Poetic Obituaries: A few weeks later, my mother had sorted out

the details of our murder/suicide. It would happen during a brief trip in town for a New Yorker gathering. She planned to accompany him. It would be she, Claire, not the fictional Seymour, who'd go bananas and leave guts spattered across the hotel room for the horrified spouse to witness. Dumb luck? Grace? A sudden flash of mother's life force? Something intervened and whispered into her ear. While my father was out of the hotel room, my mother decided, suddenly, on impulse, to pack me up and run away instead. [--Margaret Salinger]

also The Times: My father, J. D. Salinger
also The Times: Photo Gallery: Margaret and J.D. Salinger
also The New Yorker: J.D. Salinger

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