Fred Burton stopped shouting. His face crumpled, as fury gave way to anxiety and hurt. “You’re right, Mrs. Levine, and I’m sorry. But it was such a shock”

August 1964

There is a moment of deep silence, Annie had once read, right before an atomic explosion: an expectant, ghastly millisecond before the thunderous boom.

She thought of that ominous quiet as Fred Burton stared at the group sitting around a scratched coffee table in the Freed Hotel parlor. Standing behind him, a handkerchief grasped too tightly in her white-gloved hands, Alice Burton, too, said nothing.

And then came the fiery blast.

“Where is my daughter?” Mr. Burton roared, in a voice that was half growl, half shout. Yeruchum stood up, put out a calming hand that Fred Burton pointedly ignored.

“Mr. Burton—”

“Don’t 'Mr. Burton' me. My daughter has been staying here, and if she’s gone I want to know where.”

“We don’t know,” Artie said, his voice as loud and angry as Burton’s. “We thought she was with you.”

And now the men were all talking at once; Burton and Artie shouting, Yeruchum trying to conciliate, Moe making suggestions that no one listened to.

Annie, in her mild manner, stepped into the fray. Papa was right, I’d better calm everyone down.

Somehow, amid the commotion, she made herself heard.

“Please, Mr. and Mrs. Burton, we understand completely what you’re going through. We also...” a moment’s hesitation, “we also love Marjorie, and we have to work together to do what’s best for her.”

Fred Burton stopped shouting. His face crumpled, as fury gave way to anxiety and hurt. “You’re right, Mrs. Levine, and I’m sorry. But it was such a shock.” He collected himself, and when he spoke, it was in a more normal tone. “So none of you have any idea of where she is?”

Annie spoke, her words chosen carefully. “Of course not, or we would have told you. Please sit down, and you can tell us what happened so we can all help find her.”