William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“We corrected that,” Sue said, turning her back to lead us toward the kitchen.
I walked into the living room, where the small lamp on the side table cast long shadows across the floral wallpaper.
Owen sat in the center of the brown velvet sofa, his small knees pressed together, his hands flat on his thighs.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, kneeling on the carpet in front of him.
He did not look up at me, his eyes fixed on a small tear in the fabric near his shoes.
“I brought your coat,” I said, reaching out to touch his shoulder, but he shrank back against the cushions, his body rigid.
“Owen,” Marsha said from the doorway, her voice sharp and clipped. “Give your father a hug.”
The boy did not move, his breath coming in short, shallow puffs that barely rattled his collar.
“It is alright,” I said, standing up and looking around the room for his blue canvas backpack. “We can get packed up.”
I scanned the floor, the armchair, and the small wooden stool in the corner, but the stuffed dog named Barnaby was nowhere in sight.
