He’s coloring a night sky on the underbelly of the kitchen table. His parents are too busy fighting to notice. It always starts with his father’s thirst. Next comes the television set. His mother turns up the volume so the antics of Wally and Beaver or Lucy and Ricky will drown out the yelling.

A pound cake sits on the oak table above him. The sugary smell teases the boy. He forced down his peas, but now he might not even get a slice. Behind his parents’ bedroom door, there’s a thump. What sounds like a loud clap. A crash. His mother, her voice muffled, says something about upsetting the landlord.

With a chunky white crayon, the boy adds a star to his sky. He bites his lip and narrows his eyes, neck craned upward to study his work. Now the challenge is how to make clouds show up. He decides to try purple over the black of night. Doesn’t work. He adds a faint white outline along the wood grain, tracing the purple. Better. He smiles proudly.

His mother’s navy pumps cross the yellow linoleum. He watches her apron swoosh and braces for his father to follow with his grass-stained socks and loudness. But the only sounds are his mother’s steps, cabinets opening and closing, and June Cleaver asking Wally where he’s going.

The boy watches his mother’s busy calves. Then, suddenly, her red-streaked face appears. She grips the table above her head, squatting down into the shadow of the boy’s world. He holds his breath. He knows good and well that he shouldn’t be drawing on furniture, but the blank wood was pleading for color.

“Play a game with me, dear?”

He frowns.

She touches his face softly with her thumb and whispers, “You know how silly your father is. He’s playing a little hide-and-seek game with the Oldsmobile key. Help me find it?”