One week after the funeral, Mrs. Umlauf, having been assured by the family lawyers that the entire lumber estate was left not in son Ludwig's control but in hers, turned its management over to her accountants and boarded a train for the west coast of Florida. She went directly to the office of a real estate agent, who cried: 'Coming south from those horrible winters in northern Michigan, you've landed in paradise, Mrs. Umlauf. Is that name Swedish, perhaps?'

She hated that question. Swedes were people in Minnesota that others made jokes about. 'The name is pure German. From the heartland of that country.'

'I can see you're the kind of woman who knows what she wants. I'm going to drive you over to that chain of little islands across the waterway we call the channel, and there you'll find some of the best building sites in Florida, west coast or east.' When he reached Island 5 he took her to the inland waterfront and showed her how a house built on this site would enjoy the best possible orientation: 'Away from the high winds that sometimes blow in from the gulf, you have your own lovely waterway in your lap, and across the channel that wonderful open land. But at the far end they've built a state-of-the-art retirement area, the Palms. Look into it, you being so close at hand-if you take this place, that is, and build your dream home here. I represent the people operating the Palms, if you're ever interested.'

Brusquely she dismissed the idea, refusing to accept his card: 'I would never set foot inside a retirement home-full of lonely widows and paupers abandoned by their families.'

'You are so right!' the agent enthused. 'You should have your own home. Sit on your patio in the evening and watch the dolphins and the sailboats go by.' When he saw that she was interested in the land he assured her: 'The day you buy this heavenly spot, my brother-in-law can start building your dream house ten feet in from that glorious water.'

Two days later she bought the land, and in next to no time had the agent's brother-in-law building her dream house. The moment it was finished, with electricity and water connected, she moved in with just a bed, a few chairs and kitchen equipment: 'I'll furnish as I go along. That way I'll be sure I won't buy anything I don't really need.'

The house, a spacious one-story tropical affair with a red-tiled back porch facing the waterway, had three bedrooms plus another roomy one with its own kitchen, dining room and a private entrance that made it a separate apartment for her son. Ludwig, and his wife, Berta, who wondered why, if Mrs. Umlauf disliked her so vehemently, she insisted on having the younger Umlaufs sharing her house again. Berta eventually came up with two explanations: she was afraid of living alone, and the old man's will dictated that Ludwig would not inherit the family business until his mother's death-to Berta an indication that, like her, the old man had been suspicious of his son's ability. There was a third reason, which Mrs. Umlauf often recited to Ludwig and Berta: 'It's your duty to look after your mother. What would the people in Marquette say if they heard you'd abandoned me?'

'But if I stay down here,' Ludwig asked almost petulantly, 'who'll take care of the lumber in Michigan?' and his mother informed him: 'I'll be in charge-through our accountants in Marquette,' and when Berta heard these dismissive words she knew that whereas she too had wanted to come to Florida, she was now a prisoner here, just as she had been in Michigan. Nor was there any change in her personal hell, for her mother-in-law reminded Berta and anyone else who would listen that it was she, Mrs. Umlauf, who provided everything. She dominated Berta and used her like a slave. Why didn't Ludwig object to such debasement of his wife? He had never stood up for his own rights against his domineering father and so lacked the experience and fortitude to challenge his mother.

The Umlauf place, as it was called, was recognized as one of the finest houses on the chain of man-made islands, for it was well designed, sturdily built, handsomely landscaped and eventually properly furnished. Its screened-in porch provided a grand view of the waterway and the wild savanna on the opposite shore, but what went on inside the house was not pleasant, for as Mrs. Umlauf aged she became increasingly dictatorial. When Berta invited her son's family-Noel, his wife, Gretchen, and their bright son, Victor-to visit, the cantankerous old woman complained so bitterly about the little noise they made, and was so harsh in reprimanding them, that Noel and Gretchen begged Berta for permission to leave before their planned visit was over, and one time Noel actually said: 'Mother, when I leave this polluted place I might never return.'

