard Nixon's name up front."

"You can prove anything by statistics. What you call growth was just inflation." In macroeconomics, the alternative to getting information via statistics is getting information via direct revelation, and this seemed to be Bill's chosen route. She papered over the differences. They finished dinner, and Bill took her home. When he tried to kiss her good night -- or good afternoon, it was not yet three -- she twisted away. She was so furious that she went through six cigarettes that afternoon, totally breaking her daily ration.

Her dates for the rest of the year were fellow students. She saw Bill only in church, and spoke to him less often than that. Still, even knowing that he was an arrogant ass, she still felt that he was an attractive arrogant ass. She couldn't forget their one kiss. She even began to regret avoiding the second one.

She stayed at Aldersgate, although the charm at its intellectual openness had begun to fade. She wasn't an evolutionary biologist, after all; she was an economist. The lack of creationist fundies hardly compensated her for the presence of a monetarist fundy. She was in the choir, however. and one of the good points of this church was that Bill's opinions didn't predominate the way Mr. Bingham's opinions had back home. He'd just been laying down his views on welfare and waste at the March coffee hour when Dan Hagopian walked over.

"Nice shoes," Dan said. "Who tied them for you?"

"You bats? I tied them myself."

"You sure didn't sound bright enough to tie your own shoes five minutes ago." Dan's voice, which had started loud, was getting steadily louder. "We had a first-time visitor when you started sounding off about welfare. She immediately got her stuff together and left. Now, our diversity numbers suck, and you might not care about that. But I know what you do care about, and she took her baby with her. That's one infant you'll never carry, and it's all because you can't keep your damned mouth shut."

"But I didn't mean..."

"What you didn't do was think. Look, some welfare mothers might be cheats; some might be dope addicts. What every single one of them is is a mother. You have to choose between insulting them and their trusting you with their kids. And, for the sake of this church and its being welcoming, I hope to God that you choose selfishly."

She almost clapped for Dan, but everyone else was pretending that they hadn't heard him. She was beginning to fit in, to be seen as a member rather than a newcomer, but she knew that this perception would reverse if she took on an old-timer. Dan could call Bill an idiot; she couldn't.

Still she was fitting in. In May, she sang a solo. She knew that she wasn't the alto with the best voice in the choir, but Miss Armbruster thought she was good enough for that. Afterwards, people were complimentary -- even Bill, especially Bill, was complimentary. She thought it ironic that he had such kind words for her voice, which was barely more than acceptable, and such a low opinion of her knowledge and skills in economics, which had put her on the path to a doctorate. She responded politely, though. Trading an insult for a compliment would have been ungracious.

She spent most of her time at coffee hour with the other grad students. The rhythm of the university year gave them more to talk about to each other -- even though they mostly came from different departments -- than they shared with the people discussing property taxes or the problems of finding the right play group. And, when school resumed in the fall, she was one of the old-timers in that group, at least.

Not that the older members were standoffish. Gladys Hagopian, one of the better sopranos, came up to her in early November when they were hanging up their robes.

"Going home for Thanksgiving."

"I don't think so."

"It's a hell of a holiday to spend alone. Our kids are coming back. Care to join us? Dan and I would love to have you."

"That's very kind." And so she ate Thanksgiving dinner with Gladys, Dan, and Keith Hagopian and Brian and Barbara (Hagopian) Zelinck.

"I almost applauded you when you bawled out Bill Pierce last spring," Carolyn told Dan.

"Well, he expresses foolish opinions too loudly. But those are common opinions, if not in church. After all, more than half the electorate voted for Nixon."

"And with the choice they had, too," said Keith. "Tricky Dick was the greater of two evils."

"I wrote in your name, Daddy." For some reason, Barbara winked at Carolyn when she said this.

"A write-in vote might be recorded in most instances," said Dan, "although laws in many states require the candidate to register his intent beforehand. For president, however, you're not voting for the man on the ballot. You're really voting for the party's slate of electors for that state. Since I didn't have a slate of electors in Ohio, your vote was even less meaningful than write-in votes generally are. I thought I'd taught you that." Keith and Barbara were grinning; Gladys was looking pained. Suddenly Carolyn understood the wink. Dan was a poli-sci professor, and his children were pulling his leg. Well, she would keep a straight face.

