William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
Marsha sat in the passenger seat, her gloved hands resting on her purse, her fingers tapping against the black leather.
We walked up the wooden steps of the porch together, our shoes loud on the gray painted planks.
The front door opened before I could reach for the brass knocker, and Sue stood in the entryway.
She wore a thick blue cardigan and held her hands clasped tightly behind her back, her posture as straight as it had been during her years in the clinic.
“Come in, William,” Sue said, her voice carrying across the porch. “You look frozen. Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
“Thank you, Sue,” I said, stepping into the hallway where the air smelled of floor wax and stale cabbage. “I just want to see Owen.”
“He is in the living room,” Sue said, gesturing toward the archway. “He was a good boy this weekend, William, silent as a mouse.”
The words hung in the warm hallway, flat and heavy.
“Usually he has a lot to say about his drawings,” I said, adjusting my wire-rimmed glasses against the sudden change in temperature.
