William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
My hands were dry, coated in white dust that settled into the creases of my palms. I adjusted my thin wire-rimmed glasses, sliding them back up the bridge of my nose as I turned to look at my department chair. David was a good man, a friend who had helped me navigate the college administration for six years, but he did not know the details of what was happening at home.
“I saw your wife in the parking lot yesterday morning,” David said, tapping the eraser end of his pencil against his knee. “She did not look like she was here to drop off a lunch box.”
“We are working through some scheduling issues with Owen,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “It is a difficult month for the family.”
“I had a cousin who went through something like this in Bridgeport,” David said, his drawl slow and steady. “But in my case, with my own divorce back in ninety-eight, we did not have the courts involved until the very end. It is a hard road, William. You start looking at everyone like they are holding a knife behind their back.”
