Passing the Torch

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“I’m sorry, all the plumbers are in jail.” The woman’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded angry. Then she cut the connection.

Esther Pernion stared at the dead phone, confused. I’m too tired for this, she thought.

Esther felt weak as she walked the few steps to her threadbare, royal blue-and-grey easy chair. At least her legs worked all right, and her arms as she lowered herself into the seat. She sat a few moments, reassembling her thoughts.

She had had another “spell” this morning. Let’s not kid ourselves, she thought, another stroke. The sudden headache, the weakness, the confusion—Esther knew the symptoms. Well, that sort of thing happens. At seventy-two, she’d had one that slurred her voice and caused her to limp for six months. She didn’t think her speech was slurred this time. They’d wanted to put her in an “old people’s prison,” as she put it, back then. Now, at eighty-two she still lived alone.

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