'Oh, Noel! Don't surrender the beauty of this place because an evil-minded old woman has spoiled it for you,' but he said: 'Watching her in action is too painful.'

Berta was the first to notice that Mrs. Umlauf's health was deteriorating, but when she pointed this out to her husband, he dismissed the idea: 'She's cranky. Always has been, but it's our duty to pamper her,' and indeed it was, for she still controlled the family fortune. However, her decline accelerated so noticeably that Berta herself called the local medic, Dr. Farquhar, who said as soon as he saw the old lady and took a few tests: 'She's in far worse condition than she realizes or you guessed. She ought to go immediately into some center that can give her twenty-four-hour care. If you know of no such places, I can steer you to one.'

When Ludwig was informed of the diagnosis he said firmly: 'My mother will never be stuck away in a nursing home. What would people say of a son who allowed that?' and it was on the basis of this oft-repeated statement that the Umlauf couple arranged the patterns that would dominate their lives in Florida. Old Mrs. Umlauf, fading rapidly, required almost constant attention, for her mind wandered; she was not always sure where she was; she could not begin to feed herself, and she became incontinent.

She seemed to take perverse pleasure in being incontinent at the most outrageous times and places. Her son, who was appalled at such accidents, found it impossible to cope with them and the task fell to Berta. One day when four accidents occurred, necessitating repeated cleanups, Berta said in tears: 'Ludwig, we can't go on like this. We've got to find a better solution.' But he adamantly refused to allow her to look for a nursing home or to employ outside help: 'It's our duty to look after her. No mother of mine will ever go into a nursing home. Our friends in Marquette would be horrified.'

In despair, Berta slipped out one day to visit with Dr. Farquhar in his office: 'I'm in danger of losing my mind. What can I do?'

'Berta, many families face difficult problems like this. Your case isn't special.'

'What do the others do?'

'If they have money, they find a responsible nursing home. If they can't afford that, and many can't, they cope.'

'How?'

'The way you are.'

'And if I say I can't?'

'At one point or another, they all do. But in the end they cope.'

'Am I close to a nervous breakdown?'

'You may be. I've been watching you!'

'Would you tell my husband? He seems not to be aware.'

'Husbands frequently aren't.' When it appeared that Farquhar too was turning a deaf ear to her predicament, Berta lost control. Bowing her head and weeping pitifully, she whimpered: 'If I can find no help from anyone, what can I do?' The sight of this doughty little woman so overcome by her terrible problems made the doctor realize that he must intrude in family affairs more deeply than he wished.

'I'll try to make your husband understand.'

At first Ludwig refused to listen: 'Looking after Mother is the Christian thing to do.' This rote repetition infuriated Farquhar, who snapped: 'Don't be ridiculous. Your family is in such pitiful shape that your Christian duty is to straighten it out.' When Ludwig shook his head negatively, Farquhar said in a more persuasive voice: 'Ludwig. can't I make you see that if you don't get help for Berta right away, you're going to have two terribly sick women on your hands? Then what are you going to do?'

The doctor delivered this judgment with such grim force that Umlauf had to listen: 'What do you think I should do?'

'Get a nurse to help through the night. And two days a week, you watch your mother so that Berta can be free to do whatever she wants to do.'

'She wouldn't want to be away from Mother, knowing that she might need her.' He spoke so confidently on Berta's behalf that Dr. Farquhar laughed: 'Husbands often fail to see that their wives are having deep trouble. Mr. Umlauf, let me send you an excellent practical nurse I often use. She'll make this place a home again,' and grudgingly Ludwig agreed, although he feared that the expense would be tremendous.

The nurse was a rather large black woman, who arrived in a very small car which she parked with considerable skill. Her name was Lucy Canfield and she did exactly what Dr. Farquhar had predicted; she brought comfort and ease to the Umlauf home. Appearing each afternoon at five, she prepared a light supper for herself and the family, then bathed Mrs. Umlauf and prepared her for bed. When the old woman raised a rumpus during the night, as she loved to do, Lucy was there to absorb the abuse, allowing the younger Mrs. Umlauf to sleep.

