The mail was interesting, not the money. It brought questions — the same kind of sad and quiet whispers people had come into her tent with, the years before and during the Depression.

Dear sir can you pleese find my dog Freeway?

How will I find love?

Where did Aunt Irma hide the silver?

She didn't even mind the sirs. A whole generation had grown up since the war not knowing that women had done anything besides wear sunglasses and capri pants while lounging outside their husbands' Levittown homes. The ones who were old enough to recall the Depression, and women working swing shift at the factories after that, they preferred to forget, to pretend. Now America had that nice Catholic boy as president, who'd fought the Japanese armed only with perfect teeth and a Nantucket tan. He was every woman's dream and every man's envy. Not like the wrinkled old men who reminded everybody of the bad times.