William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
Owen retreated to the corner of the seat, rubbing his left wrist where four distinct red finger marks were already beginning to darken against his pale skin.
“He needs to learn limits, William,” Marsha said, smoothing her skirt without looking at me. “My mother understands structure, and Owen is going to get forty-eight hours of it.”
The tires crunched on the gravel as we pulled up to the peeling white colonial house where Sue Melton stood waiting on the porch.
She stood with her hands clasped tightly behind her back, her posture as stiff as it must have been during her years as a military nurse.
“Look at those tears,” Sue said, her voice booming across the small yard before we even opened the car doors. “We do not permit self-pity in this house, young man.”
I got out and opened the rear door, but Owen clung to the armrest, his eyes wide and fixed on the wooden porch steps.
Sue walked down the stairs, her eyes immediately dropping to the stuffed dog in Owen’s arms.
“I thought I told you that filthy thing stays in the car this weekend,” Sue said, her mouth twisting into a hard line. “It is a nesting ground for germs.”
Marsha leaned into the back seat, her shoulder brushing mine, and whispered something directly into Owen’s ear.
Instantly, Owen froze, his crying stopping so fast he let out a tiny, choked gasp.
He let Barnaby slip from his fingers onto the floorboards of the car without saying another word.
“I should stay for a few minutes,” I said, reaching down to pick up the toy, my fingers brushing the damp carpet. “Just to help him settle into the guest room.”
Marsha put her hand on my chest, physically guiding me back toward the driver’s seat.
