Thieves I've Known (11 page)

That your grandfather?

The boy nods.

He got a gun on him? Any weapons?

The boy shakes his head. He won't hurt nobody.

He almost killed you, says the deputy.

Winston doesn't like the man's tone. It reminds him of his teachers at school, the way they mix concern with a shake of their heads, the downward turn of their lips. You can do better. This is all right, good even, but you need to concentrate, focus, you know what I mean?

I don't, says Winston.

You don't what? says the deputy.

I don't know.

All right, says the man. He unclips the latch on his holster. You stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes.

Winston watches the man's head—black hair—disappear out of the blue lights. The boy picks off the glass with his fingertips, drops the shards on the floorboard. Nicks his finger with the last one, puts the finger in his mouth, tastes the blood. He is sure he has betrayed his grandfather.
Doesn't exactly know how, but is sure. He picks the yellow flowers off after that. When he climbs out of the cab, splashes into the water, crawls up the bank of the ditch on hands and knees, muddying both, he is convinced that the accident, the ride even, is his fault. He watches the blue lights hover across and around the ditch, and he watches for the white and black heads in the creek. Can see neither. A woman in the farmhouse has come out onto the porch. She stands at the railing, arms crossed, looking at her sunflower field, looks at where Winston is looking.

He sucks at his finger, tastes no blood, wishes he had left with his grandfather. He feels completely alone at the edge of the ditch. Abandoned maybe. Feels like no one—not his grandfather, not the deputy, not his father, not the woman on the porch—will ever return to him. Behind him, he hears the hum of the engine, not from the truck, but from the deputy's cruiser. When he turns, he sees, in the flash of the blue lights, the keys hanging in the ignition switch.

The left hook is a short, bent-arm blow, thrown off the left foot, as the boxer turns her body to the right behind the punch. The right cross, a short or long blow, is thrown off the trailing right foot and crosses the opponent's right arm. The body is turned to the left, with the left arm and hand in the guard position.

Helen opens the window on the second floor, pops out the screen. She takes her baby brother out onto the rooftop. She likes it up here, believes her brother does too. She looks down at him. He's wrapped in a sweater and blanket. She rocks him against her shoulder.

She remembers the coastline from the ferryboat. The waves of the sea breaking against the black rocks, seeming to continue toward the mountains. The mountains seemed as waves themselves, the landscape of the sea the same as land. She'd thought this, had said it to Mrs. Lange, and Mrs. Lange, holding her cards to the tip of her chin, had stared out at the sea, at the Inside Passage. In that moment, a man with a cast on his arm had crossed the deck. It does look like that, the old woman had said. They seem to go on and on.

Helen remembers this. She hums a tune to her brother, rocks him in rhythm with her thoughts. Sleeping beside Mrs. Lange that night, she'd heard the woman mumble in her sleep. She was sure she'd not misheard. You're not going to let another man hit you like that. They were alone, no man around. Helen had sipped at the flask of bourbon, her second taste, still bitter and harsh in her throat. She looked down at her cards. Solitaire. Felt the dip and roll of the ship for the first time that day. Heard someone latch a porthole closed. She'd played a card.

Now, she feels the warmth of the child against her shoulder, feels herself slip on the roof. She presses her feet against the shingles, holds her brother tight against her shoulder. Tomorrow, the trainer: she's going to break his nose.

Winston finds it—the sheriff's cruiser—a lot easier to drive than the tractor. His feet meet the pedals easily. He turns off the radio, grips his hands on the wheel, keeps the tires away from the edge of the ditch. He's moving faster than the tractor, than on any ride at the carnival. After only a minute—two—he can see the nods and dips of the two heads in the stream, the one behind closing the distance.

