Argyll feared little of flesh and blood, not from confidence derived from a proven toughness, but because he had seen so much death in his short life that he couldn’t bring himself to view his own death as anything out of sequence or time.
By Jacob Appel
A first pulse of memory: My father, broad-shouldered and dashing, sliding his arms into a long white coat that smells of bleach. It is springtime in St. Arnac, a balmy Sunday afternoon snowing crab-apple petals. We’ve parked in the physicians-only lot atop the roof of the hospital’s garage, the same hospital where, the previous Thanksgiving, my pregnant mother died of a ruptured uterus.