"You're a little hard on Bill," Gladys told her. "He has a lot of good points, too." Maybe she was trying to change the subject. Carolyn wasn't hard on Bill Pierce. She rarely even spoke to the man.

At the December coffee hour, though, she broke her silence. Alice had grown from a happy baby to an over-active toddler. Nancy was trying to put a coat on her, and she was running away. She ran past the table of grad students. Bill was standing nearby. He reached down and captured her not a yard from where Carolyn was sitting.

"Gee, thanks, Bill," Nancy said. "Now hold her while I get this on her."

"Nope! Finders keepers -- losers weepers. I'm going to take Alice home with me. Aren't I?" The last was addressed to Alice, who nodded vigorously. Even so, Nancy advanced with the coat. Carolyn couldn't keep her silence.

"For God's sake, Bill. That isn't a toy for you to pick up when nobody's looking. Alice is a human being, and Nancy and Carl are her parents. Now, give her to Nancy!" Bill laughed, although he held Alice while Nancy put the coat on her.

"Look," Nancy said, "why don't the two of you get a room?" Get a room? She didn't even like the guy. Carl came over and pulled Alice into his arms. Bill didn't resist, although Alice did. Nancy picked up the bag with her parenting paraphernalia.

"Really, Nancy..." Carolyn couldn't finish.

"Really, Carolyn. I'm sorry for speaking out like that. Alice had me frazzled, or I wouldn't have invaded your personal business. But you have to know that nobody can be in the same room with you two without sensing the tensions."

"Tension? I hardly speak to the guy."

"And, when you do you, you bawl him out for a silly joke. Look, I have to go. Deal with it; don't deal with it. It's not my business, but you've made it everybody's business." She left. Bill was still standing a yard away. He looked as if he wanted to start a conversation. As an alternative, she turned to Brigit, a grad student in English who was sitting beside her.

"I don't see what she meant, do you?"

"Yes." She looked embarrassed. Then she looked like she was taking the bit in her teeth. "Where was Bill sitting this morning?" Where he always sat, maybe a quarter of the way back, and on the right-hand side -- the left-hand side from the congregation's perspective. "And where was I sitting? Answer me that one."

"How in hell am I supposed to know where you were sitting?"

"Carolyn, I was liturgist today, sitting beside Pastor Jake. You heard my voice not an hour ago, but you've forgotten already. No problem! Why should anyone but me remember that?"

"So what's the point?" Brigit didn't answer, but Carolyn answered herself. She knew where Bill had been sitting. She knew where Bill was right then, although she was studiously ignoring him. When the conversation turned back to plans for Christmas break, she felt Bill move away. He was waiting for her when she left the building, though.

"Look, Nancy's suggestion of a room wasn't serious. If you want to bash this out, though, I've got a car and we can get food at Mickey Dee's and talk in the car."

"I don't think we have anything to talk about."

"Nancy does. Brigit does. For that matter, I do, but you don't think my opinion counts."

"It doesn't."

"What's your opinion of me?"

"You're opinionated, arrogant, ignorant, conceited, and..." She needed a breath -- and a larger vocabulary.

"And those are my good points. I think you're a bright girl with a pretty face, a sweet voice, and absolutely gorgeous hair."

"All you think I am is a pretty face on the front of an empty head. Well, let me tell you, Northwestern didn't agree when they admitted me, and my professors haven't agreed when they've graded me."

"I started out saying you were bright. If I were your professor, that might be more important to me. As it is, I think your beauty is more important. I'm not trying to judge you in the balance for your place in the world. You go to the dentist, you don't tell him about your blood pressure. He's only there to deal with your teeth."

"What is it with you and blood pressure, anyway?"

"Huh? I was just making a comparison."

"On our last date, you talked about addicts stealing blood-pressure medicine."

"Our last date? Is this your idea of a date, then?"

