Speaking of notes.

Let’s suppose I actually handed the story in. Let’s suppose this one time-never again of course, only this once-I saved my ass with a little creativity. If someone were to challenge something in the story, I could supply proof. Not tape-I was the traditionalist who famously abhorred the tape recorder. I would give them my notes.

What notes?

The ones I’d instantly conjure up if push came to shove.

The simple brilliance of this deception comforted me and spurred me on.

When I finished the story, I thought it read exactly like it would’ve if I had gotten on that plane and made it to that shuttered home in Shreveport.

Still, I admit to the slightest trembling in my hands as I walked it over to the backfield editior that evening.

As I stood and watched it make its way from copy desk to proof.

The next morning, he called me into his office.

My trembling increased geometrically. I quivered, consumed by the absolute dread you feel on your way to the principal when you’ve been caught red-handed with crib notes in your pocket.

I rehearsed a story on the way to his office: “I missed the plane, so I called them and did the interview on the phone… It’ll never happen again… I should’ve told you… I’m so sorry…”

When I made it through the door, the first thing I saw was the paper folded to my article. First page, lower left.

A Soldier’s Sad Return

He peered up over his old-fashioned bifocals, looking even more rumpled than usual. Ever since smoking was banned in New York City offices, he’d taken to chewing anything in arm’s reach. This morning it was a red pencil nearly bitten in half, which he carefully removed from his mouth and suspended over the article with the deliberateness of a firing hammer being squeezed back into position.

“Nice writing,” he said. “Moving without being mawkish. Really, really good.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I might’ve even blushed.

Once upon a time, Littleton had aspired to a kind of Palm Springs-hood. They’d broken ground for a Robert Trent Jones golf course and two sprawling resorts, ascribing to the build-it-and-they-will-come theory of urban development.

They didn’t come.

Maybe because Palm Springs had Bob Hope and Shecky Greene and a host of other aging Friars Club members, and Littleton had Sonny Rolph.

It didn’t help that Littleton’s major real estate developer went belly-up in the stock collapse of the early nineties, just as Vegas turned into a cheap ticket option for Los Angelenos looking to grab a weekend getaway.

The resorts were never finished-the golf course suspended at nine holes and counting.

Now mall openings were true cause for excitement.

This one was first-rate.

Rodeo clowns handed out balloons twisted into tiny pink dachshunds. Humming machines spun out glistening spools of cotton candy. Someone who looked like Billy Ray Cyrus sung a country song about his girlfriend leaving him red, white, and blue.

Which happened to be the color of the ceremonial ribbon deftly cut in two by Littleton’s three-term mayor. Patriotism was clearly in these days. The voracious crowd promptly surged through the massive doorway in search of bargains and air-conditioning. Not necessarily in that order.

Nate Cohen, my intern from Pepperdine, accompanied me to cover this earthshaking event. Nate the Skate his frat buddies called him, he informed me the day we met.

Why?

I don’t know, he said, looking puzzled at the question.

Nate tended to pepper me with journalism questions when he wasn’t gabbing to his girlfriend. They had matching cell phones, he stated proudly, both of which could take camera-quality pictures. He proved it by showing me his girlfriend, Rina, reclining nude on an outdoor chaise longue.

“Isn’t she cute?” he asked.

“You sure you want to be showing people that?” I asked him.

“You’re not people. You’re my mentor. Sort of.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t want your mentor seeing her naked?”

“Oh, she wouldn’t care. We go to Black’s Beach like all the time.”

Black’s Beach was a notorious clothing-optional cove just south of La Jolla.

We discharged our duties with perfunctory professionalism.

Somehow interviewing the middle-aged saleswoman who generously splashed me with Calvin Klein’s Eau de something failed to get my journalistic juices flowing. Same for the home-appliances manager-despite his flawless demonstration of a combination juicer-toaster, and hand vacuum with built-in computer chip.

I was preoccupied.

Belinda Washington had made it to her hundredth birthday and then suddenly passed away. I’d heard it on the radio this morning.

On a sad note, the local radio announcer had said, our very own centenarian kicked the bucket today. Belinda Washington has moved on to that great big nursing home in the sky.

We should all be so lucky, the show’s cohost had cheerily intoned.

After I dropped Nate off, I drove back to the home.

I’m not sure why.

When I entered the lobby, Mr. Birdwell was ushering a middle-aged couple out the door.

“So let us know,” he said to them. “Space is kind of limited.”

He was already trying to fill her bed. Old-age homes were like in restaurants these days; the good ones had waiting lists that were miles long.

Mr. Birdwell had no trouble remembering me.

“What brings you back, Mr. Valle?”

“I heard about Belinda. Just following up.”

He stared at me with a puzzled expression, as if he were waiting for a second part of the sentence.

“I was wondering what she died of,” I said.

“She was 100,” he answered, as if that provided all the reason necessary.

“She seemed pretty okay the day I was here.”

“Her heart,” he said. “It just gave out.”

“I see.” I remembered the chill of Belinda’s hand-the opposite of Anna’s hot-blooded grip. Cold extremities were a sign of pure blood circulation. Her heart, sure.

“Can I see her room?” I asked.

“What for?”

“For the story.”

There wasn’t a story. Even as the words passed my lips, I knew I was lying.

“There’s not a whole lot there,” Mr. Birdwell said. “But okay.”

He turned and motioned for me to follow him.

We passed the nurse’s station, where wheelchairs were lined up like shopping carts. The nurses seemed subdued today. Maybe they’d been fond of Belinda, too.

A bathrobed man was tortuously making his way down the hall with the aid of walker and oxygen mask. He looked up and squinted at me as if trying to focus. He had been in the rec room that day, I remembered, and briefly wondered if he might be Anna’s father, the one withering away from Alzheimer’s.

Belinda’s room was at the end of a long fluorescent-lit hall.

It was conspicuously empty.

She’d had it all to herself. Just one double bed. A TV screwed into a movable platform was tucked into the corner.

A small brown dresser supported a lone picture frame half turned to the wall.

I picked it up and peeked.

A mother and son.

It was unmistakably her-just sixty years younger.

The same smile she’d bestowed on me the day I interviewed her. She was sitting on a bench with a small boy nestled in her arms.

Just above her head was a sign suspended by chains: Littleton Flats Café.

“She grew up in Littleton Flats?” I asked Mr. Birdwell, trying to remember if she’d mentioned that to me.

“Oh yes,” Mr. Birdwell said. “Belinda was our homegrown celebrity. You know that weatherguy on NBC-Willard, what’s his name, Scott-who wishes happy birthday to 100-year-olds around the country? He put Belinda’s picture on a few weeks ago.”