William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“Not on Friday,” I said. “Not ever again.”
He looked down at his plate, tracing the edge of the blue plastic with his thumb.
“Marsha said I had to go to the big camp,” he whispered.
“The camp in the mountains?” I asked.
“The one with the gray shirts,” he said. “She said they would make me quiet.”
I reached across the small table and laid my hand over his, feeling the warmth of his skin.
“The judge said no,” I said. “The judge looked at the paper and said you stay with me.”
“Is the judge stronger than Sue?” Owen asked.
“Much stronger,” I said.
“Does the judge have a big stick?”
“No,” I said, a small smile breaking across my face. “Just a small wooden hammer and a lot of very clear books.”
Owen took another bite of his sandwich, his shoulders visibly relaxing.
“I like the blue plates,” he said.
“I like them too,” I said.
“We can keep them here?” he asked.
“We are staying right here, buddy; this is our home now,” I said.