"Not 'last' like 'previous.' 'Last' as in 'the last we'll ever have if we both live a thousand years and you're the only man left alive on earth.'"

"You sure you don't want to discuss this in more privacy?"

"We have absolutely nothing to discuss."

"Don't look now, but you've been talking to me."

"But we were talking about you. That's discussing absolutely nothing." As she turned to walk away, she noticed that they'd had an audience. The adult members were trying to look as if they hadn't been listening. Some of the kids were staring open-mouthed. Her face flamed, but she walked home as if nothing had happened. When she got the usual distance from the church, she lit a cigarette. Somehow, it burned down before it usually did.

She almost didn't go to church the next Sunday. That would be running away, though. If she didn't sing in the choir, she'd be the major topic of conversation in the robing room. Instead, she went early and left in the last group. They had to find other topics for discussion.

By the time she went home for Christmas, it was old news. She was sure that somebody would mention it now she wasn't there, but they had other things to talk about. At home, the conversation was all about people back there. Her mother did take her aside, though.

"Dear, how is your romantic life going."

"Mama, I don't have a romantic life. I'm an economist. There's nothing romantic about being an economist."

"That wasn't what you used to tell us. Keynes marrying the ballerina and everything. You sure you're happy?"

"I'm happy. At least, when the work-load isn't crushing I'm happy. And I can promise you that I won't marry a ballerina." Mama gave her a Mama look. She knew better than to argue with that look. She would never convince her, and -- anyway -- what she was dubious about wasn't marrying a ballerina. It was hard to see what she could be dubious about. Carolyn was happy.

Her first Sunday back in Evanston, she noticed that Bill had changed his side of the church. He sometimes moved to be closer to a baby, just in case the parents were willing to pass it over for Bill to walk when it fussed. But she couldn't see the target baby, and the choir loft gave a good view of the congregation. He kept moving around from one week to the next. Sometimes, she could see why -- when he kept close to the Hashimotos, for instance. Sometimes, she couldn't.

By the end of the February coffee hour, Alice had figured out that Bill would grab her if she got too close. She taunted him from just out of reach while he feigned indifference. Suddenly, he lunged. Alice squealed, turned, and ran -- right into her father's legs.

"Thanks, Bill," said Carl. He held Alice while Nancy wrestled her into her coat. They walked away.

"Changed sides, Bill?" asked Ruth Schweib. She was a Sociology student. "I though you were always on the kid's side."

"Nah! She wanted to be caught. She just wanted to make a game out of it. If Carl and Nancy had gone home without her, she'd have been scared."

"Now he's an expert on child psychology," Carolyn observed. "Terrible that the rest of us have to study things to learn about them."

"Now, Carolyn, however inadequate you think my study of economics, you can't deny that I've spent plenty of time studying Alice." He waited for an answer, but she wasn't talking to him. Then he walked over to the serving table. He stood there gossiping with Molly. And just when she wanted more coffee, too. Well, she drank too much coffee as it was. She got up and put on her coat.

"Leaving your stuff?" asked Ingrid, gesturing to her plate, cup, and silverware. Somebody cleaned up at the end of coffee hour, but the responsible eaters took their own dishes and utensils back.

"I suppose. Will one of you take care of it for me?" There were grins around the table for some reason.

Harold removed his hat from a seat to offer it to her during the March coffee hour. It wasn't where she'd intended to sit, but she took it. Ruth was on the other side, and began a conversation. Bill, with no child in his arms for a wonder, came close.

"You've been around for a while, haven't you, Bill?" Harold asked him.

"Not too long. I joined in '63. Everybody who came here before you looks like part of the furniture."

"Still, you've seen some changes," said Ruth. They began a three-way conversation. Bill, talking to the two others, was standing right behind her. She felt that he was surrounding her, although there was nowhere else for him to stand if he were going to take part in that conversation. Ingrid got up from across the table to get a coffee refill.

"Get me some too, will you? I'm rather trapped here." Hint, hint. Well, instead of taking the hint, Bill took her cup and saucer.

