The Iridescence of Old Ladies

When she was 74 years old, Mrs. V. withdrew to Heavenly Rest in suburban Philadelphia, a flat, tidy nursing home of cinderblock design calling to mind a small hosiery mill. Parking is provided. A bed of marigolds, a glassed-in vestibule, gray linoleum, Naugahyde settees, a receptionist in a cerise smock. The air is close, faintly ammoniacal. Guests align the walls in wheelchairs, some drowsy, some in an attitude of listening. The women's hair is thinning; their cheeks pale as candles. Men wear gray wrappers, exposing their knees.

I'm issued a pass and directions to Room 147. A nurse's aide meets me in the hall. “Most days she's pretty good,” she says as we walk to the far end. “Quiet like, you know, but now and then she flies off the handle quicker'n you can say Jack Robertson. You …