Behind him, the older Winston can hear the footfalls, the splashes of the deputy. In his youth, he'd have left the man far behind. Twenty years ago he would have left him behind, had always been a good runner. The ditch reminds him of France, near the Moselle River, of a ditch he'd run through in the war. Artillery in the distance, and German voices behind him. He kept low and kept the pace. He outran them. And later he was shot in the back by another American, a boy—he'd always assumed—who shot at everything. He lay that night in a foxhole. His wound was packed but not sewn. The pain was distant, a dull morphine pleasure. The foxhole was deep and he'd stayed quiet. He was nineteen and watched the snow and the tracers falling from the sky.

Blue lights above him now in the ditch. He glances behind him. The deputy is closing the distance. The old man hears his grandson's voice, and up the ditch he goes. He is not without skills, even with his mind
failing. He gets into the cruiser. Shuts the door. He puts his seat belt on. He wants to be a good example for the boy.

The younger Winston takes out the handkerchief; there's spittle hanging off the old man's chin and he wipes it away. Carefully. He wants to apologize, for not following, but he can't quite make the words. It's a ride, he thinks. This whole thing. He wants it to go on and on. Through the windshield he can see the orange glow in the distance. It's just over the next hill. They can make the road easy from here. The boy can feel—even as he presses on the pedal, even as the cruiser moves forward, even as he tries to say what he has to say again—the hand of the deputy on his arm, through the window, a vice, like one of his teacher's at school. The boy presses hard on the pedal, lets go the handkerchief.

The deputy, his other hand on the rooftop, hesitates, feels the slap of mud against his legs, feels the motion of the cruiser, feels his boots dragged across rocks. He can imagine his head run over in blue lights. He thinks about his baby son, decides, lets go of the boy's arm. As he slides to the ground, the back tire rolls over the man's boot, breaking five bones and fracturing two more.

When they reach the apartment, Omar sets his mother against the wall, closes the door behind them, pulls her up before she can sit down, presses his hands against her ribs. He looks up the stairway. Two minutes you think? he says.

Three.

Three then. He wipes the snow and rain from her hair, off the crown of her nose and cheeks. He wraps her arm around his shoulder and takes the stairs, letting her lead, pushes at the small of her back.

Why you pushing? she says.

I'm trying to help.

You're being rude.

I'm not meaning.

Meaning and doing are two different things. Your brother never pushed his mother like you do.

Omar says nothing.

If your brother was here, I'd already be up these stairs.

He takes his hand from her back.

Don't make that face, she says.

I'm not.

I'm looking at your face and you're making it right now.

He hides that face, looks down at the stairway, sees the cracks in the wood, a dark stain on the floorboards. He waits, listens to the silence between them. In that silence, she takes his hand, squeezes it, leads him up the stairs. As he follows her, he feels as if he's learning a trick. He's adding to his bag of tricks: keep her talking, wipe her face with cold water, give her a goal—five minutes, three, ten. Turn on the lights. Pout a little. He's going to get this right.

She stops on the staircase with a flight and a half to go. Give me a push, she says. These old bones aren't going to make it.

It's a wood yard, says the younger Winston. They sit at a roadblock, the blue lights still flashing above them. Another deputy walks down the line of cars ahead of them. He's checking licenses, looking in backseats. Behind him, dark smoke pushes across the road. The fire in the wood yard is a deep orange, tinges of blue and white in the center. It's a huge fire—even many miles back, a deputy with a broken foot can see it. But it puts the younger Winston in mind of the carnival. He remembers the spook house and the fire in the dragon's belly. He'd screamed, though he doesn't scream now. He's tempted though. He watches the firemen spraying white mists of water over the blaze. They'll not put it out for a long while. By the time the road is open again: another boy, miles and states away from here, will have unlaced his mother's shoes, tipped a mug of water to her lips, pulled the curtains closed from the glow of the moonlight. He'll take a blanket from his own bed, Omar, cover his mother. He'll slip in next to her and sleep. But Winston doesn't think of this. He can't see any of these things. He sees the fire only. Even at this distance, he can feel the heat of the blaze.