"I'll get it. I'm on my feet, anyway." He got to the serving table before Ingrid did, and came back with the coffee. He'd added creamer. "Tell me if it's too sweet." It wasn't. She knew where he sat in service; he knew what she took in her coffee. "Sorry," he said to Ruth's next question, "I've got to be going." He wandered away. Now that he wasn't hemming her in, she could pay attention to the discussion at the table, but, somehow, it didn't interest her enough to give it her full attention.

When Ruth and Harold invited her to sit between them at the April coffee hour, she declined. After all, she knew other people in the congregation now. She wasn't certain that they'd planned the last time with Bill right behind her, but she had her suspicions. She sat beside Gladys at another table. After a bit, the discussion there went to worries about whether their children were drinking too much or taking dope when they were away from home. She felt out of it, even when she was consulted as an expert on the current generation -- especially when she was consulted as an expert on the current generation. Plenty of people had attended the University of Arkansas to party, spending more time on keg parties and smoking than on studying; they hadn't gone on to grad school.

There was five new adults at the next coffee hour, and she felt she'd been around long enough to welcome newcomers. She sat with the woman who'd come alone. Another couple, Ted and Dorothy, had felt the same sense of obligation, but they knew what they were doing. Carolyn mostly kept her mouth shut and her ears open. Jane was a single mother who'd lost not only a husband but a house in Kenilworth in a divorce.

"Well," said Dot, "we're glad to see you. We'd be glad to see your daughter, too. There is a Sunday School at ten and a nursery during church."

"I don't like to leave Desiree with strangers. She's not walking yet."

"Well, the nursery is an offer, never a requirement. You saw, or could have seen, kids in the service this morning."

"Yeah. When I came in there was a guy walking his daughter outside the glass doors."

"About six foot tall?"

"Yeah."

"That's the unofficial alternative to the nursery. Bill Pierce. He loves kids and will walk them so their parents can participate in the service." So, even when he wasn't standing right behind her, Carolyn couldn't escape from Bill.

One day in late spring, she'd been overdosing on coffee to get her papers done and cram for the upcoming finals. During the service, her bladder complained. She got through the service, but headed for the woman's john while still in her robe. When she came out, April was sitting on the stairs up to the main level. She shouldn't have been there, but where-she-shouldn't-be was April's location these days. She certainly shouldn't have been on stairs without adult supervision. She was also getting a pretty dress and one sock dirty. The stairs were grimy from everything that had come off peoples' shoes from the muddy sidewalk. April waved a shoe imperiously at her.

"Prillay," she said. Whatever that could mean. April's vocabulary was only distantly related to regular speech, but Carolyn couldn't figure out what 'prillay' was a distortion of. She got the shoe back on, kept hold of April's ankle until she could pick up the entire child, and delivered a squirming April to Nancy.

"Thanks a million, Carolyn." But both parents looked too busy with their child to assuage her curiosity. She went on to the robing room, and walked back to her room for more cramming. She had something to ponder during her after-church cigarette.

By the next week, her worst paper was though the first draft. The weather had changed, too. When she got out of church, Nancy was waiting outside. April and Bill were climbing the outside steps of the church. These were nasty stone ones, but she could see that Bill had a grip on April's wrist. Nancy looked free for conversation.

"Nancy, tell me something. What does April call a shoe?"

"Shoo. Well, sometimes 'shoo-shoo.' She gets it confused with her train. And the train is absolutely silent, well, silent when she's pulling it on a rug. Anyway, it doesn't go 'choo-choo.' Have you ever seen a steam train? I haven't. Why do we still call them choo-choos for kids, anyway?" Carolyn could see why all of this would interest a parent, but it was getting far from her point.

"Last week, April handed her shoe to me and said 'prillay.' I couldn't figure out what it meant." Nancy looked guilty. "Look, I'm not from the bureau of toddler politeness. I'm a grad student with an overdeveloped bump of curiosity. Sure, you worry about her saying please, but nobody expects her to say that without prompting at that age, and it says wonderful things about Aldersgate that she thinks anyone of us will help her. We should, and she should expect it." Nancy still looked guilty.