But week by week the patient declined until at last she lay immobile in bed, a harridan who screamed at everyone, demanded constant attention day and night, and approached her certain death without a shred of dignity. When Berta recalled her own mother's behavior in her last moments, she wept at the contrast. Her mother had said quietly one afternoon: 'Today I would like to see the sunset,' and Berta had replied: 'It's a mite cold out there, Momma,' but the sun was so brilliant as it dipped toward the west that she complied with her mother's wish. Bundling her against the wind, she wheeled her onto the porch from which she could see both the dying sun and Lake Superior, and there the old lady sat, hands folded, to view for the last time a scene she loved. When Berta came to fetch her, she was dead.

For three agonizing days Mrs. Umlauf wrestled with her bedclothes, soiled her sheets, screamed at Lucy for her clumsiness, at her son for his indifference and at Berta for ruining her son's life. On the fourth day she died, and although no one said: 'It was a mercy,' the three who had taken care of her believed it was. At the funeral, which was sparsely attended, Berta renewed her earlier vow: 'I will not die like this. There must be a better way.'

Life became easier with the passing of Mrs. Umlauf, and Berta was allowed to bring down her son, who had been looking after the Umlauf lumbering empire, and his high-spirited wife and son to spend long vacations in the near-empty house. But Ludwig's behavior began to change, and Berta saw clearly that her husband was beginning to recapitulate the steady decline of his mother. He became forgetful of even the simplest details. He was increasingly irritable. He lost interest in things and would sit for long periods out on the enclosed porch staring at the waterway but finding no pleasure in it. What really surprised Berta was that he turned over the financial management of his mother's estate to the accountants in Marquette, so that Berta lived in a kind of shapeless world, which distressed her.

Two aspects of his behavior caused her serious apprehension. He loved to drive but became increasingly unable to do so and refused to turn in his driver's license. When Berta suggested he do so, he shouted at her that he could still drive as well as ever. This first problem was solved by Dr. Farquhar, who refused to certify his eligibility for a renewal, and because the situation was acute, he arranged for a policeman to come to the house and ask for the canceled license. With a concession that surprised everyone, Ludwig turned over the precious document and allowed Berta to drive him, even thanking her when she did.

The other problem was never solved. From time to time Berta would enter a room to speak with him only to find that he had vanished, disappeared without any warning that he was going to be out taking a walk. Frightened at what might have happened to him, she would run about the neighborhood, over the bridges that joined the islands, and find him often a far distance from home, striding along happily, unaware of where he was or by what route he might be able to return home. But he was always glad to see his wife and did allow her to lead him back.

After the fourth or fifth such episode she consulted Dr. Farquhar, who listened, then said: 'Berta, the doctors at the top of our profession have recently defined what appears to be an old disease with a new name. We've always had cases like your mother-in-law's and Ludwig's, senility we called it. But now they've identified a special type of senility, Alzheimer's disease, named for the doctor who described it. He was a German at the beginning of the century-it's taken all that time for his discovery to be accepted. I think Ludwig has Alzheimer's.

'The basic thing you must understand is that it's like no other disease we know. A doctor cannot say for sure that a patient has it. No measurable or testable symptoms, no specific cause.'

'Then how do you know?'

'When the patient dies, an autopsy of the brain shows that radical changes had taken place. The brain cells had died. A large proportion of the connections that control memory, reasoning, the ability to recognize old friends or family members, they'd been destroyed. And that visual inspection of the dead brain during an autopsy is the only sure proof.'

'Then how can you say that Ludwig might have this disease?'

'Sounds silly but what I'm about to say is true. We investigate and dismiss one possibility after another. Ordinary brain damage? Not that. Malfunctioning of the carotid arteries that carry blood and oxygen to the brain? Not that. Standard decline into senility with weakening of the entire body? Not that. When we've thrown out all the logical possibilities, what we have left has to be Alzheimer's.'

