“He’s going to be president,” Sandy told me. “Alvin says Lindbergh’s going to win.” He so confused and frightened me that I pretended he was making a joke and laughed. “Alvin’s going to go to Canada and join the Canadian army,” he said. “He’s going to fight for the British against Hitler.” “But nobody can beat Roosevelt,” I said. “Lindbergh’s going to. America’s going to go fascist.” Then we just stood there together under the intimidating spell of the three portraits. Never before had being seven felt like such a serious deficiency.
