The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
Was I free? I suppose my promise to Hannah was wrong, and I was under
no illusions—or at least nothing more than superficial and self-imposed illusions,
illusory illusions—about why I had made the promise. When I made it,
I think I intended to keep it, but it wasn’t a terribly strong intention. First,
everything I had said to her about why I wanted to stay with the story held
true. Second, Jadid and his nephew had gone to unnecessary lengths to
help me; I could hardly tell them that I was just dropping the story cold. And
third, I know it’s not the done collegiate thing to seem careerist, but that’s a
whole lot easier when you have no career to worry about: I wanted that job
in Boston. “I am free,” I said. “Should I bring anything?”
“No, no, of course not. Arrive curious and hungry, is all I ask. My wife,
sadly, left for a conference in Cincinnati this morning; she would very much
have liked to meet you. The cooking responsibilities, therefore, are mine.
Come to the department at five-thirty. It will most likely be locked, but I shall
listen for your knock, which will have to be loud. Until this evening, then?”
“Until this evening.”
I checked my watch: 3:15. If I wanted to make it to Wickenden on time,
allowing for the evening rush, I should have left fifteen minutes ago. From
behind his closed door, I heard the creak that Art’s chair made whenever he
stood up. His desk drawer shut, and footsteps advanced toward the door. No
reason to explain to the boss why I was putting in a whole three minutes’
office time on a weekday, right? Of course not. By the time I considered
counterarguments, I was already on the outskirts of Hartford, heading east at
seventy miles per hour.
i pulled into the history department’s parking lot as the last filaments of
sunset faded into the Wickenden River behind me. There were no other cars
in the lot, which disturbed me; I had expected to find at least Professor Jadid
still here. Cupping my hand around my eyes to peer in the front window, I
saw only the fluorescent hall lights on, but I figured they always were. No
doors were open inside; the threadbare gray carpet, sagging wooden stairs,
paint chipping off the wrought-iron banister, and the whistling of the
evening wind against the siding made the department seem a dozing, snoring
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