Page 7 of On Thin Ice

So I was at an impasse.

DU was yet another dilemma. I’d already checked out the distance there from Sinclair’s residence using a maps app, and it wasn’t very far away. My residence, I thought—at least for the next ten years. It was too far to walk, so I’d either have to borrow a car or take the bus—and, after my encounter on the street my first full day here, I didn’t want to use public transportation. Another problem with in-person classes as opposed to online, something I’d learned after a year at WCC, was that you didn’t get to pick the time you were in class. You had to go to classes when they were held and, if you were lucky, you might have a few different times to choose from. The other three online programs I was looking at offered asynchronous classes, so I could do my coursework whenever I wanted.

We already had salads in front of us when I finished talking. “So I’m having a hard time deciding.”

“It sounds like you’ve already decided against DU.”

“Yes. I guess I have.”

“Did you check out Metro State?”

I speared a grape tomato with my fork. Metro didn’t have a master’s program—and I knew that wasn’t a huge deal. There was nothing wrong with getting an education from more than one university, but I wanted to choose a school and stick with it. Still, I didn’t want to tell him that—not yet. So I simply said, “I did, but I didn’t like what I saw.”

“Okay. So which one do you like the most?”

“I don’t know. I’m having a hard time deciding.”

“Well,” he said, setting his salad fork on the plate, “make up your mind. Once you have, you can make a pitch. But I don’t want you to have any indecision. If you’re not sure, you might be a semester or two in and decide you’d prefer a different program—and if you change, that’s a waste of both time and money.”

“Okay.” I nodded, understanding his words but not liking his tone. I’d hoped he could have helped me narrow it down…forgetting we were not partners. At our core, we were still adversaries, and I began to wonder if having me attend school was like the work he did every day—philanthropy. Was I just a charity case to him?

But he continued. “I realize that learning for learning’s sake wouldn’t be considered a waste by anyone else, and some of the courses you take might be transferable, but I want you to be decisive. One of the most important lessons I learned when I was your age was to weigh my options. Sometimes that meant making a list of pros and cons. Other times it involved standing back and taking in all the information like a big picture. And, sometimes, you’ll choose the wrong thing. But I’d rather make a wrong choice instead of being frozen with indecision or waffling between two choices and picking one at random.”

It suddenly became clear to me. I had been a choice he’d made the night of the vandalism at WCC—and it made me wonder if he was beginning to rethink it. Maybe having me attend school lessened the blow. Otherwise, why was he even telling me this?

“So,” he continued, “weigh the pros and cons of each and—”

“No. I know.”

The right side of his lip—the side without the scar—curled as he tilted his head. “You’ve made a decision?”

“Yes.” WCC hadn’t been much of a decision. It was the local community college—less expensive than a four-year university, close to home. It had been a decision that had made itself. I hadn’t had to do what I’d seen other kids pondering, where they had two or more decent offers to good schools and they couldn’t make up their minds. So much of this was new to me. “What you said made sense, and as I thought about it, there was one university that really seemed to speak to me.” But I couldn’t remember which one it was—I’d know for certain when I pulled up their programs again. I’d gotten a “peek” into one of their online classes, and much of it was video, partly professor lecture, partly actual footage of archaeology digs, so that it had the feel of being a documentary rather than a class. Would all their courses be like that? I didn’t know, but my gut was telling me to go there.

“Good. We’ll discuss it at our Sunday meeting. Put together a proposal for me.”

“A proposal?”

Edna was back, clearing our salad plates and replacing them with entrées, but I barely noticed her as Sinclair began talking again. “Yes. I want you to tell me all about the school—the cost, the degree, and why you chose it. Then I want to see a plan from you: how many classes you plan to take each term and how long before you’re done. Can you get that together by Sunday?”

“Yes.” In that brief moment, I felt such gratitude, such joy, and I knew I’d be talking to my father about it when I could. Sometimes we talked during the week but usually it was just text messages. On the weekend, we’d actually talk, catching each other up about our week. He always sounded positive, but I was growing more concerned about him. The isolation couldn’t be good for him even though he didn’t complain.

I suspected he was selective about what he told me…just as I’d been with him.

And the warm feelings I felt for Sinclair Whitter at this moment were something I wouldn’t share with my father. I felt guilty—not just about keeping it from him but also for somehow allowing myself to fall for this man in the first place. This man’s family was the reason why my father had struggled for the past two decades and I often believed it was the continual stress that had allowed the MS to ravage his body.

Still…had Sinclair Whittier actually done any of that? Or had it only been his father?

Sinclair’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. “Do you play chess?”

“What?”

“Chess. Do you play?”

“Oh…not very well. My dad tried to teach me when I was young, so I know the way the pieces move but that’s about it.” I was reminded of the kids at the college who played chess in one of the common areas. In April, as the spring semester had been winding down, more and more students would huddle around whoever was playing to see who would win.

“I’ve never claimed to be a good chess player myself. But, if you’re game, I think we should play once in a while.”

The thought of spending more time with this man—not as an employee but as an equal—was something I wouldn’t say no to…even if we would still be playing adversaries on opposite sides of a checkered board. “Okay. Just don’t expect any brilliant moves from me.”

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