Judgment Day

A man would have to be half-mad not to prefer being here, a Sunday in early March, ten inches of new snow on a hard-packed base and the sun high in a cloudless blue sky. Skiing down the mountain, knees bent, tilting his slim hips as he traverses, who would know he’s well over 80, his girlfriend waiting in the lodge below to greet him with a chilled martini when he comes in off the slopes?

And who would believe a woman over 80 could look so smart, that is, if you do not come too close and see the wrinkles etched on her face. Perhaps they’re from her years of skiing the trails. Or maybe just from years of walking up and down the slopes of Beacon Hill, which is where she lives—part-time, at least.

“Wasn’t she his wife’s best friend?” Not that his wife is dead; she’s in that nursing home, still adoring him. But then, her memory’s gone.

Maybe it’s only his neighbors in the apartment complex who have any right for concern about the matter, to consider his (could it truly be mad?) behavior.

“He’s lost the front door keys again, have you heard?” one asks, pressing lips close together, picturing some thief picking them up, entering the building and walking out with a computer, a Swiss watch, even a new iPod.

“Can you imagine he has a girlfriend and his wife in that nursing home?”

“Did you hear he has lost his driver’s license?

“No, I heard he’d passed another test.”

“Well, Social Services said his memory is too poor—too poor for driving, that is.”

“Well, he took the car this weekend and is off in New Hampshire.”

“I can’t believe it!”

“I saw them in the elevator this morning, setting out.”

“And the dog walker, I hear she found a bottle of Viagra on the bathroom sink. She has to walk both dogs now, his and hers.”

Next