ago, but we had filed before that. I’m sorry. I figured everyone knew.”
“It’s OK. I’m real sorry, Alison. You shouldn’t have to go through something like that.” He made a turn into the station and looked for a parking space. He stayed silent for a moment. “I was sorry to hear about all that business at your school, too.”
If “all that business” was Kathy’s murder, I was sorry, too. “Thanks. It’s been horrible.”
“They found her in your car, huh?” he said, pulling up to a stop sign.
“Yep.”
He cast me a sidelong glance but didn’t say anything. He pulled into a spot about an eighth of a mile from the platform. We were late and lucky to have found a spot at all. “Are you staying in the house?” he asked, pulling the keys from the ignition.
“Sure. I really like where I am. I’m staying put.” I opened the door and got out.
“That’s good.” He started toward the station. “I have to buy a ticket. I’ll see you on the train.” He jogged down the parking lot. “By the way, nice shoes!” he yelled back at me.
I headed toward the platform. “Thanks, Jackson. See you soon.”
The day was turning out to be a beautiful one after all the rain from the day before. I stood on the platform with my back to the river and let the sun wash over me. I saw the train in the distance and pulled my briefcase strap over my head.
The train came right on schedule and arrived fifteen minutes later at the station close to school. I got off the train and started up the hill that just the night before had been dark, wet, and foggy. My new shoes were holding up well, but I felt a blister starting on the top of my pinkie toe. I pushed the pain out of my head and trudged up the hill, down the avenue, and onto campus.
By the time I reached the guard booth at the front gate of campus, I was in agony. I stopped at the booth and saw Franklin, the morning guard.
“Morning, Prof,” he said, as he did every day, not seeming to be alarmed by my hobbling through the front entrance in obvious distress.
“Hi, Franklin.” I collapsed against the side of the guard booth and took off my right shoe to massage my foot. “Listen, could you call down and have someone drive up the cart to pick me up? I can’t walk another step in these shoes.”
He looked down at my raw feet. Every toe now had a blister. He whistled his sympathy. “Not the right kind of shoes for walking,” he said, as if he were talking to an idiot. Which apparently I was. He spoke into a walkie-talkie that was perched on the counter in the guard booth and asked Joe, one of the other guards, to bring up the golf cart. Franklin and Joe, with a collective age of 130, represented some of the younger, spryer guards on campus. The golf cart was probably used in the first Bob Hope celebrity golf classic. “Safe” and “sound” were not words that could be used to describe our campus anymore, what with the murder and the rapidly advancing age of our security force.
After making fifteen minutes’ worth of weather chitchat with Franklin, Joe appeared. The waistband of his pants, stretched to the maximum allowable circumference, touched the steering wheel. He motioned for me to get in. “Where you going?”
“Thanks, Joe. Could you drop me behind the Administration Building?” I asked as politely as I could, through clenched teeth. The pain in my feet was unrelenting and throbbed to a beat all its own.
I endured a much longer cart ride than the distance required. And a dissertation on why we should “bomb the hell out of Iran, Iraq, and Cyprius .” I wasn’t sure where that was but was too afraid to ask for a geography lesson; he seemed pretty pissed off. Finally, he pulled in behind the Administration Building and pulled up as close as possible to the steps behind the building. I hopped out, holding both of my shoes in my right hand, and walked down the stairs, barefoot. Things were going my way, and the back door was open. I made a
“It’s OK. I’m real sorry, Alison. You shouldn’t have to go through something like that.” He made a turn into the station and looked for a parking space. He stayed silent for a moment. “I was sorry to hear about all that business at your school, too.”
If “all that business” was Kathy’s murder, I was sorry, too. “Thanks. It’s been horrible.”
“They found her in your car, huh?” he said, pulling up to a stop sign.
“Yep.”
He cast me a sidelong glance but didn’t say anything. He pulled into a spot about an eighth of a mile from the platform. We were late and lucky to have found a spot at all. “Are you staying in the house?” he asked, pulling the keys from the ignition.
“Sure. I really like where I am. I’m staying put.” I opened the door and got out.
“That’s good.” He started toward the station. “I have to buy a ticket. I’ll see you on the train.” He jogged down the parking lot. “By the way, nice shoes!” he yelled back at me.
I headed toward the platform. “Thanks, Jackson. See you soon.”
The day was turning out to be a beautiful one after all the rain from the day before. I stood on the platform with my back to the river and let the sun wash over me. I saw the train in the distance and pulled my briefcase strap over my head.
The train came right on schedule and arrived fifteen minutes later at the station close to school. I got off the train and started up the hill that just the night before had been dark, wet, and foggy. My new shoes were holding up well, but I felt a blister starting on the top of my pinkie toe. I pushed the pain out of my head and trudged up the hill, down the avenue, and onto campus.
By the time I reached the guard booth at the front gate of campus, I was in agony. I stopped at the booth and saw Franklin, the morning guard.
“Morning, Prof,” he said, as he did every day, not seeming to be alarmed by my hobbling through the front entrance in obvious distress.
“Hi, Franklin.” I collapsed against the side of the guard booth and took off my right shoe to massage my foot. “Listen, could you call down and have someone drive up the cart to pick me up? I can’t walk another step in these shoes.”
He looked down at my raw feet. Every toe now had a blister. He whistled his sympathy. “Not the right kind of shoes for walking,” he said, as if he were talking to an idiot. Which apparently I was. He spoke into a walkie-talkie that was perched on the counter in the guard booth and asked Joe, one of the other guards, to bring up the golf cart. Franklin and Joe, with a collective age of 130, represented some of the younger, spryer guards on campus. The golf cart was probably used in the first Bob Hope celebrity golf classic. “Safe” and “sound” were not words that could be used to describe our campus anymore, what with the murder and the rapidly advancing age of our security force.
After making fifteen minutes’ worth of weather chitchat with Franklin, Joe appeared. The waistband of his pants, stretched to the maximum allowable circumference, touched the steering wheel. He motioned for me to get in. “Where you going?”
“Thanks, Joe. Could you drop me behind the Administration Building?” I asked as politely as I could, through clenched teeth. The pain in my feet was unrelenting and throbbed to a beat all its own.
I endured a much longer cart ride than the distance required. And a dissertation on why we should “bomb the hell out of Iran, Iraq, and Cyprius .” I wasn’t sure where that was but was too afraid to ask for a geography lesson; he seemed pretty pissed off. Finally, he pulled in behind the Administration Building and pulled up as close as possible to the steps behind the building. I hopped out, holding both of my shoes in my right hand, and walked down the stairs, barefoot. Things were going my way, and the back door was open. I made a
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