The Snow Angel Read Online Free PDF Page B

But in spite of the crowd and the appearance of bustle, it is unusually peaceful. Clusters of elderly men and women huddle at an assortment of mismatched tables, whispering to each other as if age has simply erased the need to be loud. There is a small pot with a red poinsettia in the center of every table, and Christmas music hovers over everything like a mist. Best of all, the scent of griddle-hot butter and warm syrup fills the air. Pancakes? Mitch wonders. He loves pancakes.
    It is not an unhappy place, but Mitch pauses in the doorway of the large room for a moment and glances around timidly. The tables are arranged with space for wheelchairs and walkers to manuever between them, and Mitch is filled with a quick gratitude that he can still walk on his own two feet. But he doesn’t know where to go. There are no place markers on the tables that he can see, and no one looks familiar. He swallows down a wave of loneliness and tries to resist the urge to go back to the strange room that suddenly feels like home. However, just as he is about to tell the nurse’s aide he’s not in the mood for breakfast, he catches a glimpse of a man aross the room.
    He is tall and narrow, almost elegant, and something about the steady way that he carries himself makes him look like he doesn’t belong in an old folks’ home. Mitch watches as the composed man carefully lowers himself into one of four chairs at an empty table. Then the gentleman reaches a tapered hand for the linen napkin before him and unfurls it in one graceful snap. The fabric drifts lightly to his lap, and the old man watches it as if the secrets of the universe are written on the starched folds. He closes his eyes. Sighs.
    “I want to sit there,” Mitch says, pointing to the man.
    “It’s not your usual table,” the nurse’s aide chirps. She has a grip on his elbow and Mitch wiggles his arm loose with an attempt at a grouchy snort. “Whatever you’d like,Mr. Clark,” she amends, and though she should look chastened, Mitch is disappointed to see that the young lady is only amused. He decides he must work on his grumpy old man routine.
    “I can seat myself,” Mitch says, and he takes off without a backward glance. He crosses the dining room with what he would like to believe is a certain contemptuous dignity.
    When he arrives at the small, round table, the unfamiliar gentleman is still gazing at his lap. “Is this seat taken?” Mitch asks, putting his hand on the back of the chair across from the stranger.
    “Are we friends today, Mitch?” The man looks up and fixes Mitch with a gentle half-smile.
    “Excuse me?” Mitch can’t help staring. He tries unsuccessfully to place the man’s bright blue eyes, his strong chin. “Do I know you?”
    The man shakes his head, adjusts his smile. “I’ve seen you around,” he says vaguely. “My name is Cooper.”
    “Nice to meet you,” Mitch says, but all at once he wonders if they’ve met somewhere before. “Care if I join you?”
    “Certainly not,” Cooper says.
    There is a long moment of silence as Mitch settles into his seat. He puts his napkin on his lap, trying to mimic the flourish with which Cooper performed the same action. But Mitch’s hands are clumsy; he feels like he is all thumbs. In the end he leaves the linen balled up and reaches forthe utensils that frame his place setting. He is stunned to find that there are four pieces of indecipherable silverware. He glares at them, trying to focus, to make the gleaming silver make sense, but he doesn’t know what they are for.
    “You won’t need your spoon this morning,” Cooper says kindly, picking up the utensil with the shallow bowl. “Not unless you want your pancakes pureed.” He leans forward and peers closely at Mitch. “Nope. Looks like you’ve still got your teeth.”
    Mitch doesn’t quite know how to take Cooper’s teasing, but he picks up his spoon and sets it off to the side.
    “And I don’t know why they give us two forks.