Frankie walked home through impromptu celebrations—people kissing and laughing, waltzing and hugging—her emotions seesawing between happiness and grief.
He said I was the whitest girl he’d ever seen, he asked me the name of my wily red fox, he said we looked like we’d stepped out of a fairy tale, “The Girl and the Wolf.”
“Hey, I know!” said Cora, through a mouthful of oatmeal. “Why don’t Frankie and Toni join a convent! That’s what girls like them do anyway. I mean, what man would want to—”
She spoke of Hitler’s suicide in his underground bunker, how he tested the cyanide on his favorite dog, Blondi, before he and his wife swallowed the capsules themselves, leaving the Allies with only his minions to punish.
She told me of the most powerful bombs the world had ever seen, the plan to unleash them, the mushroom clouds, the radiation, the unspeakable, unfathomable tragedy of it all.
But she had a vision nonetheless, of a girl in the bed, feet in the stirrups, arms pinned, beseeching the nun who was walking away with her baby, “No, please, wait.”
An enormous portrait of Charles Kent with two hounds hung over the bed, the head of a deer glared at me from the wall in the sitting room, an enormous taxidermied bear lurked in the corner.