38The graduation photo I’d seen in Jeff’s office was taken ten years ago.
His son Steve had just gotten his BA from Columbia.
The area code in the phone number Latoya gave me was for New York City.
But Steve could be anywhere.
After graduation, he was a reporter for a newspaper in some state capital south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Louisiana? Mississippi?
Didn’t matter. Those humid, impoverished places are all the same.
By the time I met him, he was back in New York City, writing for a publication headquartered there.
Steve’s tall and lean like Jeff. By now, he’s in his early thirties.
I recalled a broad forehead, hairline in high-speed recession.
My number wasn’t on his contact list. I prepared my voice-mail message while I waited for the ringing to stop.
To my surprise, a live hu
