Page 64 of The Picasso Heist

“HI, DADDY.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“Let’s not talk about me today,” says my father. His tired eyes stray for a moment to the one small glass-brick window in the visiting room. It lets sunlight in but you can’t see out. “Tell me about your week. What have you been up to?”

“Not too much,” I say.

“Whatever it is, it has to be more exciting than anything I’m doing.”

“Well, there is something. I don’t know how exciting it is, but I’m definitely a bit proud of myself. Remember how I mentioned that I wanted to read Ulysses?”

“Yes, it was one of your New Year’s resolutions,” he says.

“That’s right. That and getting a cat.”

“I’m guessing you still haven’t gotten a cat.”

“No, but I did finally read Ulysses.”

“The whole thing?”

“Every word,” I say. “You were absolutely right. That Joyce is one hell of a writer.”

“So you liked it?”

“It’s everything you told me it would be.”

“Yes, Joyce can be quite the challenge. Good for you. Well done,” he says. “So what’s next on your reading list?”

“Next? Ulysses is over two hundred and fifty thousand words. Yes, I googled that, thank you very much. I need a break from reading. I’m going to binge-watch The Wire,” I say. “Have you heard of that show?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“But I’m guessing you haven’t seen it.”

“Apparently the prison library doesn’t have it,” says my father. “Something about the way it portrays the police.”

“Ha. As if anyone in here could have a lower opinion of law enforcement,” I say.

“It’s a good show, though, huh?”

“I’ll tell you what—next week, I’ll give you a full recap. How does that sound?”

My father looks at the small window again, at the light filtering through the glass brick. He smiles ever so slightly. “It sounds like a plan, sweetheart.”