The Fiction Issue / 26 Days: As parents, all they could do was wait as the war raged on.

It’s almost 12:30 when I’m done sweeping the front steps, so I go inside and stash the broom and dustpan and lock the closet door. In the foyer there’s a crisis hotline flier on the bulletin board; beneath it, next week’s sign-up sheet. Professor Wardlaw has volunteered for Friday, her usual night. I walk out of Cromer Hall and into a November day warmer and sunnier than you usually get in these mountains. The clock tower bell rings. In my mind I move the heavy metal hands ahead to 8:30 p.m. Kerrie has already finished supper and is getting ready to go to sleep. Over at the ATM, students pull out bank cards like winning lottery tickets. I wonder if there’s a single student here because of the Army college fund. The nice cars and SUVs, like the tuition, argue it unlikely. Probably not one of them ever thinks that, while they’re sitting in a classroom or watching a basketball game, kids their own age are getting blown up by IEDs. I think again about how we wouldn’t be in Iraq if there was still a draft. You can bet it’d be a lot different if everyone’s kids could end up over there. Just a bunch of stupid hillbillies fighting a stupid war, that’s what some jerk on TV said, making a joke of it. There are times I want to grab a student by the collar and tell them how good they got it. Other times I tell myself I’ve given Kerrie more than my parents gave me. But I also think how if I’d had more ambition years back and gotten a welding certificate or a two-year degree at Tech, maybe Kerrie wouldn’t be in Iraq.

I cross the street separating the campus from town and go into Crawford’s Diner. Professor Wardlaw’s in a booth with Professor Abram and Professor Lucas, who also have offices in Cromer Hall. Ellen brings my plate quick as I sit down at the counter. She has it ready since I get just 30 minutes for lunch. I eat free, a perk, like Dr. Blanton letting us use his computer. Ellen pours my iced tea and gives me a fork and knife and napkin.

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“Not a good morning?” I ask, because Ellen’s waitress smile looks frayed.

“It’s been okay,” she answers, speaking softer as she nods at the professors. “That one with the black hair is who said it, ain’t she.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but she didn’t mean nothing by it, not really.”

“When they came in, I had a notion not to serve them at all,” Ellen says.

“You know, she does a lot of good,” I say. “She’s signed up this weekend, and it’s a holiday.”

“That still don’t excuse it, though,” Ellen says, and takes the water and tea pitchers off the counter.

I watch in the mirror as Ellen fills glasses and makes small talk, except at Professor Wardlaw’s booth. Ellen lifts her eyes as she passes so that even if they do want something she’ll not notice. I shouldn’t have told her what Professor Wardlaw said, or made it worse by pointing her out in the parking lot. Ellen’s as good a wife as a man could ask for, but she’ll hold a grudge.

I check the wall clock. It’s 12:50, so I finish and take the plate to the kitchen. Ellen’s there changing an order, and we talk a minute about Kerrie’s application. I come back, and the professors are going out the door, backpacks hanging from their shoulders. A single dollar bill is on the table. I leave, too, and walk back to Cromer Hall. Someone’s spilled a drink near the entrance, ice cubes scattered like dice across the floor. There’s a folding yellow caution sign by the entrance, so I set it up. I’m walking down the hallway to get my mop and bucket when I hear my name. Professor Korovich is standing by her office door, a stack of books in her hands.