Recessional: A Novel by James A. Michener Page B

She was the first person he had met at the Palms who could properly be called a patient, and to see her striding about with such spirit was a reassuring sign.
    When they were out on the plaza she pointed south and there, along the channel with its little boats, was the second row of the amazing palms like a file of drum majors on stilts. But much as he admired them he could not understand why the trees had that curious ruff of black. “Simple, really,” she said. “You can see that the fronds on top are green, the ones in the snarl below are dusty brown. A year ago the black ones in the middle were alive and green. Like all else in nature, at their appointed time they died and turned black. But they still retained strength enough to reach straight out in a whorl. As sap leaves them and they really die, they’ll turn brown, lose their strength and form part of the tangle below.”
    Zorn was impressed that she was so knowledgeable: “You amaze me with your ability to make things clear. I’ve had college professors—”
    “I was headmistress of an elite private girls’ school. With a grouplike that you’d better be able to explain things.” She paused, then laughed: “Young girls can be so much more inquisitive than young boys their same age.”
    “I’m fascinated by that inverted teardrop effect,” Zorn said. “Does the tangle remain forever?”
    “In due course the whole tree dies. Its roots cannot sustain it. Some night in a storm it topples and the solemn grandeur is gone. Even the dead fronds die again.” She did not deliver this judgment funereally, for as she spoke she turned to point to the edge of what appeared to be a low jungle and there a Washingtonia not three feet high was starting its climb toward the stars. “Eighty more feet to go,” she said brightly, “but it’ll make it long years from now.” She paused, studied the ambitious little tree and said: “Of course, none of us in residence now will be around to applaud its victory.”
    —
    Dr. Zorn was eager to see the hospital, but when he used that word, Krenek corrected him: “We never say that. Remember, with most Taggart operations it’s a twofold deal, Assisted Living and Extended Care. Both part of the same structure.” And he led the way out of the main wing and into the oval so that Zorn could approach the other wing as if he were a visitor coming to inspect facilities. There embedded in the wall beside the entrance was the sign in small letters ASSISTED LIVING , and inside was a handsome reception area designed to make visitors feel they had entered a place truly dedicated to their welfare. The receptionist wore a nurse’s uniform. Medical journals were stacked on tables, and carefully placed signs indicated doctors’ offices, rehabilitation clinics and the dietitian’s room. Certain business offices for the entire establishment were also here, dealing with health services and limousine reservations for residents who wanted to shop in the nearby mall or visit medical men outside the Palms.
    As Ken invited Zorn to join him for coffee in one of the offices, he explained a major peculiarity of the place: “Under Florida law, which the medical profession has enacted to protect itself, no one on our premises, not even you as medical adviser, is allowed to prescribe or issue so much as an aspirin, or tape a broken finger, and certainly not treat a serious illness.”
    “What must I do?”
    “You must advise the patient to get in touch with his or her owndoctor. A score of them practice nearby. That doctor must do the diagnosis and establish the treatment. That doctor alone can recommend that a patient be moved into our Assisted Living facilities or go into one of the local hospitals.”
    “I thought the idea was that anyone in the main building who became ill could be transferred automatically to this building.”
    “Only under doctor’s orders—an outside doctor.”
    Zorn considered this for some moments, then said: “So