William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I waited until her car pulled out of the driveway and turned toward the avenue before I shifted the sedan into drive.
David Vance was already sitting at the corner table of the suburban diner when I arrived at four o’clock. A bowl of lukewarm pot roast sat untouched between us, the gravy forming a thin skin under the harsh neon lights. He twirled a yellow wooden pencil between his fingers, his eyes tracking the movement of the lead point against the Formica.
“You look like you have not slept since Monday, William,” David said, his slow drawl lowering the volume of the room. “The department secretary was asking about your Thursday morning seminar.”
“I have the afternoon covered, David,” I said, reaching for my water glass but leaving it untouched. “Marsha took the passport to Sue’s house. I saw her with the folder this afternoon.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an envelope, sliding it across the table until it rested against the salt shaker. “This is five hundred dollars. It is from my personal account, so do not worry about the college payroll schedule.”
