“ICANSTILLdrive,youknow,”FelixSilverstonesaidto
me after our dinner together. “I’m a very good driver.”
HehadtorunanerrandtorefillBella’sprescriptionsin
Stoughton,afewmilesaway,andIaskedifIcouldcome
along.He had a ten-year-oldgold Toyota Camrywith
automatic transmission and 39,000 miles on the
odometer.Itwaspristine,insideandout.Hebackedout
ofanarrowparkingspaceandzippedoutofthegarage.
Hishandsdidnotshake.TakingthestreetsofCantonat
duskonanew-moonnight,hebroughtthecartoaneven
stopattheredlights,signaledwhenhewassupposedto,
took turns without a hitch.
Iwas,Iadmit,bracedfordisaster.Theriskofafatalcar
crash with adriver who’seighty-fiveor olderismore
thanthreetimeshigherthanitiswithateenagedriver.
Theveryoldarethehighest-riskdriversontheroad.I
thoughtofAlice’swreckandconsideredhowluckyshe
wasthatnochildhadbeeninherneighbor’syard.Afew
months earlier, in Los Angeles, George Weller was
convicted of manslaughter after he confused the
acceleratorwith thebrakepedalandplowed hisBuick
intoacrowdof shoppersattheSantaMonicaFarmers
Market.Tenpeoplewerekilled,andmorethansixtywere
injured. He was eighty-six.
ButFelixshowednodifficulties.Atonepointduringour
drive,poorlymarkedroadconstructionatanintersection
channeledourlineofcarsalmostdirectlyintooncoming
traffic.Felixcorrectedcourseswiftly, pullingoverinto
theproperlane.Therewasnosayinghowmuchlongerhe
wouldbeabletocountonhisdrivingability.Someday,