'Will you please start the testing on Ludwig? I want him given every chance of a decent life.'

'We've already done most of the tests-that is, you have.'

'Me?'

'Yes, you're surprisingly well informed on these matters. Comes from what you've told me about the deaths of your in-laws. You tell me that Ludwig cannot remember what happened a few days ago but he rambles on about events that happened decades ago. You say that sometimes he looks at you and cannot remember who you are. And most important, that he seems to be in good health because he takes long walks but never knows where he winds up or how to get back. Classic descriptions, Berta.'

'And what other tests?'

'Blood tests, but I've already done them. And that leaves the two new ones. A check of the carotid arteries that run up the neck-that's the easy one. And the very new CAT scan, a remarkable instrument that can see through bone and into the brain. Will you inform your husband about the necessity-'

'Ludwig's afraid of everything. And he's never listened to me. You tell him, he trusts you.'

The carotid test, which involved ultrasensitive tracking of the behavior of the great neck arteries, created no problems for Ludwig, but the CAT scan was another matter, for it not only came on a bad day when his mind was severely unfocused, but it also involved his being stretched out flat on his back, his hands strapped to his sides because he was fractious, and his head and torso being moved slowly into a dark tunnel whose curved top came down a few inches from his face. For an ordinary patient it would have been frightening; for Ludwig it was terrifying, and despite his hands being immobilized, his strength enabled him to throw himself off the movable stretcher on which he had been placed.

The three nurses who operated the device plus the able doctor in charge were powerless to get him back on the stretcher that would carry him into the machine, but as he struggled, Berta whispered into his ear as the nurses held his head: 'Your mother wanted this done, Ludwig. She said it was no big thing.'

'Did she have it too?'

'She did.' Comforted by that mendacious reassurance and a momentary return of normal thought, he said suddenly: 'You can take off these things,' and when the straps binding his hands were removed, he climbed onto the stretcher and lay back like a satisfied child as he was slowly moved into the dark cave of the machine.

As Dr. Farquhar had supposed, all tests were negative, so that he could tell Berta with some reassurance: 'We've excluded everything. What's left has to be Alzheimer's.'

'But we'll never be sure until he's dead and you can look directly into his brain?'

'That's right,' and he gave her two books dealing with this dreadful disease, plus the fearful summary: 'There's no cure. There is no remission. Soon he will not even know who you are. But as his brain dies, his body will seem to grow stronger. You must have heavy locks on the doors or he will wander off and you might not be able to find him.'

'Would having Lucy Canfield in to help give me the assistance I'll need?'

'You'll need two Lucys, one night, one day. Can you afford that?'

'Yes.'

'But the more sensible solution, and I've watched this in several cases, would be to find a good nursing home, and they do exist, you know, and-'

'No!' Then, because her dismissal had been so instantaneous and fierce, she explained: 'After the rather painful deaths of his father and mother, Ludwig took down our family Bible, made me place my right hand on it and swear that I would allow him to die in our home and that I would never under any circumstances put him in a nursing home.'

'He could not foresee the circumstances.'

'But I took an oath. More important, when I promised I saw the terrible fear in his eyes. I have to live with that.'

Lucy Canfield had a black friend almost as reliable as she, and the two helped Berta maintain a comfortable home for this giant of a man, a former football player of some skill, who had to be watched twenty-four hours a day. His decline was swift, remorseless, terrifying and repulsive. When strangers saw her leading her husband by the hand, they smiled, and children who became familiar with the sight sometimes said cruel things: 'Look at that little lady guiding that big, dumb-looking hulk.' Ruefully she thought: He wasn't always a hulk. In high school, he was everybody's idol.

As older residents on the island became aware of his illness, they would telephone Berta when they saw him wandering and she would rush out to rescue him, driving the tormenting children away and taking his hand. One such escape was more serious; Lucy had placed him on the porch where he enjoyed watching the waterway, even though he could not distinguish the boats or the lovely Washingtonia palms. On this occasion, when the urgent desire to go walking seized him he simply strode through the screen, tearing it apart with his powerful hands, and headed off in a new direction.

