William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
By Tuesday afternoon, the glossy brochure was locked in my desk drawer at the community college, but the image of those children marching under the dark pines remained behind my eyelids.
The lecture hall was mostly empty by ten minutes to two, the dry smell of chalk and floor wax hanging in the stagnant air.
David Vance sat in the front row, twirling a yellow wooden pencil between his fingers while I erased the whiteboard. The gray light of November filtered through the high, wire-reinforced windows of the science building, casting long shadows across the empty rows of plastic desks.
“The board of trustees is looking at the department budget again,” David said, his slow drawl dragging out the vowels. “We need to make sure your student evaluations stay solid this term, William.”
“They will be,” I said, putting the felt eraser down on the metal tray. “The midterm grades were higher than last semester, and the attendance has been steady.”
