“Cal’s daughter was always telling him what he could and couldn’t say. She kept reminding him that he was retired—unlike every single one of her friends’ fathers—therefore unacceptably old, therefore doddering around in a kind of anachronistic limbo that was deeply mortifying for those forced to live in close proximity to him.”
“He’s walking with the West End at his back, towards Youngstorget Square.”
“A pair of Brads and a Humvee rolled across the bridge toward the Red Zone. Montauk gave a little wave. They waved back.”
“Today I took my kids to the cemetery to talk to E. B. White. E. B. White is buried next to his wife, Katharine Angell White, and their son, Joel White.”
