The Interview
The attendant presented a plump, apple-cheeked face. “Mrs. Corrigan will see you now.” Only in the UK did they grow knobby, half-dollar sized, rosy coloring like that, even on women built like triathletes.
The digital clock face rolled to nine-twenty, barely past dawn for places in the shadow of Northern Europe’s winter solstice. The eight-hour flight from home in Norfolk, Virginia to London left me with a coffee-soured stomach and gritty eyes, but opportunities to interview Ally Corrigan didn’t grow on trees, especially when sweetened by a generous advance.
“What was so special about me?” I must’ve asked myself the question a thousand times on the flight over.
I followed the pixie haired brunette, abandoning the parlor of chintz chairs, a heating system straining to keep up with the cold dreariness outside, frilly lampshades, and Victorian accents. Dressed in a fitted, top-of-the-line uniform of black and green, the attendant led me past a polished oak door, also from another century, and to a large room of a far different motif. We stepped into a showcase from the latest online selections of Avant, Europe’s go-to merchant for stylish furniture, electronics, and accessories.
Outside, a winter storm beat on the long, narrow window panes. The impact of the raindrops made a harsh, spitting patter. In the next block, the shapes of Hyde Park trees and shrubbery faded in and out as the waves of rain passed through. Unlike the outer room, cold had no chance of penetrating our cozy bubble of innovative modernity.
My curious stare eventually fell on the pale skinned, elderly woman. No, elderly isn’t accurate. She was elderly when she did her charity work and cable stream cooking show fifteen years before. This version was more like the ancient ruin, the magnificence of which you admired all your life and intended to visit one day. When you do, it turns out to be sad detritus, a step away from absorption by the natural landscape.
This was Ally Corrigan.
She sat in a reclining chair, like the kind you find in an airline First Class, assuming you’re lucky enough to get there. The attendant rotated a TV tray and its computer monitor aside. She summoned a robotic chair for me. After my host’s age, the next thing you noticed was her almost elfin size.
Her lips moved for a second or two before any words came out. “Thank you, Phyllis. That’ll be all. Mr. Parsons and I will be alone now.” Mrs. Corrigan added the flutter of a small, lean finger to the dismissal.
“Yes, ma’am. You have your call button. I’ll be just outside.”
The attendant’s crisp livery contrasted with Mrs. Corrigan’s hooded blanket wrap, knee socks, and quilted robe, a matching blue combination intended for warmth rather than style. Any time before her husband, Joe, died, five years earlier, Edwinna Allyson Corrigan wouldn’t have been caught dead in an outfit like this.
Before me, shriveled and leprechaun-like, she seemed a galaxy away from the vibrant presence of my youth the media nicknamed Thumbelina. For decades longer than I’d been alive, she and Joe occupied a prominent place in world finance and industry. Their philanthropy was a legend.
After Joe died, Ally became a recluse. Then, out of nowhere, she offered an interview, to me of all people. You should’ve seen the shock on my boss’ face when her agent called. I wasn’t exactly considered the twenty-game winner on the staff of Norfolk News-44.
Every word or action from this fragile human contraption seemed to come at a price charged against the small account of whatever time she had left. Speech arose from her at a tortuously slow pace. At the same time, a sense of urgency bled through. She presented a disarming smile. Even such a routine gesture took effort. Reference sources placed her age at ninety. I wondered about that.
“Join me, Mr. Parsons?” She swept a small, frail hand to indicate the nearby robotic chair. In the process, the hooded lap blanket fell away to reveal a large coil of silvery gray hair. The overall presentation and frailty of the voice gave me a chill, not for me but for her.
I took the seat.
The news streams hadn’t exaggerated. Ally Corrigan was the smallest adult woman I’d ever seen, including the minnow girls from my army days in the Philippines. Over the years, the media made her tiny stature common knowledge. She filled out micro-sized designer outfits to the fullness of each curve. Women sometimes suggested she was stunted, even misshapen, but never a man. Consensus settled on her height at just over five feet, which included hats, heels, and big hair. Nothing prepared you for the shock of meeting the reality. In stocking feet, I don’t think she cleared more than four-six or seven.
She held me in the grip of two overlarge almond-shaped eyes. Despite the wear of time, enough of the cornflower blue color showed through to hint at the crown jewel of her beauty they must’ve been. From the get-go, they probed in more than routine evaluation at meeting someone new. She tried to get inside.
The probe stopped to permit introductions. She offered the tiny and—I now learned—glacially cold hand. “My name is Ally Corrigan.”
“I know who you are, ma’am. You and your husband, Joseph, are the world’s richest couple. What I mean is since he’s gone, you are…”
She smirked. “I understand what you’re trying to say, Mr. Parsons.”
“Please, call me Kris.”
“And you may call me Ally.” A glazed expression told me her mind remained stuck on my mention of her husband, from all accounts deeply beloved and missed. “Yes,” she added, “that was a long time ago.”
