William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
Marsha stood up, her leather purse sliding off her lap onto the carpet with a dull thud.
“My mother served twenty years in the military; her record is spotless,” she said, her voice rising as she stepped toward me.
“It is not spotless,” I said, adjusting my wire rims. “The document is public, Marsha. Anyone can see it. What happened in two thousand eighteen?”
“She retired,” Marsha said, her eyes cold as she closed the distance between us. “She retired to take care of her health, and you are digging up old garbage to make yourself feel like a real father.”
“The state board does not suspend licenses for retirement,” I said.
“You are spying on my family because you cannot handle your own failures,” she said, her voice sharp enough to cut.
She snatched the leather checkbook from my fingers and walked out.
By six o’clock on Tuesday, I had the printout from the Connecticut Department of Public Health flat on the dining room table.
Marsha did not look at the paper as she set down a bowl of lukewarm pot roast. She sat across from me, her long manicured nails resting against the edge of the placemat.
