William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I remained in the booth after she left, watching the traffic light at the corner turn from red to green and back again.
By two o’clock, the hallway of the social sciences building was quiet, the midday classes already dismissed.
David Vance stood outside his office door, twirling a yellow wooden pencil between his fingers.
“You look like you have been grading research papers for thirty hours straight, William,” he said, his slow drawl filling the empty corridor.
“I need to go to the state bank downtown,” I said, holding my thin leather wallet in my hand. “My car heater died this morning, and the starter is slipping again.”
David stopped the pencil, his thumb resting against the pink eraser.
“Take my Buick,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a heavy ring of brass keys. “It is parked by the loading dock. The keys are the ones with the blue tag.”
I took the keys, their metal cool against my hand. “Thank you, David. I have to withdraw my entire retirement fund.”
