The Lost Choice by Andy Andrews Page B

Saturday tradition. Mark cooked the food; Dorry cleaned up the mess. Michael was in the recliner watching cartoons,but Mark always stayed in the kitchen and read to his wife.“Do you have anything in here today?”
    â€œUh-huh,”Dorry said as she rinsed a plate and placed it in the dishwasher. “It should be in the first section.”
    â€œAnd it is about . . . ?” Mark turned the pages quickly, searching for his wife’s byline.
    City council voting on sign restrictions for small businesses and the redistricting of school board members. I’m sure you’ll want to cut it out and frame it.”
    â€œHere it is.” Mark spread out the paper on the table. “Page fourteen—Dorry Chandler. Do I have to read it?”
    â€œNo, but if you’ll let me read it, I’ll be able to go back to sleep.”
    â€œBoring, huh?”
    â€œUnbelievably.”
    â€œIt sounds boring.”
    â€œYou’re very perceptive,” Dorry said as she closed the dishwasher and pressed the START button. She poured another cup of coffee and sat down across from Mark. “What else is in there? Read to me.”
    â€œOkay . . .,” Mark said.“Let’s see . . .what should we read? Sports? Hard news? Sports? International news? Lifestyles? Or . . . sports?”
    â€œAnything but sports,” Dorry said, taking a sip of her coffee.
    â€œThe Broncos’ offensive coordinator is upset about the turf conditions for tomorrow’s game.”
    â€œTragic. Next.”
    â€œThe Rockies and the Braves are talking about an off-season trade.”
    â€œA trade?! I know my life will change. Excuse me,” Dorry said banging her spoon on the side of her coffee cup.“Excuse me, Marky, but was it someone else to whom I made the request ‘anything but sports’?”
    Mark tried to suppress a smile. “What? Oh! I’m sorry, dear. You’re right. Let me find some dull, humdrum, mind-numbing articles we can enjoy together!” He grabbed another section with a flourish.
    â€œSheesh! Here’s a picture of a woman who is 104 years old.” “No way!”
    â€œMm-hmm. Mrs. Bonnie Mae Bounds of Fordyce, Arkansas. The cutline on the picture says she’s 104.And she doesn’t look a day over a hundred.”
    â€œFunny. You want some coffee?”
    â€œSure.”
    Dorry stood and stretched. Before pouring the coffee, she glanced at the picture of the old woman. There was no accompanying article. It was wire service filler, sent to newspapers as human interest, for use on slow news days. The photograph was large—almost one-eighth of a page. Bonnie Mae Bounds, an African-American woman with snow-white hair, was seated in a wooden, high-backed rocking chair with a shawl draped across her lap. The photo had been taken indoors, presumably in her home. There was, Dorry saw, a painting of a house on the wall over her right shoulder and a bookshelf directly behind her. Though the picture was in black and white, Dorry imagined that the long dress she wore was a dark green or blue.
    â€œGee. A hundred and four.” Dorry stepped over to the counter to get the coffeepot.
    Mark turned the page. Then another couple of pages. “Swim lessons are opening for five-year-olds at the Y.We want to do that, don’t we?” Mark looked up.“Dorry?”
    Dorry was standing at the counter beside the refrigerator. She had her back to Mark, the coffeepot in her hand, and was not moving a muscle. When Mark said her name, she turned around with a quizzical expression on her face. “Turn back to that picture,” she said.
    â€œWhat?”
    Dorry turned again, placing the coffeepot in its holder. “The photo of the old lady, turn back to it.” She walked back to him.
    â€œWhy do you—,” he began as he reached to thumb through the paper.
    â€œMark!” she interrupted and made a “hurry up!” motion with