flakes drifted through the air like angels.
Within minutes, they’d arrived. Taft asked for the envelope back from the driver, and he double-checked the address with the one on the building. This was it. Patterson Senior Village.
“Kowalczyk, do you mind waiting?” he said as he opened the door and stepped into the snow. “I assure you, there’s no one of dangerous intent in there.”
“I know,” the agent said. “I’ll come into the building anyway. But don’t worry, I’ll leave you to your private conversation. Oh, that reminds me—” He handed Taft one of those small, miraculous telephones everyone seemed to have permanently attached to their ears. “My number’s on speed dial. Here, let me show you. Just hit the number one if you ever need to call me, two for Susan, and three for Rachel. Sound good?”
Taft held the tiny device in his hand then slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat. It was thoughtful of Kowalczyk, but he certainly wouldn’t be needing it here. This telephone was a marvel of the future. He was here to speak to the past.
THE HALLS SMELLED like some sort of sickening mixture of medicine and candy. Come to think of it, the walls also imagined the color of such a mingling. Taft had had no problem gettingpast the front desk; he knew he’d already been added to the list of potential visitors, a fat, hopeful clipboard full of unchecked names that the clerk at the desk had referenced before calling an orderly to escort him to the room.
He passed open doorways that added a mild tang of urine and disinfectant to the already cloying odor. Taft felt a twinge somewhere in his midsection and wished suddenly that he hadn’t been nauseous on the aircraft.
Finally, they arrived at the door: Room 128. As the orderly knocked, announced the visitor, and turned the doorknob, Taft wondered at the notion of having one’s environment, one’s entire existence, reduced and restricted to one building, one room. He realized sadly that, during his time in office, he’d known that feeling all too well.
The door swung open. The air, thankfully, become sweeter, bearing a heady bouquet of rosewater. “Well, are you gonna stand out there all day?” The voice was ragged around the edges, but the woman to whom it belonged couldn’t have looked less so.
Ms. Irene O’Malley—or rather, Irene Kaye, as the widow had retained her long-departed husband’s last name—sat on the edge of the bed, all 100 pounds and 105 years of her. A quilt fit for a bee lay in a state of construction across her lap. Her long, silver hair was done up in a simple braid. In her bony fingers flashed a needle. She didn’t stop stitching or even glance up as Taft walked into the room. The orderly left the two alone.
“Sit down, please,” said Irene, indicating a chair next to her bed piled high with newspapers. Taft picked up the heavy stack and grunted as he placed it on the floor next to an even larger stack.
“I never had much use for the newspapers while I was in office,” he grumbled as he eased his bulk into the seat. He looked at Irene, whose eyes sparkled deeply in their nests of pink wrinkles.Still, her skin almost glowed. She seemed preternaturally hale, healthy, and alert for one so old. Taft wondered briefly at the status of medicine in America. These days, it must be a veritable marvel of equity and efficiency.
“Thank you for writing me, Mrs. Kaye,” he began.
“Oh, call me Irene,” she said. “Just Irene. That’s who I was the first time I wrote to you. When I was six.”
“I wish I had answered you at the time,” Taft said. “What good is a president if he can’t take the time out to reply to a child, to help inspire the future?”
Irene shrugged extravagantly. “Well, the future is here. I survived regardless. And I must say, you now look young enough to be my grandson.”
“What has your life been like, Irene? That is, if you don’t mind my asking. These people who are watching over me
Within minutes, they’d arrived. Taft asked for the envelope back from the driver, and he double-checked the address with the one on the building. This was it. Patterson Senior Village.
“Kowalczyk, do you mind waiting?” he said as he opened the door and stepped into the snow. “I assure you, there’s no one of dangerous intent in there.”
“I know,” the agent said. “I’ll come into the building anyway. But don’t worry, I’ll leave you to your private conversation. Oh, that reminds me—” He handed Taft one of those small, miraculous telephones everyone seemed to have permanently attached to their ears. “My number’s on speed dial. Here, let me show you. Just hit the number one if you ever need to call me, two for Susan, and three for Rachel. Sound good?”
Taft held the tiny device in his hand then slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat. It was thoughtful of Kowalczyk, but he certainly wouldn’t be needing it here. This telephone was a marvel of the future. He was here to speak to the past.
THE HALLS SMELLED like some sort of sickening mixture of medicine and candy. Come to think of it, the walls also imagined the color of such a mingling. Taft had had no problem gettingpast the front desk; he knew he’d already been added to the list of potential visitors, a fat, hopeful clipboard full of unchecked names that the clerk at the desk had referenced before calling an orderly to escort him to the room.
He passed open doorways that added a mild tang of urine and disinfectant to the already cloying odor. Taft felt a twinge somewhere in his midsection and wished suddenly that he hadn’t been nauseous on the aircraft.
Finally, they arrived at the door: Room 128. As the orderly knocked, announced the visitor, and turned the doorknob, Taft wondered at the notion of having one’s environment, one’s entire existence, reduced and restricted to one building, one room. He realized sadly that, during his time in office, he’d known that feeling all too well.
The door swung open. The air, thankfully, become sweeter, bearing a heady bouquet of rosewater. “Well, are you gonna stand out there all day?” The voice was ragged around the edges, but the woman to whom it belonged couldn’t have looked less so.
Ms. Irene O’Malley—or rather, Irene Kaye, as the widow had retained her long-departed husband’s last name—sat on the edge of the bed, all 100 pounds and 105 years of her. A quilt fit for a bee lay in a state of construction across her lap. Her long, silver hair was done up in a simple braid. In her bony fingers flashed a needle. She didn’t stop stitching or even glance up as Taft walked into the room. The orderly left the two alone.
“Sit down, please,” said Irene, indicating a chair next to her bed piled high with newspapers. Taft picked up the heavy stack and grunted as he placed it on the floor next to an even larger stack.
“I never had much use for the newspapers while I was in office,” he grumbled as he eased his bulk into the seat. He looked at Irene, whose eyes sparkled deeply in their nests of pink wrinkles.Still, her skin almost glowed. She seemed preternaturally hale, healthy, and alert for one so old. Taft wondered briefly at the status of medicine in America. These days, it must be a veritable marvel of equity and efficiency.
“Thank you for writing me, Mrs. Kaye,” he began.
“Oh, call me Irene,” she said. “Just Irene. That’s who I was the first time I wrote to you. When I was six.”
“I wish I had answered you at the time,” Taft said. “What good is a president if he can’t take the time out to reply to a child, to help inspire the future?”
Irene shrugged extravagantly. “Well, the future is here. I survived regardless. And I must say, you now look young enough to be my grandson.”
“What has your life been like, Irene? That is, if you don’t mind my asking. These people who are watching over me
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