William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
He reached out and rubbed his left wrist, a nervous habit that had returned over the past three weeks. I took his hand, his skin feeling dry and cool against my palm, and gently lifted him down from the vinyl chair.
“Did you get your shoes?” I asked.
He pointed to his blue sneakers, which were sitting neatly by the back door, the laces tucked inside the collars.
Sue stood in the kitchen doorway, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes fixed on the empty table.
“He is a difficult boy, William,” she said. “He has his mother’s temperament, but without her strength. You will find that out soon enough.”
“He is five years old, Sue,” I said, lifting the plastic bag of clothes with my free hand.
“He requires structure,” she said. “The kind of structure you are incapable of providing.”
I did not reply. I guided Owen down the hallway, keeping my body between him and the silent woman standing by the kitchen door.
