Free Outwitting Trolls by William G. Tapply Page B

looked at her. “What do you mean?”
    â€œYou’re his daughter-in-law?”
    Sharon nodded, although technically she was the old guy’s ex -daughter-in-law.
    â€œDo you know about Charles’s…condition?”
    â€œCondition?”
    â€œWell,” Joan Porter said, “I know Charles’s son has been informed, and I believe Charles himself told his granddaughter. She was here a week or so ago. Neither of them has shared the news with you?”
    Sharon shook her head.
    Joan Porter hesitated, then said, “Mr. Nichols—Charles—he has recently been diagnosed with a brain aneurysm.”
    Sharon blinked. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, dear. What will they…?”
    â€œThere’s apparently nothing they can do for him.”
    â€œNo operation?”
    â€œEvidently not. You might want to talk with his physician, get a professional opinion, but as I understand it, a man Charles’s age, with all his other infirmities…”
    â€œThat’s why he fell, Ms. Porter?” Sharon asked. “The brain aneurysm? He passed out or got dizzy or something?”
    Joan Porter shrugged. “That’s what the doctor thinks. Charles doesn’t really remember what happened. It may never happen again. There’s no telling with aneurysms.”
    â€œIt could, um, burst anytime?” asked Sharon.
    â€œAs I understand it.”
    â€œWhich would kill him.”
    â€œOh, my, yes,” said Joan Porter.
    â€œCan he continue living here?”
    â€œCertainly,” Joan Porter said. “This is his home. If he falls and hurts himself again, we’ll have to think about moving him to the assisted living side. Charles would hate it, of course. We’re hoping we won’t have to go that route.”
    Sharon looked at Joan Porter for a moment, then said, “Well, thank you for telling me. Thank you for your candor.” She held out her hand.
    Joan Porter took Sharon’s hand in both of hers, and I read genuine kindness in the woman’s eyes. “You’re one of his relatives,” she said. “You have a right to know. Knowing Charles, I’m not sure he would tell you.”
    Sharon hooked her arm through mine. We started down the wide corridor, turned a corner, and came to a big open area furnished with comfortable chairs and sofas and a giant wide-screen television showing a baseball game. A few white-haired people were sitting on the furniture, and some others were parked in wheelchairs, facing the TV, where a pitcher in a Blue Jays uniform was peering in to get the sign from his catcher, and a Red Sox runner was taking his lead from first base.
    Sharon stopped and looked around for a minute. Then she said, “There he is.”
    I followed her over to a man sitting in a wheelchair in the back of the room. He had wispy white hair and a little white mustache and transparent skin. A cast covered his right arm from his fingertips up past his elbow. It hung from a sling around his neck. His lap and legs were covered with a brown blanket. He was wearing a green cardigan sweater over a white dress shirt that was buttoned to his throat.
    As we approached him, I heard him say quite loudly, “Try a bunt, for Christ’s sake. They never bunt. What’s wrong with abunt now and then?” Nobody else in the room was paying any attention to him. He seemed to be addressing the television set. “It’s a perfect spot for a bunt. God damn prima donnas. Nobody makes them practice the fundamentals. They don’t get those big contracts for laying down a nice bunt. Ha. Come on. Play the game right.”

Nine
    Sharon walked up beside Charles Nichols, put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “Charles?”
    His head snapped around. He looked up at Sharon and frowned. “What do you want?”
    â€œCharles, it’s me. It’s Sharon.”
    He blinked at her. Then he said, “Oh. Sure. What are