Six Years Read Free Page A

clicked on the small photograph. When the larger one came up, I managed to hold back the gasp.
    The name of the deceased was Todd Sanderson.
    I had blocked Todd’s last name from my memory—the wedding invite had just said “Todd and Natalie’s Nuptials!”—but, man, I knew the face. Gone was the hip stubble. He was clean-shaven here, his hair closer to a buzz cut. I wondered whether that was Natalie’s influence—she had always complained that my stubble irritated her skin—and then I wondered why I would be thinking about something so asinine.
    “The clock is ticking, Teach.”
    “One second, Barry. And don’t call me Teach.”
    Todd’s age was listed as forty-two. That was a little older than I expected. Natalie was thirty-four, just a year younger than me. I had figured that Todd would be closer to our age. According to the obituary, Todd had been an all-league tight end on the football team and a Rhodes Scholar finalist. Impressive. He had graduated summa cum laude from the history department, had founded a charity called Fresh Start, and during his senior year, he had been president of Psi U, my fraternity.
    Todd was not only an alumnus of my school but we had both pledged the same fraternity. How had I not known any of that?
    There was more, a lot more, but I skipped down to the last line:
    Funeral services are Sunday in Palmetto Bluff, South Carolina, near Savannah, Georgia. Mr. Sanderson is survived by his wife and two children.
    Two children?
    “Professor Fisher?”
    There was something funny in Barry’s voice. “Sorry, I was just—”
    “No, man, don’t be. You okay though?”
    “Yes, I’m fine.”
    “You sure? You look pale, man.” Barry dropped his sneakers to the floor and put his hands on the desk. “Look, I can come back another time.”
    “No,” I said.
    I turned away from the monitor. It would have to wait. Natalie’s husband had died young. That was sad, yes, tragic even, but it had nothing to do with me. It was not a reason to cancel work or inconvenience my students. It had thrown me for a loop, of course— not only Todd dying but the fact that he had gone to my alma mater. That was a somewhat bizarre coincidence, I guess, but not exactly an earth-shattering revelation.
    Maybe Natalie simply liked Lanford men.
    “So what’s up?” I asked Barry.
    “Do you know Professor Byrner?”
    “Sure.”
    “He’s a total tool.”
    He was, but I wouldn’t say that. “What seems to be the issue?”
    I hadn’t seen a cause of death in the obituary. The campus ones often didn’t have one. I would look again later. If it wasn’t in there, maybe I could find a more complete obituary online.
    Then again, why would I want to learn more? What difference did it make?
    Best to stay away from this.
    Either way it would have to wait for office hours to end. I finished up with Barry and kept going. I tried to push thoughts of the obituary aside and focus on my remaining students. I was off my game, but the students were oblivious. Students cannot imagine that professors have real lives in the same way they can’t imagine their parents having sex. On one level, that was fine. On another, I constantly remind them to look past themselves. Part of the human condition is that we all think that we are uniquely complex while everyone else is somewhat simpler to read. That is not true, of course. We all have our own dreams and hopes and wants and lust and heartaches. We all have our own brand of crazy.
    My mind drifted. I watched the clock trudge slowly forward as if I were the most bored student in the most boring class. When five o’clock came I headed back to the computer monitor. I brought up Todd Sanderson’s obituary in full.
    Nope, no cause of death was given.
    Curious. Sometimes there was a hint in the suggested donation area. It will say in lieu of flowers please make a donation to the American Cancer Society or something like that. But nothing was listed. There was also no mention of