here.â I gathered my papers and began packing up. âSee you Tuesday. Check your syllabus, and read whatever is printed there. I have no idea because I didnât write it.â
My class beelined for the door, shooting glances at one another and whispering as they left.
Funny. What had taken ten minutes before class now took less than thirty seconds. Maybe it was something I said.
The only student to stop at my desk was Amanda Lovett. She rested her hand on the top of her tummy. âProfessor, are you the one whoâs been at the hospital the last week, sitting next to the coma patient on the third floor? The pretty woman, um . . . Miss Maggie?â
When I first learned to drive, I always wondered what it would be like to throw the gear shift into reverse while driving down the highway at seventy miles an hour.
âYes, I am.â
Amanda chose her words carefully. Her eyes never left mine. âI work the night shift at Community as a CNA. I . . . I was working the day you twoâI mean threeâcame in.â She fumbled with the zipper on her backpack. âIâm real sorry, Professor. I help to look after your wife. Change her bed linens, bathe her, stuff like that.â Amanda paused. âI hope you donât mind, but when youâre not there, I talk to her. I figure, I would want someone to talk to me, if . . . if I was lying there.â
I now knew how the emperor felt with no clothes.
âProfessor?â Amanda asked, looking up through her glasses, her face just two feet from mine. I noticed the skin right below her eyes. It was soft, not wrinkled, and covered with small droplets of sweat. It startled me. I saw beauty there. âIâm real sorry about your son . . . and your wife.â She swung her backpack over her shoulder and left.
I stood there. Naked. The only comfort I found was that she didnât even realize she had done it. Her eyes had told me that.
Going out the door, she stopped, turned around, and said, âProfessor, if you want, I wonât talk to her any more. I shouldâve asked. I just thought . . . â
âNo,â I interrupted, rummaging through my papers. âYou talk to her . . . anytime. Please.â
Amanda nodded. As she walked away, I noticed that the shirt she was wearing was one Maggie had tried on in the maternity store. I sat down at my desk, stared out the window, and felt absolutely nothing.
chapter seven
F EW FOLKS KNOW THIS, BUT B RYCE M AC G REGOR IS probably the richest man in Digger. His dad invented a gadget, something to do with how railroad cars hook together, that made his whole family a bunch of money. I know that doesnât sound like a gold mine, but Bryce said that every train thatâs been produced in the last fifty years uses this contraption. I guess that would add up. Bryce gets a royalty check about once a week. Sometimes more than one.
Three years ago I was in his trailer and saw a bunch of envelopes scattered about. One of them had been opened, and its contents lay on the floor. It was a check for twenty-seven thousand dollars. Bryce saw me looking at it and said,
âTake it. You can have it. Most of âem are like that. Some are more. Some less.â A few minutes later, Bryce passed out. One beer too many.
I couldnât find a pillow, so I wadded up a couple sweatshirts and propped up Bryceâs head. He was snoring pretty good and could have really used a bath, so I opened a few windows and didnât bother to shut the door behind me. Nobody ever went up there anyway. The breeze would do him more good than harm.
I donât think Bryce ever remembered that night, but I did. There was more than a quarter of a million dollars on the floor in checks made out to him. I left that check, and all the other checks, right there on the floor. I didnât want Bryceâs money, and the secret of his trust fund was safe with me. But I didnât want him taken advantage of,
Shantel Tessier
Jake Needham
M. S. Parker
Sparkle Hayter
Roberta Latow
C.J. Newt
Dustin Mcwilliams
Alistair MacLean
Kim Thompson
C.L. Richards