Later - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Stephen King (47) #49

47

On Tuesday morning, I got another email from him. My mother got the same one, and so did several other people.

Dear friends and associates,

I have received some bad news. David Robertson—old friend, colleague, and former department head—suffered a stroke at his retirement home on Siesta Key in Florida last evening and is now in Sarasota Memorial Hospital. He is not expected to live, or even to regain consciousness, but I have known Dave and his lovely wife Marie for over forty years and must make the trip, little as I want to, if only to offer comfort to his wife and attend the funeral, should it come to that. I will reschedule such appointments as I have upon my return.

I will be in residence at Bentley’s Boutique Hotel (such a name!) in Osprey for the length of my stay, and you can reach me there, but the best way to get in touch with me is still email. As most of you know, I do not carry a personal phone. I apologize for any inconvenience.

Sincerely yours,

Prof. Martin F. Burkett (Emeritus)

“He’s old school,” I said to Mom as we ate our breakfast: grapefruit and yogurt for her, Cheerios for me.

She nodded. “He is, and there aren’t many of his kind left. To rush to the bedside of a dying friend at his age…” She shook her head. “Remarkable. Admirable. And that email!”

“Professor Burkett doesn’t write emails,” I said. “He writes letters.”

“True, but not what I was thinking of. Really, how many appointments and scheduled visitors do you think he has at his age?”

Well, there was one, I thought, but didn’t say.