William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
Marsha had taken her silver sedan to her mother’s house in West Hartford, leaving our colonial home completely silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
I stood in the center of the kitchen, watching a small puddle of water form around the drain of the stainless-steel sink.
According to my syllabus, my first lecture on developmental milestones was not until eleven, which gave me exactly three hours to find what Marsha had hidden.
I opened the kitchen junk drawer, the old metal tracks screeching against the painted cabinet frame.
My fingers shifted through expired grocery coupons, old utility bills, and loose rubber bands until they brushed against a small, flat brass key.
It was the spare key to Marsha’s antique roll-top desk in our study, a key she believed I had lost during our move from New Haven three years ago.
I carried the key down the narrow hallway, my boots creaking on the pine floorboards with a heavy, predictable rhythm.
The air in our study was cool and dry, smelling of the lemon-wax polish Marsha used on the furniture every Thursday morning.
