Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
Brian was sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in at six o’clock. He had a glass of water in front of him, and he was staring at the small salt shaker in the center of the table.
I laid the copy of the contract down right next to his glass.
“You knew about this, didn’t you?” I asked.
Brian did not look at the paper. He rubbed his temples with both hands, his face lined with the deep exhaustion that had seemed to follow him for months.
“Margaret, please,” he said, his voice rough. “Not tonight.”
“Read it, Brian,” I said, tapping the page. “Read the section about the donations. Read what Charles Sterling demanded before he gave them the money for the library.”
He slowly let his hands drop and looked at the paper. He did not read it line by line; he only glanced at the highlighted paragraph before looking back at his glass of water.
“I knew there was an agreement,” Brian said quietly. “I didn’t know the exact words.”
“You knew they promised to keep the ceremony clear of any memorials,” I said. “And you didn’t tell me.”
