“Mama, Yoel says things are getting a little out of control there.”

February 1964

Though she knew it couldn’t really be happening, it seemed to Annie for a millisecond that the hotel had been covered by a cone of silence, a vacuum mercilessly sucking up everything around it: the laughter of children, the chatter of the boarders and the visitors who’d come to join the Purim seudah, the sound of bongo drums clattering down upon the wooden porch.

The moment passed. Annie glanced at her brother. Moe was standing in front of the shiny red sports car, with a look on his face that suddenly brought her back to an afternoon decades before, when sixth-grader Moey Freed had thrown a water balloon at her, and it had landed on Mrs. Horn’s head instead: mortified, chagrined, a little bit scared, but also holding back laughter.

Well, she was the hostess here; it was up to her to save the day from the disaster her brother had created.

“How nice of you to join us,” she said, walking towards Marjorie’s mother with an outstretched arm. Alice Burton was an attractive middle-aged woman, wearing a dark blue suit, and what was clearly an expensive pearl necklace. Every hair in her stylish bouffant seemed permanently set in its place, held down by a thick coating of hairspray.

Not a red hair to be seen on this woman.

“Welcome to our hotel.”

Mrs. Burton blinked, and seemed to come out of a trance. She reached out to Annie’s arm and shook her hand. A red lipsticked smile appeared on her face.

“So nice to be here.” She turned to her daughter, still standing quite still. “Hello, Marjorie. Having quite a good time, it seems.”

Well, perhaps the ice had been broken, but there was still a distinct chill in the air.

Fred Burton laughed: a pleasant sound. “So, Margie, what in the world are you up to?”

When she answered, Marjorie’s voice seemed different — not as loud, all the brashness gone.

“It’s Purim, Father, and I’ve been dressing up and playing with the children.”

Moe finally spoke. “Yes, Marjorie has been entertaining the children all morning. You know, it’s a Jewish tradition to dress up on Purim.”

“Really?” Mr. Burton looked interested. “Why?”

“Come in, we’re getting ready for our Purim meal, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Thanks. And here’s a little something that we thought you might enjoy.” He handed Moe two oversized bottles. With a slight sense of unease, Annie saw the labels: Jim Beam Bourbon.

Papa will not be happy, she thought. And then: This won’t end well.

Talking cordially, Moe and Fred Burton left them — a silent mother, her even more silent daughter, and Annie, wondering how in the world she would get through this day.

Those little men drilling in her brain? They were back, louder and harsher than ever.