A Little Gleam of Time

Late afternoon October 21st, in Ames, the broken cloud cover would only allow the temperature to struggle into the 60’s. Joe was in the stands at the football game between Iowa State and the University of Missouri. The Iowa State Cyclones never mounted much of an offence, losing 13 to 39, and the disappointed crowd started leaving Williams Stadium before last snap, even though it was homecoming. Joe and Marilane shuffled in the stream of disgruntled fans down through one of the exits. They then headed past Lake LaVerne, no doubt grousing about State’s poor play. Just past the lake, the couple was half way up the steps of the Union when Joe heard someone yelling his name. Turning around, he could see that it was a fraternity brother. He had been frantically looking for Joe in the mob leaving the game.
“Someone has been trying to call you on the phone all day” his friend shouted from the bottom of the steps. Like the phone call late at night or the sober tone of a family member on the line, the implied urgency of the utterance gave Joe that uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Hurrying the two blocks back to the fraternity house, he learned the calls had been coming from Sumner. Nervously dialing home he got his mother, Inez. Her voice was subdued and quivering. His father had died.
Early that morning George had gone to his office. His rheumatism had subsided and he had just recently started back practicing full time. His small office was only half a block away from the family home, a gentle walk for a man who in the course of the last several months had gained weight. His humble office was just large enough for his desk and room for his vet supplies. George was already seated at his desk, possibly working on his books, when Oscar Bethel arrived. Like Doc Devine, George had a driver, and Oscar, besides driving, also probably proved to be helpful when it came time to manhandle a horse or a cow. The two men briefly greeted that morning and Oscar appeared ready to go. George pushed back from the desk and took a few strides toward the door. He hadn’t even cleared the doorway when he turned back toward his desk. In a short gasping statement he told Oscar he wasn’t feeling well and wanted to sit for a minute, collapsing on the floor as the last word left his lips. Oscar rushed to his side grabbing him under his arms and pulled him up to his chair. Oscar had managed to maneuver George into the chair, but when he released him George slouched forward dead. George Sexton was only 57 years old.