The autumn wind blew a handful of damp oak leaves across the porch as the blue sedan pulled away from the curb. Lauren did not park. She never did on Sundays. She idled near our mailbox, the tailpipe puffing white exhaust into the cool afternoon air, and before the passenger door was fully closed, her tires kicked up the gravel of the lane.
My eight-year-old son, Tommy, stepped onto the grass, his yellow school backpack hanging low and off-center from his left shoulder. He walked with his arms pinned tight to his ribs, his chin tucked deep into the collar of his jacket.
I stood on the bottom step of the porch, waiting for him.
“Hey, Tommy,” I said.
His face was the color of skim milk when he looked up. His knees shook under his oversized cargo pants as he reached the gravel path that led to the steps.
“Hi, Dad,” he said.
His teeth were already digging into his thumbnail, chewing the skin until it was red and raw. He had been biting his nails more lately, but today his hands looked gray at the knuckles.
“Let me take the bag,” I said, reaching out my hand.
He flinched back against the wooden railing, his shoulder dropping three inches as if I had raised a hand to him.
“I have it,” he said. His voice was a whisper, thin and dry.
“It looks heavy,” I said. “Let us get inside where the heat is on.”
I held the front door open for him, my thumb rubbing my left temple where a sharp ache was starting to form. The hum of our old refrigerator greeted us as we stepped into the hallway, a constant, low vibration that usually felt like home. Today, the small house felt crowded with a silence we had not built.
Tommy stood in the center of the rug, his coat still zipped to his chin. He stared at the brown corduroy sofa as if it were a high fence he had to climb.
“Go ahead and take off your coat, Tommy,” I said. “I can pull up the football game.”