"Really, Carolyn, I don't know. She didn't get it from Carl or me." Which was a strange answer. Who else would she have got it from? She'd met Carl's parents and they had almost no accent. Even if they'd taught April some Japanese, and their visits had been fairly rare, that wouldn't be any cause for embarrassment. And 'prillay' was as far from 'you've been pissing' as it was from 'put on my shoe.'

But Carl drove up just then. He and Carolyn greeted each other. Bill and April were on the bottom step. She wanted to go up again, but he dragged her over towards the car.

"Hello, April," Carolyn said. It was only polite to greet people, and there wasn't anybody else worth greeting whom she hadn't.

"Say 'hi' to the pretty lady," said Bill.

"Hi, Prillay," April said. Nancy picked her up and stuffed her into the car seat.

"Well, we're out of here, and out of this. We'll see you later." She got in the car and it drove away. Carolyn might have thought the departure was precipitous, but she had other issues just then.

"Bill how could you? That's awful!"

"What's awful? So I refer to you as a pretty lady. You are, and it's not as if I said, 'say hello to the busty wench,' now is it?"

"Busty wench?"

"That's what I don't call you. That would be insulting. What's insulting about 'pretty lady'? You aren't one of those who think ladies only should be called women, are you? Anyway, I don't even know what 'wench' means except it isn't complimentary, and it is a woman." She didn't know what it meant, either, though she had a vague picture of medieval bar maids. But he was trying to change the subject.

"That's irrelevant. You're trying to change the subject."

"Just what is the subject?"

"You know."

"No, I don't, and you don't either, or you wouldn't have said that. Let me put it another way. What subject do you wish to discuss? Select one, and I'll try to keep to it."

"I don't want to talk with you."

"Okay." There was a long pause, but he was smirking.

"Last week, I found April sitting on the stairs leading up from the basement."

"Alone? She shouldn't have been on stairs alone. Did she fall?" She could believe that his concern for April was genuine, if nothing else about him was.

"She was sitting on a stair near the top. One shoe was off. She handed it to me and said 'Prillay.' I put it on and took her to Nancy."

"Just what you should have done. Now, how was that a misdeed on my part? I didn't leave her there; you know I wouldn't leave her in a dangerous position, not even leave her with one shoe off." Strangely enough, she did. He might be an awful person in many ways, but he was absolutely responsible with kids, except that...

"She got that 'Prillay' from you."

"Well, not the pronunciation."

"What do you say to her?"

"'See the pretty lady?' I mean there might be other things, depending on the situation. But nothing derogatory. I don't see what the problem is." She couldn't quite express it, but...

"I don't want you talking with her about me."

"But she's at an age when talking with her is necessary. Her language skills for the entire rest of her life depend on what she picks up this year." That was incredibly over dramatic. A kid raised by wolves might never learn to speak, but April wasn't being raised by wolves. A few minutes each Sunday morning wasn't going to ruin -- or save -- her cognitive development. On the other hand, it was close enough to true that she wasn't going to get into a fight about it. It was probably better for April to have Bill talk to her than to be ignored.

"It doesn't have to be about me."

"Probably not, and most of the time it's not. On the other hand, it's a strange request. And, it's a damn strange complaint to make that I didn't honor that request before you made it." And, put like that, it was. But she was letting him get away with some more bullshit.

"And you claim that the reason you talk to April is that it's good for her."

"I never denied that I enjoy it, too. Three questions: Do I like it? Does she like it? Does it do her good, or at least no harm?"

"And what if it's something you enjoy very much and it does her a little harm?"

"Well, if I know it would do her harm, I wouldn't enjoy it. Okay, I get her sweets at coffee hour. But no more than her parents permit, and Carl's a dentist, for God's sake. That's another rule. It has to be something the kid's parents permit."

"Bill Pierce, the saint."

"I don't claim that. Those are the rules. I don't always keep them. Have I spun kids around until they threw up? Yes. Did they demand that I spin them around again just before they threw up? Yes. I'm not omniscient."

"Except about economics."

