William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I poured two small glasses of milk, placing one in front of him.
“Sit down, buddy,” I said, pointing to the yellow vinyl chair.
The chair had a small tear in the seat, taped over with silver duct tape, but the metal legs were sturdy.
Owen climbed up, tucking his feet behind the rungs of the chair.
He took a bite of his sandwich, his small teeth leaving clean semi-circles in the soft white bread.
He chewed slowly, his eyes fixed on the small square of blue sky visible through the window.
“Daddy?” he said after a long silence.
“Yes, Owen?”
“Do we have to go to Sue’s house tomorrow?”
His voice was very small, almost lost in the hum of the refrigerator.
I laid my knife down on the counter, the metal clinking against the laminate.
“No, Owen,” I said, looking directly into his brown eyes. “We do not have to go there tomorrow.”
“Or the next day?” he asked.
“Or the next day,” I said.
“Not even on Friday?” he asked, his left wrist twitching slightly before he caught himself.
