William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“No,” I said. “We do not need the red lamp.”
“The red lamp was bright,” he said.
“We will find a brighter one,” I said.
I stood up, my knees cracking in the quiet of the morning.
The kitchen was just through the archway, the linoleum clean and yellowed at the edges where the stove met the wall.
It was nearly noon, and the sun had shifted, casting long diagonal bars of light across the wooden floorboards of the living room.
I walked into the small kitchen and opened the refrigerator, which hummed with a steady, low vibration.
Inside was a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of white bread, and a small carton of milk I had bought the night before.
Owen followed me, his bare feet making a soft, slapping sound on the clean linoleum.
He still carried the green toy dog under his left arm, his hand wrapped tight around its middle.
“Are we having lunch?” he asked.
“We are,” I said. “Peanut butter.”
“With the purple jelly?” he asked.
“With the purple jelly,” I said.
