My Daddy Is In Jail

My Daddy is in jail, he says. He is six years and six days old. Big brown eyes, mushroom skin, trusting me. That’s too bad, I say. No, it’s good. He stops coloring and smiles at me. We live in a safe house now. We color together in silence for a few minutes. I am sixty-eight and twenty-nine days. Hazel eyes, mouth silent, waiting. My dad has a car like that one, he says. He is pointing to a muscle car on the cover of a book. I say that’s nice. He give me a sly sideways glance, he is still coloring. My dad has a bucket of dollars, he reports. That’s great! I say. He nods. He needs one more dollar to buy a car, he says. I could give him a dollar, I say. Okay, he says. We continue coloring. My name is Peter, P E T E R he says Spelling it out slowly, so I can catch it. Peter, he says, satisfied. I try not to smile, but I do. He is helping me, concerned that I might not know how to spell. That’s great, I say. He looks relieved. Of course, I am not using his real name But he is real, and his mother got beaten up by Daddy And his Daddy is in jail. Real stuff. Not just for TV.