Because residents on the other islands were not acquainted with his wanderings or the family to which he belonged, they ignored him, so he walked happily across several of them until he reached the footbridge leading to Island 11, which was slippery, and he fell into the water. When the police found him hip-deep in soft mud, splashing his hands and chuckling, they pulled him back to land, and recognizing him as 'that walking fellow from Island 5,' drove him home. Berta, frantic on seeing him wet and covered with mud, thought for a moment that he might be dead. Realizing how stupid that was, since he was walking toward the house, she burst into laughter at herself. The officers were amazed that she should be laughing at such a moment, but were reassured by her rushing to Ludwig and embracing him, mud and all. She cried: 'Thank God you found him. Oh, thank you so much.' When the men saw the screen Ludwig had torn apart they laconically remarked: 'Better not put him on the porch anymore.'

More difficult to deal with was his failure to recognize the three women who cared for him, or even to know that they were women. Nor could he differentiate between the two black women and his white wife, and when his faculties deteriorated so far that he became abusive, he would curse them, convinced that they had stolen the funds he kept in Marquette.

The inevitable decline to the point at which he could not attend to his bodily functions resulted in one of the more distasteful routines for the women. Either Berta or one of his nurses would have to unzip his trousers and encourage him to urinate properly, or lower his pants completely and place him on the bathroom commode, followed by the necessity of wiping his bottom. Once, after such a performance, Lucy brought the other nurse with her to face Berta: 'We can't go on like this. It ain't human. Over there is that building they call the Palms, they have a fine hospital area, I work there sometimes. You could drive Mr. Ludwig there in ten minutes, and they got ways of handlin' a case like this. I've seen it.'

Without telling the women of her oath, Berta said stubbornly: 'I cannot take my husband to such a place-'

'It's not a livin' hell,' Lucy exploded. 'It's better for him than here,' and when Berta remained obdurate, the women delivered the speech they had agreed on: 'Mrs. Umlauf, we can't work here anymore.'

'Oh my God!' Berta cried. 'You can't leave me alone.'

'Rachel, she has a cousin, a strong man, cares for people like this. He has a man friend who helps at night. We'll bring them to see you tonight after they get off work. You can trust them, but they cost more money than you've been payin' us.'

'If it's money you want-'

'We want out. We'll bring the men tonight.'

When Berta saw them she realized how shattered her world had become, for the two men were rough types she would never have allowed near her house under ordinary circumstances. Now she must invite them in and live with them, the cousin during the day, the stranger at night. But she saw that they were big enough to manage Ludwig, and she gave thanks for that.

The two men moved into the house, and they brought stern discipline to Ludwig. He would do as they said, and if he tried to go his stubborn way, they were capable of knocking him about until he behaved. They were not tender-loving-care nurses but they were effective. However, after they had dealt with Ludwig for two weeks, they, like their cousin and Lucy, wanted to speak with Berta: 'Miz Berta, him and me works part time at the Palms over there. You never saw a better place. Clean. People who knows what they're doin'. Real professional. They can do the job much better than us, and you got to see it.' Timothy, the bigger of the two men, insisted that Berta drive over to the Palms right then, and when he led her to the second floor where he had worked with Alzheimer's patients, everyone knew him and said a warm hello.

Under his guidance, and with assistance from Ken Krenek, Berta had as favorable an introduction to Assisted Living as possible, and when Krenek learned where she lived and what her problem was, he said enthusiastically: 'Mrs. Umlauf, it's simple. You let us care for your husband, we're good at that. And you remain in your home and drive over here as often as you wish-even take your meals here, that could be arranged.' Then he added: 'It's the orderly way to handle it,' but at that moment she was powerless to accept: 'I shall remember what you said, Mr. Krenek. It makes great sense.' As she left Assisted Living, she stopped at the exit, turned wistfully to look at the attractive complex of buildings and burst into tears to think that she must forgo such an eminently suitable place.