"Is that the subject of this conversation?" There was a long silence, which he broke by backtracking. "Look, you like to sing. Even if you don't, lots of the choir members do. They perform -- you perform -- a service to the church. That it's something you enjoy doesn't lessen the service you perform. Why is it evil that I perform a minor service for kids -- and for their parents -- just because I enjoy it?"

"You're being silly." And, with that comment, she turned and walked off past people who were pretending not to know her. She'd let Bill trap her into another of his conversations!

It was raining after church the next week, but she'd come prepared with an umbrella. The basement exit leading to a pool that would ruin her shoes, she went upstairs. She got her umbrella open in the fellowship room where others were waiting and looking out. Either they were waiting for a lull or for the driver to come back with the family car. She went out past them. She'd not gone three steps beyond the door, however, when a gust blew the umbrella inside out. she struggled back to the doorway, and tried to wrestle the umbrella back into shape. Bill came along with his umbrella and raincoat right then.

"Look, if you're not scared of me, I'll be back with the car in a second." Then he took off running. Scared of him? She didn't think anything of him. But people had heard that comment. If she didn't go -- if she walked half a mile in the rain to avoid riding in his car -- they'd think she was scared of him. When he honked, she dashed for the car. She held the remains of her umbrella between her legs while sitting beside him.

"Scared of you? Why should I be scared of such a miserable excuse for a man?"

"Dunno. You've sure been avoiding me, though. Look, what -- what particularly -- have I done?"

"You're arrogant, nasty, sneaky, deceitful..."

"That's what I am. What have I done? If I'm deceitful what deceitful thing have I done?"

"You ask that, after tricking me into these conversations."

"Well, asking a question may be starting a conversation, but it's not a particularly tricky way of doing it. What was the conversation I tricked you into?"

"Well, the last one -- last Sunday. You tricked me into that one, and in front of everybody, too."

"If I remember correctly, you started that conversation."

"After you taught April to call me 'Pretty Lady.' That was tricky."

"Well, I didn't teach her to say it very well. And, I was only talking to her. You didn't tell me you didn't want me talking about you until then."

"And you keep saying you like my singing. Those are totally unnecessary conversations."

"Those are the only ones in which you behave in a half-way friendly fashion. And three comments on three solos is hardly stalking you. Was I the only one who said that they liked your solos?" Of course, he hadn't been. But he was only being sneaky again.

"Where are we going anyway?" they should have been close to her residence hall by now, and she didn't recognize the street at all.

"Mickey Dee's. You were telling me all my faults, and thought you needed to keep up your energy for the task."

"I don't have time to tell you all your faults. The list is too long."

"So you need your energy. Big Mac? This way, at least, we don't have the audience." That was a point. Besides, the McDonald's was an even longer way from her residence hall than the church was, and the rain was coming down more heavily.

"Shake?" Was he trying to bribe her?

"Coke." He got to the window.

"Two big Macs and a large coke." He drove on, got his order, and paid. He drove them to a parking space at the back of the lot. "Why don't you throw that umbrella in the back seat? Now, is that the worst? Seems to me that you were mad at me long before April called you 'pretty lady.'"

"No the worst thing about you is your arrogant ignorance."

"Which was shown?"

"By claiming to know everything about economics, when you don't know jack shit."

"Dan was kinder, but -- then -- Dan's a friend. He did say, though, that I thought too much of my MBA and not enough of doctorates."

"Well, I don't have a doctorate, yet."

"No, but your professors do. And you weren't telling me something your professors weren't telling you."

"Actually, I was telling you something you could look up yourself. It wasn't abstract theory, it was the rate of growth of real GDP. Look, you think professional economics is a bunch of abstractions, don't you?"

"Yeah, and I have to go to work dealing with particular figures every day."

"I'll bet I look at more numbers than you do. They're aggregated, sure." And all figures were aggregates -- really -- if hers were more aggregated than his. She thought of an example. "You don't ask your salesman how many minutes they spent with Dr. Smith and how many minutes they spent with Dr. Jones. You do ask him how many minutes he spent with doctors that day."

