Free Knowing Is Not Enough by Patricia Chatman, P Ann Chatman, A Chatman Chatman, Walker Chatman

being mad. Just done. My only objective from the conservation I hoped to have with Sanford was getting my friend back into my life. That’s it, nothing more.
    Just as I arrived on campus, the sun peeked throughthe leaves overhead, an effervescent green umbrella sheltering those who sought knowledge and understanding from the rest of the world. My foot lifted from the accelerator. I drifted down the long narrow winding road, lost in the beauty of the surroundings. As angelic as the scenery on campus was, it’s the last place students wanted to be a Saturday. I parked the car and walked, navigating my way through the rich landscape to the School of Business, home to Public Policy and Administration . . . and Sanford. The building’s aroma was a mixture of coffee, books, disinfectant, and dry-erase markers.
    Alongside his colleagues, down the long hall of faculty offices I got to his office door and smiled. DR. CONSTANTINE SANFORD. I opened the outer door and entered a small seating area. Immediately inside were two maple office doors, but both glass panels were dark. I sat down in the adjacent chairs and read my way through an entire article on welfare policy in the
Journal of Poverty
, authored by Sanford. I finished the piece and was flipping through the magazine, hoping to find entertainment news, when I heard voices in the hallway.
    Sanford entered the main door and stepped into the seating area with keys in hand. His head bent down, seemingly deep in thought, iPod ear buds in both ears with his right hand clutching the shoulder strap of his overused book bag. He really looked good. He looked to have lost about seventy-five pounds.
    I checked him out, carefully, head to toe. He slowly raised his head and recognized me seated in the lobby. I couldn’t tell by the expression on his face if he was happy or disappointed to see me.
    He tugged on his earplug wire, removing both from his ears in one pull. His forehead tightened forcing his brows below the frame of his glasses. His expression made me uneasy.
    “I tried to call you before I came, but I got your voicemail.” I stood up and placed the magazine back on the table. “Um, not this one–I mean, your home voicemail.”
    Sanford released his backpack and fumbled with his keys, but his eyes were firmly affixed on mine. The walls in the tiny lobby felt as if they were starting to close in on me.
    I said, “You look good.” I shifted my weight back and forth, left to right. “Did I surprise you?”
    He finally said something. “No, you didn’t surprise me. I got your message. I figured you would catch up with me eventually. Just didn’t think it would be today.”
    I picked up my purse from the office chair and took a step toward him. “I know showing up here may be a reach, but I really wanted to talk to you.” He singled out a key and used it to open his office. Then picked up papers slid under his door. I followed him into his office. He cleared a place for me on a chair across from his desk. Sanford’s office resembled the stereotypical professor’s office, stacks of books, laptop, papers, old art and everything in desperate need of dusting. Sanford’s tiny office and oversized desk make the room smaller there wasn’t room to stand, let alone a chair. He finally sat down behind his desk and put his bag and papers on it.
    A year may as well been a hundred. He’d accomplished a lot in a short period of time. He wasn’t published the last time I spoke with him. I looked about athis office walls. There were magazine articles with his name on them, recognition awards, and pictures celebrating his achievements with people I didn’t know. Events I didn’t participate in. Milestones I knew nothing about. This ridiculous disagreement cost me more than I initially realized. I felt he’d let me down when I needed him the most. By the looks of things, I hadn’t been there for him either,
but it doesn’t appear he needed me
.
I missed all of it
.
    I sat down,