Ludwig's death did not come quickly. The black men labored with him for half a year, wondering between them when the old man would have the decency to die. The accountants in Marquette wanted to know whether Berta was really paying out such huge sums for house care when public services must surely be available. They even flew one of their team down to see whether the widow Umlauf, as she was referred to on their books, was being bilked by Florida sharpies. At the end of one day's inspection the man said: 'Mrs. Umlauf, this arrangement is ridiculous. I was at that fine place just across the bridge and their staff can take the matter off your hands for less than you're paying now. Please, in the name of common sense, consider such a solution.'

When Berta heard these words pronounced with an accent that made her think she was back in Marquette, the bitterness with which she remembered that unkindly place overcame her: 'What would the people in Marquette say if they learned that I had placed my husband in a nursing home?' and the man said: 'Yes, that would be a consideration. But I believe we could arrange it so they'd never know. He'd still get his mail at this address.'

Ludwig Umlauf finally died because his tangled brain could no longer send protective messages to the vital parts of his body. Brain, lungs, kidneys, respiratory system all seemed to collapse at the same time and he died not knowing where he was or who was tending him. He could not even differentiate his wife from the big black men who took care of him. Even his legacy of more than six million dollars presented problems, for he had never bothered to write a will.

On the day after his estate was finally settled, Berta met with her son, his wife and their son in the library of her home on Island 5: 'My beloved children, these years have not been easy. I wish you could have lived here with us as I had intended. But in these harsh times I've learned several lessons that will determine the rest of my life and influence yours when I'm gone.' At this point her son moved his chair closer to hers and tenderly touched her arm.

Noel had acquired his un-German name in a curious way. His grandfather, gruff old Otto Umlauf, had insisted that when a grandson came along, he must be named Otto, to preserve the family tradition, and he was so christened. But the registry book also showed something the older Umlaufs never discovered: Berta, acting on her own, had slipped in a middle name that she had always intended for a son, if she had one, so the young man now sitting beside her carried the legal name Otto Noel Umlauf. On the day he went off to school he took with him a note to hand the teacher: 'My name is Noel Umlauf,' and so he became a tiny testament to the romanticism and independence of spirit that Berta Krause had nurtured as a girl.

She said: 'As you know, I have been deeply and tragically involved with three deaths in this family. Your grandfather Otto, your grandmother Ingrid, and your father, Ludwig. I better than anyone living can tell you that each of them approached death with no inner courage to make it a natural part of life, and no concern for those they would leave behind. I can only say that they died miserably and in ways that terrified both them and me.

'Well, I do not intend to die the way they did, and I want each of you to remember what I'm about to say. And for the love of God, keep in a safe place the documents I'm going to give you. Listen carefully.

'As I grow older and fall into the decline that overtakes all of us, do not, I pray, do not take me into your homes to be a burden, an expense and a shadow over your normal lives. You, Noel, do not allow false family pride to keep your wife from putting me in a nursing center of good reputation where I can die in peace and with dignity. You, Victor, never say: "Isn't it awful that Grandmother has to be in a nursing home when she could have remained in her own home?" To all of you, do not give a damn about what the neighbors in Marquette or anywhere else say about how you handle this problem. Think only of your own welfare and mine and do the right thing, the Christian thing, and help me to die properly.'

Everyone began talking animatedly, but no one in the room was uncertain as to what Berta had said with such dignity and force. She resumed speaking: 'I have prepared, with the assistance of an excellent book, what lawyers now call a living will. I need two witnesses who can attest to my soundness of mind to sign it. Noel and Victor, would you please come here?' From her desk drawer she removed two copies of her will and a pen.