"Maybe I should. Actually, I don't."

"Well, I don't look at what your company sold this week, but I do look at what the drug industry sold last year. And I look at what every other industry sold last year, too. Until my head is swimming in numbers." But she was getting way off the point.

"But that isn't what I wanted to say."

"I'll listen." And, horrible as he was, he would listen to her. He was further along on his burger because he'd spent more time listening.

"What you studied was microeconomics. It's not really the same. They are terribly abstract. And, really, the abstractions aren't close to the real world. What's the competition for a Big Mac from McDonald's?" It's not a Big Mac from somebody else, even he could see that.

"Huh? A Whopper, I guess."

"But they aren't really the same."

"I don't think they are."

"We're sitting in a Packard, eating Big Macs. You sell drugs. Are there other companies which sell drugs identical to yours?"

"There are generics, which claim to be as good, but they're not really. They don't go through the same trials."

"Do they sell for the same price?"

"God no! Even so, we have to cut our prices when generics come out. Wrecks the profit margin."

"So, there is no direct competition for the car we're sitting in, for the food we're eating, for the stuff you sell. But micro theory is based on an auction market." [She was frightened to use the word 'competition' with him. He'd say his company was engaged in competition; certainly that GM and McDonald's were.] "There just aren't all that many actual auction markets setting prices in this economy."

"There's the stock market."

"So there is. And, look at the stock market. They set a new price for any particular stock every minute. So, the grocery store doesn't act like the stock market. But the basis of classical microeconomics is that everyday prices are set on an auction market. The papers aren't studies of particulars, 'The marginal cost of producing soap, and the resulting price of Palmolive hand soap.' Instead, they assume that the market somehow does operate that way.

"But macro isn't done that way. People dig into tons of data. They study what happens when you cut taxes, when you raise taxes, when you run a deficit, when you spend lots on new roads. And it's a bitch, too."

"You sound like you're getting to the end of the term." Man did know something about being a student.

"Well, yes. I'm writing a paper in regional economics. Y'know why Chicago became the railroad capital of the USA?"

"I'm not sure we are. Anyway, it's at the bottom of Lake Michigan, If you want to go northeast or northwest, you have to pass through Chicago."

"Or Gary. That's the point. It's easy enough to see why Chicago ranks Milwaukee. But the real southernmost point of Lake Michigan is at Gary, but they didn't build the railroad yards there. Chicago already existed. New York is a major railroad hub because it was the largest city in the country when the rails were being laid. There are factors and factors -- and more factors.

"The micro boys can tell you precisely what the price of a widget will be. That might not be anywhere close to the actual selling price of widgets, but they can draw two graphs and point you to the price. I, on the other hand, have to explain what actually happened and -- what is worse -- predict what will happen. Anyone ever tell you about the Tsar's railroad?"

"No. What Tsar? What railroad?"

"Haven't the faintest idea what Tsar. The railroad line between Saint Petersburg and Moscow. The tsar came upon a couple of engineers arguing about what was the best route for a railroad line between the two cities. (This was when there wasn't such a line and railroads were rare, at least in Russia.) They were pointing to a map and arguing. The tsar grabbed up a ruler and a pencil. He placed one end of the ruler on Saint Petersburg and the other end on Moscow. With the pencil, he drew a line from one to the other. 'Why there, of course,' he said."

"Sounds reasonable, if a bit arbitrary."

"Well, he didn't have either of them executed, which counts for being non-arbitrary when you're the ruler of Russia. The railroad was built on that line. It contains only one curve. Can you guess where that is?"

"At Moscow?" He saw her expression. "At Saint Petersburg?"

"No. Where the Tsar had his thumb over the edge of the ruler. Now..."

"Really?"

"Really, in the middle of a dead-flat stretch. As I said, neither man was executed; they probably wanted to maintain that record. Now, though, regional economics is the study of where things are done. And, sometimes, it feels like predicting where the tsar is going to put his thumb." All of this was true, but...

"But I've been telling you about the pothole before you've seen the road." He laughed at her words.

