One: October 1942
No one agrees on why she was sent away, and the tragedy is that the disagreement is how she was remembered . There are journeys that erase themselves, and others that refuse to. This was one of the latter. Slaton folded the newspaper he’d picked up in St. Louis and set it aside. Not that there was nothing of interest to most. It was a dizzying time to be alive. No, he would leave the interworking of politics and war to his cousin John—once the Georgia governor—who lived for such things. He glanced at the gentleman facing him, the clack of the rails a distant background to the cigar smoke he politely tried to fan away. Cigars. John smokes them, though for reasons Slaton would never understand, except that perhaps it was expected in the world of a politician. Even one who taught Sunday School with his wife throughout most of his married life. This was something Slaton could set aside, though it was tempting to dwell on it. He was, after all, a Methodist minister with decades of impoveris...