'As you can read for yourself, it says that when I reach the point at which I am brain-dead, I do not want to be kept alive as a vegetable by the latest miracles of medicine. I want to be allowed to die simply and honorably. And the will states specifically: "I do not want cardiac resuscitation, mechanical respiration, tube feeding or antibiotics to keep me alive physically when I am already dead mentally and spiritually." ' She looked intently into the faces of her son and grandson. 'These are my wishes and I can tell you that I'm thinking more clearly at this moment than I ever have in my life. Please sign.'

Respecting Berta's deep feelings on the subject, both Noel and Victor signed the will on the lines provided for witnesses. Then Berta handed Noel one copy of her will. 'I give you this paper as a sacred trust. Please be guided by it.'

Berta continued: 'I have made my estate will and filed it, but all you need to know about it is that whatever funds I have when I die will go to you to enjoy in your lifetimes. I leave no trusts or clever documents to try to retain control over my money. It will be yours at the proper time and you are not to beg me for your share before I die. I won't give you any. But with this next paper I do give you this wonderful house. I'm giving it to the family as a unit. As of this afternoon. If you look you'll see it's dated so that you take charge tomorrow, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did in the days when life here was good.'

This, of course, caused immense discussion, and she let it run without further comment. As it died down she said: 'I want all of you up at seven tomorrow for an early breakfast, because at eight-thirty a truck will arrive and I'll need help from all of you. Your problem is this: "What should Grandmother Umlauf take with her when she moves from this big house into a little apartment in that big building on the other side of the channel, the one you see from our porch?" Because that's where I'm going to live for the remainder of my life.'

There was an outcry at this, with her daughter-in-law saying repeatedly that she did not want their mother to live in a nursing home, but when it became obvious that Berta was determined to do exactly what she said, talk centered on what she should take from the large house to what was probably a minute bed-sitting room with a bathroom and maybe a small kitchenette. Berta disabused them of that perception: 'It has a large bath, a full kitchen, a large living room and two bedrooms. So I'll be able to use quite a few things from here.' Quickly she added: 'You understand, I've already bought two new beds, so that's not a problem. Everything that we leave here tomorrow morning belongs to this house and to you.'

By the time the young people went to bed, they had affixed to almost a score of things little red tags that meant they were to go into the truck, but after they were asleep Berta moved quietly about the rooms removing two thirds of the markers. She had always aspired to a neat house devoid of clutter.

Next day by noon she was fully ensconced in her apartment on the fourth floor of the Peninsula, and when her family saw the vistas framed by almost every window-views of the waterways, the trees-as well as the easy access to the elevators, they agreed that Grandmother Umlauf had made a wise decision.

To celebrate the move, Berta had arranged with Dr. Zorn for a table to be reserved for a family lunch, to which they invited Andy. As the quiet luncheon started, for not many residents took that meal, he told the Umlaufs: 'We're happy to welcome a woman as distinguished as Mrs. Umlauf.' Noel asked: 'What's she done that we don't know about?' and Zorn replied: 'You know about it more than anyone else. Dr. Farquhar told me confidentially what a heroic woman your mother was in caring for three different members of her family who underwent protracted deaths.'

'She was a saint,' Noel said, patting his mother's hand. Zorn continued: 'We praise women for selflessly caring for others while surrendering their personal happiness. As you say, it's being a saint. But now we have better solutions, and moving people like her to the Palms is one of them. Here we provide monitored care and loving attention to the end. Our center is able to do this because it has a wonderful staff and caring residents like your mother.'

The luncheon did not end on this lugubrious note, because Victor had become fascinated at what was happening at a nearby table: 'Who's that interesting lady eating alone?' and after a glance at table fifteen Zorn explained: 'We call her the Duchess. She was a woman of some social importance years ago, and she gets real pleasure from pretending that she still is.'

'You let her have a table all to herself?'

'At lunch we can allow it, to make her feel more important. At dinner we need every table.'

'Does she eat with the others then?'

'No. She has a snack in her room. Alone. But on the nights we show movies she joins us after dinner, and we keep a comfortable seat reserved for her when she comes, like a great lady going to the opera.'