"You did have me rather lost, there. Although the tsar story was one I'll remember. I'm glad to hear it wasn't just my density." She had to go back six steps.

"Your office is in the loop, and it doesn't have all that many employees?"

"There are quite a few. It's national HQ as well as regional."

"But there are more factory employees, and the factories are elsewhere?"

"Sure."

"I'm thinking of specializing in regional economics, and that is what regional economics is about. Offices get services and prestige by locating in the central business district. They use a small fraction of the company's space. So, they can afford the high rent of the central business district. How much is it worth to you to be in any particular location? How much does it cost? The people who want to be in a location bid up the rent or the land costs until the people who are willing to pay the price fill the space -- there are no spaces left open and there are no people are who willing to pay the price are left out. Very simple application of economics, but..." She'd been talking too much, she should shut up.

"But?"

"But there are always other factors. I don't know when your company moved into that office, but I do know that there were only so many office suites available just then. Maybe another office location would be cheaper or provide more prestige. That isn't going to get them to move unless the difference is immense; the cost of moving is too great. Why, you'd have to have your cards reprinted."

"That isn't the cost they're worrying about, but yeah. And that's not even considering the tsar's thumb."

"Professor Kindle, who's a great guy, told us that story as a warning. It's extreme, but the president of your company may be determined to move somewhere that's more convenient for him. Maybe he doesn't have the power, but some presidents and chairmen do. And the prestige might be worth something to your company, but not as much as it's worth to the board. Anyway, there are non-economic forces at work at any time. And there is always the force of the-way-we've-always done it. So the predictions only go so far.

"I'm interested in the field, and it's a relatively new field. That means that I won't have so many grey heads standing in the way of my promotion if I get on a faculty. On the other hand, too many of the studies, not Kindle's but others', are closer to the micro 'This is the way it is in theory, why look at messy facts?' than to the macro 'Here are the numbers, let's see what theory could explain them.' So, the difference in approach of micro people and macro people is very close to what keeps me up at night."

"And you think me one of the micro people. I'm really not." And all this began about him! What an egotist he must think her.

"I'm sorry. This started about you, and I switched it to about me."

"That's no problem. I'd rather hear about your worries than about my faults." She had to laugh at that.

"And I don't think you're a microeconomist. You work in the real world and look at real numbers, as you've pointed out. I do think that what you know of economics is micro. What you think of as economics is micro. And, thus, when I say I'm doing economics, you hear that my head is in the clouds. On the other hand, when you think of what is plain about macro is really distortions that the micro guys spread.

"Sure, if bad times led to a drop in prices, the economy would react to recessions the way they say. But, in case you didn't notice, these bad times didn't. In fact, no drop in demand since the Great Depression has led to a drop in prices."

"Yeah, but that's because there hasn't been a drop in wages. That's the problem with propping up wages through welfare, unions, minimum wage laws, and the like."

"But, you see, micro predicts that a drop in demand will lead to a drop in prices even if there isn't a drop in wages. People want fewer widgets because they're buying more gadgets. widget productions drops, widget workers go make gadgets. Classical theory predicts that widget prices will fall, even though wages don't -- the workers are still getting jobs, you see, only making gadgets not widgets. Anyway, a drop in demand for widgets should lead to a drop in price for widgets even without a drop in wages for widget workers. And it doesn't."

"Well..." He looked unconvinced. She really needed a blackboard. For that matter, he needed a semester of classical economics in his head. Whatever he'd got leading to the MBA was long ago. He'd only remembered the conclusions. On the other hand, he was being polite. It wasn't really his idiot opinions, she'd objected to. It was the smug way he'd asserted them. And he was neither smug nor asserting them now.

"Look," he said totally changing the subject, "when is your last exam?"

"Two weeks from next Tuesday." And she should be studying for it. Well, not for it, but for earlier exams.

"And are you going back home afterwards, or staying in town?"

"Clearing out."

"Want me to drive you back to your dorm?"

"Yeah." Actually, that was what she should be suggesting. She finished the burger and drank half the Coke while he drove her to the residence hall. She retrieved her ruined umbrella when he let her out in front.