Grace
I wanted to know what Elizabeth knew that her stepmother didn’t. She refused to tell me, said I’d have to find out for myself. She said we all do, eventually. One evening, we’re all sitting around in the common room. The common room is the type of room that could be found in any rundown motel; it is a bland and vague accommodation. It offers nothing but a deep and unsettling calm, a surrender, made to distract the imagination of those who seek respite from the trauma of their own minds, who search out its pacifying effects in hopes all their problems will temporarily vanish.
On the television, President Kennedy is giving a dramatic speech. He is talking about unmistakable evidence—about the Soviets placing missiles off our coast. It sounds important, but I am only half listening. M
