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"
Music
in
the
fifties
was
good
.
Much
better
than
the
sixties
,
or
the
seventies
,
ugh
!
"
He
shuddered
.
"
The
eighties
were
bearable
.
"
"
Are
you
ever
going
to
tell
me
how
old
you
are
?
"
I
asked
,
tentative
,
not
wanting
to
upset
his
buoyant
humor
.
"
Does
it
matter
much
?
"
His
smile
,
to
my
relief
,
remained
unclouded
.
"
No
,
but
I
still
wonder
.
.
.
"
I
grimaced
.
"
There
’
s
nothing
like
an
unsolved
mystery
to
keep
you
up
at
night
.
"
"
I
wonder
if
it
will
upset
you
,
"
he
reflected
to
himself
.
He
gazed
into
the
sun
;
the
minutes
passed
.
"
Try
me
,
"
I
finally
said
.
He
sighed
,
and
then
looked
into
my
eyes
,
seeming
to
forget
the
road
completely
for
a
time
.
Whatever
he
saw
there
must
have
encouraged
him
.
He
looked
into
the
sun
-
the
light
of
the
setting
orb
glittered
off
his
skin
in
ruby
-
tinged
sparkles
-
and
spoke
.
"
I
was
born
in
Chicago
in
1901
.
"
He
paused
and
glanced
at
me
from
the
corner
of
his
eyes
.
My
face
was
carefully
unsurprised
,
patient
for
the
rest
.
He
smiled
a
tiny
smile
and
continued
.
"
Carlisle
found
me
in
a
hospital
in
the
summer
of
1918
.
I
was
seventeen
,
and
dying
of
the
Spanish
influenza
.
"
He
heard
my
intake
of
breath
,
though
it
was
barely
audible
to
my
own
ears
.
He
looked
down
into
my
eyes
again
.
