Free Impulse by Frederick Ramsay

the criteria for being awarded a light. Elizabeth Roulx watched him, followed his eyes.
    “Brad,” she said, showing more teeth than necessary, “Meredith has been telling me about his father’s portrait.”
    “Really?” Stark leaned forward to peer around her so he could say something. Frank noted that as he did so, his tie drooped into his salad. Considering the amount of oil and vinaigrette applied in the kitchen, there would be a stain—a big one.
    “Your father meant a lot to the school,” Stark said and showed a lot of teeth as well. Everyone seemed to be a graduate of smile school today.
    “Did he? How nice. He did not leave here a happy man.”
    “No, I suppose not. But that doesn’t change the way the students felt or the important impact he had on the school. He wrote our first textbook. We used it for years.”
    “Yes, An Introduction to American Literature ,” Frank recited. “He made a little money on that book. It helped pay for my mother’s constant care—Alzheimer’s,” he added, seeing the question on Elizabeth Roulx’s face.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. Her smile faded but the confusion remained. Her head rotated back and forth between the two men as she tried to follow the exchange. Frank leaned back in his chair to break contact with Stark and made an attempt to eat. Stark gave up trying to catch his eye.
    “Yesterday,” she said, softly turning toward him.
    “What?”
    “The light…yesterday.”
    “Thank you, I thought so. And I can expect some personal attention from Felix Darnell before I get out of here?”
    She smiled. “Yes. They think you have money and hope you will contribute or something.”
    “I make a comfortable living, but I am not rich, not the way they think.”
    “But your books, your TV show?”
    “I do not write blockbuster best sellers. I am a moderately successful writer of small mystery stories. What do you know about writing and publishing?”
    “I teach creative writing.”
    “That’s not what I asked. What do you know about the business of writing? Very few writers live on their royalties. Most teach, practice law or medicine—keep their day jobs, in fact. I am one of the few lucky ones who makes enough to live on from writing. I am not rich by anyone’s standard. Is that what you all think? I will make a big gift to the school?”
    Elizabeth Roulx looked at him, evidently disappointed. He wondered if she realized she had a shred of spinach on one front tooth. He heard Stark’s chair scrape back, saw him move toward Darnell’s end of the table. Darnell, apparently misreading his intention, stood and tapped his knife blade on his plate. Before Stark could deliver what Frank assumed must be the bad news, Darnell launched into his speech. Stark scribbled furiously in a little notebook he pulled from his hip pocket while Frank contemplated the spreading stain on his tie. Stark proffered the note he’d written. Darnell took it and slipped it in his vest pocket without reading it, never missing a beat. Stark rolled his eyes and returned to his seat.
    “Elizabeth, it’s been very nice meeting you, but I’ll be going now,” Frank said.
    “Now? But the Headmaster planned to speak to you after—”
    “Our prodigal, so to speak,” Darnell intoned and gestured in Frank’s direction, “has returned. The son of our beloved Doctor Charles Addison Smith and a writer of national reputation in his own right, Meredith Smith has joined us today.”
    Darnell led a polite round of applause. Frank nodded and sat down again and contemplated his lunch.
    “I might as well eat this. It seems I’m stuck here for the duration,” he said.
    ***
    Rosemary ate her sandwich while she read her paper. She, unlike most people who devour their morning paper with breakfast, saved hers for lunch. She believed that people’s minds worked too slowly early in the morning to absorb anything important. She’d come to that conclusion after she discovered that crossword