William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
At the bottom of the fourth box, hidden beneath three wool blankets that smelled of cedar, was a small cardboard box wrapped in green tissue paper.
I had bought it at the small pharmacy near the courthouse on Thursday afternoon, while Karen Gable was filing the final custody decree in the probate clerk office.
I pulled the tissue paper back, revealing the green fabric of the toy dog.
It was small, no larger than a pint jar, with black button eyes and a yellow yarn collar.
“Who is that?” Owen whispered, his fingers curling into his palms.
“He needs a name,” I said, holding the green dog out to him.
Owen did not reach for it immediately.
He looked at the little green ears, then at the neat stitches along the toy’s back.
“He is green,” Owen said.
“He is,” I said. “Like the grass in the park.”
Owen took the toy by its hind leg, his touch incredibly light, as if he expected it to disappear.
He held it to his nose, sniffing the clean, new flannel of its body.
