Page 60 of Don’t You Cry

He is drawing. Long strokes, then short ones, then a pause like he’s turning the page or erasing something. The pencil never stops for long.

I sit in the dark car listening to John’s son sketch.

There are worse ways to spend a night.

At 12:26, Sherry yells, “Kamden!” and the pencil stops. “Come get this shit and take it out.”

“Coming,” he calls back softly, his bed squeaking as he gets up. I hear footsteps, some rustling, and thirty seconds later, the front door opens.

I watch him step onto the porch carrying two garbage bags nearly half his size. He has to hold them with both arms hugged around them so they don’t drag on the wet boards.

He’s in faded green-and-red plaid pajama pants and a loose T-shirt that slips off his right shoulder as he struggles with the trash. Bare feet shoved into slippers that are too small for his feet—his heels hang off the backs—without socks.

His hair is fluffier than it was during the day, falling messily over his forehead.

Kamden walks the bags toward the bins beside the house, careful on each step like he’s carrying something breakable instead of trash. He lifts them over the rim one at a time and drops them in, then turns back toward the door.

The deadbolt turns.

I can hear it clearly through the receiver, and he heard it too, because he goes still, hardly dressed, and definitely not for forty-degree weather, holding two empty hands in front of him like he doesn’t know what they’re for.

When he unfreezes and steps forward to try the handle, it doesn’t budge. He knocks, but there’s no answer. He calls, “Mom?” but still nothing.

Through the receiver, I hear the television turn on.

My jaw clenches.

Kamden stands on the porch in the cold for nearly a minute before sitting on the top step. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t pound on the door, doesn’t call her names, or plead to be let in.

He just sits.

Like this has happened before.

Two minutes pass, then three.

By the fourth, my hand is on the door handle, knuckles white. I force myself to release it. It’s not time yet.

Kamden’s gaze drifts toward the empty street, eyes glassy with more than just the chill. He rubs his palms together in a sad attempt to keep warm.