600 Hours of Edward

and points up to the ceiling, where there is a massive sunroof. “It’s a real pain to keep the leaves swept up,” he says.
    He also shows me the press and the new packaging center, where the newspaper is merged with ads from department stores and other inserted items, like
Parade
magazine in the Sunday newspaper. Mr. Withers explains that the press is running much of the time—not just with each day’s newspaper, but also with specialty magazines and jobs for other publications around the region. The packaging center is vast, an addition to the building that went up just in the past year or so.
    “It’s an exciting time around here,” Mr. Withers says.
    It looks like a nice place to work.
    On the way up the stairs, Mr. Withers tells me that he can give me about $12 an hour to start, and that sounds good to me. It’s more than I have ever made, except for when my father gave me $5 million.
    – • –
    Back behind his desk, Mr. Withers says, “So, my boy, will you come to work for me?”
    I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
    “Excellent, excellent.”
    “When do I start?”
    “Come on in Monday morning at nine, Edward. We’ll get your paperwork filled out, show you what you’ll be doing, and hit the ground running. How does that sound?”
    “Good.”
    “All right,” he says, standing up and clapping me on the shoulder again. “I’ll walk you down.”
    A few minutes later, I’m back behind the wheel of the Cadillac. My father told me in my dream that it would take me anywhere I wanted to go. I never would have expected that it would be here.
    – • –
    I drive the Cadillac the short distance home, and my mind is swimming. I never thought I would be going back to work, but I trust Mr. Withers to take care of me. The hours he has in mind may lead to some changes in my routine. My 10:00 p.m. viewings of
Dragnet
will have to be moved. Maybe I can watch it after I get home at night. That means I won’t be going to bed at midnight sharp anymore. My common wake-up time of 7:38 a.m. will probably change, too. Between getting home after work and watching
Dragnet
, it will be close to 1:00 a.m., at the earliest, before I get to sleep.
    My 10:00 a.m. Tuesday appointments with Dr. Buckley are safe. We will have much to talk about in just a few days.
    And the grocery store can be visited whenever I need to. My new job won’t affect that.
    I saw in the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
yesterday that Barack Obama, the new president, says “change is coming.” I wonder how he knew.
    – • –
    At home, I’m retrieving the mail—all advertisements—when I spot the envelope taped to my door. It says “Edward,” but it’s not the precise block writing of my father. Instead, it’s a pretty cursive. Whoever wrote this probably got good penmanship marks in school.
    I set the mail on the stoop and tear open the envelope. Lined notebook paper, the kind I had to write on in school, is inside.
    Dear Edward,
    This is a letter of complaint. The difference between your letters of complaint and mine is that mine get delivered.
    You have not been a good friend to me lately, and I want you to know that. You walked away from me when I was telling you how sorry I was about your father, and you yelled at me and Kyle when all we wanted was for you to come outside and be our friend.
    Friends don’t do that, Edward. Friends talk to each other, and friends try not to be rude, even if they don’t want to come outside. If you’re going to be my friend, you can tell me that you don’t want to do something, and I will understand. That’s what friends do. If I’m going to be your friend, I will tell you if I don’t want to do something.
    I have wrestled with myself over whether to write this letter. Our life has been hard lately, and I don’t need to waste time with someone who isn’t going to be a good friend to me. Your track record as my friend is unclear. I’m trying to figure out if you’re the Edward who argues with a little boy or if you’re the Edward who stood by me in court that day and brought me back here and made me feelgood about myself again. Sometimes, I think you could be a really good friend for us. Sometimes, I don’t.
    You might be interested to know that Mike won’t have a trial. After that scene in the courtroom, his lawyer advised him to accept a deal from the prosecutor. He will be going to prison for a while. Not forever, but hopefully long enough that he’ll leave us alone when he gets out. I