William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
There was no answering machine, only the steady, rhythmic signal of an empty house.
I hung up and picked up the receiver again to dial Marsha’s cell phone, but the line remained silent.
The small green light on the internet router at the end of the hall went black.
I walked to the living room and saw the power cord to the modem lying on the floor, its metal tip gleaming under the baseboard.
Marsha stood at the top of the stairs, her silhouette dark against the landing light.
“It is past seven,” she said. “We do not need the distractions tonight.”
“I was trying to call Sue’s house to check on Owen,” I said, looking up at her.
“He is asleep,” she said. “And you need to clear your head before you teach tomorrow.”
I did not answer her.
I went back to the kitchen, plugged the router back into the wall, and waited for the green lights to blink back to life.
By ten o’clock, the house was entirely silent except for the wind outside brushing the dry oak leaves against the gutters.
