don’t speak to me either. My friends are uncomfortable around me, now that they know my condition. I don’t even have any colleagues or employees left, now that I’ve been forcibly retired.”
“That sounds rather awful,” the girl said honestly.
“It is, rather. And ironic. For years, I’ve thought of myself as a very successful man. But for some reason I haven’t succeeded in keeping many friends or family close to me.” He stared at the ground, and for a moment, he looked truly sad. He coughed and looked up. An idea seemed to have occurred to him. “Tell you what, Blanche. I’m not going to be around much longer—I mean, getting around. I’m going to be bedridden soon. Since you say you like old people—and even though I’m not really old, I am really sick and could pass for being old—would you be willing to come and visit me?”
“I would,” the girl said.
“Would you? That—that would be wonderful,” the man said, his face quite changed. The girl had a momentary glimpse of how Mr. Fairston might have looked as a healthy man. He felt in his breast pocket and managed to extricate a card. “Here’s where I am, or will be.”
She took it. It read, “Alistair M. Fairston,” and gave his home and his office address.
“I thought you said your name was Jack,” she said, curious.
“It isn’t,” he said gloomily. “My real name is Alistair. I was named after one of my father’s friends, unhappy man. You can see why I changed it. I kept saying one of these days I would have it legally changed, but I never got around to it and I suppose it’s too late now. Everyone who knows me calls me Jack. Oh, and the office address isn’t valid any more, like I told you,” the man said. “Just in case you call it, and they don’t recognize my name, so you don’t think I’m scamming you.”
She laughed again, and thought to herself, but he could be scamming me. He might have picked up this card and be pretending to be vice-president of the company. If he hadn’t looked so ill—and she knew he was—she might have been more cautious. She might have held back.
But her doubts about his identity were pushed aside as the door to the hall opened, and a man came out. “Mr. Fairston?” he asked solicitously. “Your wife is looking for you.”
“Why?” the man asked, a bit peevishly, then started and looked anxious. “Oh, have I forgotten something?”
“They want to present you with an award,” the man said, taking his arm.
“An award? What for?”
“Well, this is your farewell banquet and you are the guest of honor,” the man said, helping Mr. Fairston to his feet.
“Guest of honor?” he muttered as he fumbled with his cane. “Good grief, is that what all this is for?”
“Of course it is. Your wife arranged it.”
Mr. Fairston grimaced. “I told her I didn’t want a farewell banquet. They give me headaches. I don’t want to have a farewell banquet with a headache. I’ll get all cross and won’t enjoy it.”
“I don’t think you have much choice,” the man said with a smile. “Come on in now,” and led him up the steps.
Mr. Fairston paused, and looked back at the girl. “You will come and visit me, won’t you?”
“I will,” she promised. “Thank you.”
“Good night then,” he said, and allowed himself to be escorted inside, where the blond woman in red came graciously to his side, kissed him on the cheek, and said something into the cordless microphone she still carried. There were cheers as the entire assembly got to its feet, clapping loudly.
Slightly moved, the girl watched the man hobble his way up to the stage amidst the applause. The blond goddess accompanying him looked over her shoulder, and met the girl’s gaze. There was a coldness in her eyes that flashed like ice.
The girl stepped back into the night, surprised. For a long time she stood outside the door, holding onto the handle, listening to the screech and roar of the traffic behind her,
“That sounds rather awful,” the girl said honestly.
“It is, rather. And ironic. For years, I’ve thought of myself as a very successful man. But for some reason I haven’t succeeded in keeping many friends or family close to me.” He stared at the ground, and for a moment, he looked truly sad. He coughed and looked up. An idea seemed to have occurred to him. “Tell you what, Blanche. I’m not going to be around much longer—I mean, getting around. I’m going to be bedridden soon. Since you say you like old people—and even though I’m not really old, I am really sick and could pass for being old—would you be willing to come and visit me?”
“I would,” the girl said.
“Would you? That—that would be wonderful,” the man said, his face quite changed. The girl had a momentary glimpse of how Mr. Fairston might have looked as a healthy man. He felt in his breast pocket and managed to extricate a card. “Here’s where I am, or will be.”
She took it. It read, “Alistair M. Fairston,” and gave his home and his office address.
“I thought you said your name was Jack,” she said, curious.
“It isn’t,” he said gloomily. “My real name is Alistair. I was named after one of my father’s friends, unhappy man. You can see why I changed it. I kept saying one of these days I would have it legally changed, but I never got around to it and I suppose it’s too late now. Everyone who knows me calls me Jack. Oh, and the office address isn’t valid any more, like I told you,” the man said. “Just in case you call it, and they don’t recognize my name, so you don’t think I’m scamming you.”
She laughed again, and thought to herself, but he could be scamming me. He might have picked up this card and be pretending to be vice-president of the company. If he hadn’t looked so ill—and she knew he was—she might have been more cautious. She might have held back.
But her doubts about his identity were pushed aside as the door to the hall opened, and a man came out. “Mr. Fairston?” he asked solicitously. “Your wife is looking for you.”
“Why?” the man asked, a bit peevishly, then started and looked anxious. “Oh, have I forgotten something?”
“They want to present you with an award,” the man said, taking his arm.
“An award? What for?”
“Well, this is your farewell banquet and you are the guest of honor,” the man said, helping Mr. Fairston to his feet.
“Guest of honor?” he muttered as he fumbled with his cane. “Good grief, is that what all this is for?”
“Of course it is. Your wife arranged it.”
Mr. Fairston grimaced. “I told her I didn’t want a farewell banquet. They give me headaches. I don’t want to have a farewell banquet with a headache. I’ll get all cross and won’t enjoy it.”
“I don’t think you have much choice,” the man said with a smile. “Come on in now,” and led him up the steps.
Mr. Fairston paused, and looked back at the girl. “You will come and visit me, won’t you?”
“I will,” she promised. “Thank you.”
“Good night then,” he said, and allowed himself to be escorted inside, where the blond woman in red came graciously to his side, kissed him on the cheek, and said something into the cordless microphone she still carried. There were cheers as the entire assembly got to its feet, clapping loudly.
Slightly moved, the girl watched the man hobble his way up to the stage amidst the applause. The blond goddess accompanying him looked over her shoulder, and met the girl’s gaze. There was a coldness in her eyes that flashed like ice.
The girl stepped back into the night, surprised. For a long time she stood outside the door, holding onto the handle, listening to the screech and roar of the traffic behind her,
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