The attendant presented a plump, apple-cheeked face. “Mrs. Corrigan will see you now.” Only in the UK did they grow knobby, half-dollar sized, rosy coloring like that, even on women built like triathletes.
The digital clock face rolled to nine-twenty, barely past dawn for places in the shadow of Northern Europe’s winter solstice. The eight-hour flight from home in Norfolk, Virginia to London left me with a coffee-soured stomach and gritty eyes, but opportunities to interview Ally Corrigan didn’t grow on trees, especially when sweetened by a generous advance.
“What was so special about me?” I must’ve asked myself the question a thousand times on the flight over.
I followed the pixie haired brunette, abandoning the parlor of chintz chairs, a heating system straining to keep up with the cold dreariness outside, frilly lampshades, and Victorian accents. Dressed in a fitted, top-of-the-line uniform of black and green, the attendant led me past a polished oak door, also from another century, and to a large room of a far different motif. We stepped into a showcase from the latest online selections of Avant, Europe’s go-to merchant for stylish furniture, electronics, and accessories.
Outside, a winter storm beat on the long, narrow window panes. The impact of the raindrops made a harsh, spitting patter. In the next block, the shapes of Hyde Park trees and shrubbery faded in and out as the waves of rain passed through. Unlike the outer room, cold had no chance of penetrating our cozy bubble of innovative modernity.
My curious stare eventually fell on the pale skinned, elderly woman. No, elderly isn’t accurate. She was elderly when she did her charity work and cable stream cooking show fifteen years before. This version was more like the ancient ruin, the magnificence of which you admired all your life and intended to visit one day. When you do, it turns out to be sad detritus, a step away from absorption by the natural landscape.
This was Ally Corrigan.
She sat in a reclining chair, like the kind you find in an airline First Class, assuming you’re lucky enough to get there. The attendant rotated a TV tray and its computer monitor aside. She summoned a robotic chair for me. After my host’s age, the next thing you noticed was her almost elfin size.
Her lips moved for a second or two before any words came out. “Thank you, Phyllis. That’ll be all. Mr. Parsons and I will be alone now.” Mrs. Corrigan added the flutter of a small, lean finger to the dismissal.
“Yes, ma’am. You have your call button. I’ll be just outside.”
The attendant’s crisp livery contrasted with Mrs. Corrigan’s hooded blanket wrap, knee socks, and quilted robe, a matching blue combination intended for warmth rather than style. Any time before her husband, Joe, died, five years earlier, Edwinna Allyson Corrigan wouldn’t have been caught dead in an outfit like this.
Before me, shriveled and leprechaun-like, she seemed a galaxy away from the vibrant presence of my youth the media nicknamed Thumbelina. For decades longer than I’d been alive, she and Joe occupied a prominent place in world finance and industry. Their philanthropy was a legend.
After Joe died, Ally became a recluse. Then, out of nowhere, she offered an interview, to me of all people. You should’ve seen the shock on my boss’ face when her agent called. I wasn’t exactly considered the twenty-game winner on the staff of Norfolk News-44.
Every word or action from this fragile human contraption seemed to come at a price charged against the small account of whatever time she had left. Speech arose from her at a tortuously slow pace. At the same time, a sense of urgency bled through. She presented a disarming smile. Even such a routine gesture took effort. Reference sources placed her age at ninety. I wondered about that.
“Join me, Mr. Parsons?” She swept a small, frail hand to indicate the nearby robotic chair. In the process, the hooded lap blanket fell away to reveal a large coil of silvery gray hair. The overall presentation and frailty of the voice gave me a chill, not for me but for her.
I took the seat.
The news streams hadn’t exaggerated. Ally Corrigan was the smallest adult woman I’d ever seen, including the minnow girls from my army days in the Philippines. Over the years, the media made her tiny stature common knowledge. She filled out micro-sized designer outfits to the fullness of each curve. Women sometimes suggested she was stunted, even misshapen, but never a man. Consensus settled on her height at just over five feet, which included hats, heels, and big hair. Nothing prepared you for the shock of meeting the reality. In stocking feet, I don’t think she cleared more than four-six or seven.
She held me in the grip of two overlarge almond-shaped eyes. Despite the wear of time, enough of the cornflower blue color showed through to hint at the crown jewel of her beauty they must’ve been. From the get-go, they probed in more than routine evaluation at meeting someone new. She tried to get inside.
The probe stopped to permit introductions. She offered the tiny and—I now learned—glacially cold hand. “My name is Ally Corrigan.”
“I know who you are, ma’am. You and your husband, Joseph, are the world’s richest couple. What I mean is since he’s gone, you are…”
She smirked. “I understand what you’re trying to say, Mr. Parsons.”
“Please, call me Kris.”
“And you may call me Ally.” A glazed expression told me her mind remained stuck on my mention of her husband, from all accounts deeply beloved and missed. “Yes,” she added, “that was a long time ago.”
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