The older Winston has a fog in his mind. He's confused, but at least he knows it. But he doesn't know if the fog is coming in or going out. He
sees, ahead of them, another deputy. The one checking the licenses. Three cars ahead. The man wears a cowboy hat. Silhouetted against the fire the deputy looks like a bandit, or the Lone Ranger. The deputy gives the license back, sees the blue lights. He looks. He knows this cruiser, but he doesn't know the two people in it. He passes the next car. Keeps his eyes on the two Winstons. But he doesn't know their names. He holds his hand up to shield against the lights. He tries to see into the cruiser, he's level with the car ahead. He studies these two people in the cruiser. The older Winston feels the fog slipping in.

The younger Winston, he's been waiting. He has his hand on the seat between them. What do you want to do? he says. He's said it three times now. There's no answer. He grips the edge of the seat hard. Looks at the deputy.

He wants then to reach into his pocket. Take out his wallet. Pay the deputy. But the man doesn't approach the car. Winston wants to pay the price for this ride now, before the price is named. He thinks the ride might could go on. Thinks maybe if he moves fast enough, he might get a bargain. He believes the price to be paid will not be found in his pocket. He reaches there anyway. The deputy, watching the boy, doesn't see a boy. It's a big boy. It's an adult. The boy's hand reaches for something, and the deputy unclips his holster.

The older Winston reaches forward. He's not sure if he's got this right, but he reaches out of sight of the deputy. The younger Winston watches the hand go. He wants that hand to go on and on, knows that the ride is still on, as long as that hand moves, as long as the deputy's hand moves, the ride will not end. The old man flips his wrist and the engine dies. His hands are still moving. He takes up his grandson's hands, slowly. He's gentle, this man, with this boy. Always. He puts their hands on the steering wheel.

The uppercut is a blow delivered—well—up, with either hand and in close quarters. The boxer finds this blow most effective against an opponent boxing in a crouched position and moving in.

It's the morning. Helen walks the three miles to the gym in a white
fog that hovers over the gravel and the farmland in wisps and strings, in fingers. She smells smoke and watches the first orange rays sift through the white fog.

She's been told where the key is. She undresses near the ring, hears the door open across the way. Slips into her shorts and T-shirt. She tapes her hands, and watches her trainer undress, tape his hands. She skips rope. Three hundred.

In the ring they say nothing. She ties his left glove. They crouch in the center of the ring. He ties her left, then her right, shows her again how to tie with a glove on. How to make do. They take a minute in their corners. Here, they are their own trainers. When she talks to herself, she sees his face. She listens to his instructions.

In his corner, he sees a girl. Not this girl—the one behind him—but another girl. He sees his mother as a child. He's seen her in black-and-white photographs, and he remembers a story now. His mother is nine years old and reaches for a piece of fruit in a street cart. He can't remember the fruit now. Let's call it an orange. His mother is looking like a buyer, but she means to steal that orange. Her brother lies in a bed, asleep. When the boy—the boxer's uncle—wakes, someone will wipe his chin, will help him walk, might offer a piece of fruit. The boy will not live out the year. But his sister reaches for an orange in a cart on the street with a picture of her brother in her mind. She has black curls and tiny hands. She watches the merchant, pretends to be a buyer. She squeezes the orange while her brother, blocks and blocks away, sleeps, while the merchant turns, while, years and decades later, Helen says, Ready?

The trainer turns and looks at this other girl.

Do you know what I'm going to do? he says.

No.

This merchant. Decades before. Let's give him a moustache. He sees the girl. The merchant is quick and tall, and two steps away. He's got long arms and angry hands, and he's caught his share of thieves in his day. This little girl looks at him. She's nine years old, but will one day be someone's mother. She puts the orange into her pocket. Brazen. Her
eyes ask him a question: are you as fast as I am? He doesn't have to answer the question. He believes he's plenty fast. He moves, sudden, and grabs her. He's going to show her now. He's going to show what he does to thieves.

But he is completely mistaken. He looks at his hands. He holds nothing. And now he has one less orange. He grabbed air. He looks around for the girl, for the boxer's mother. But she's long gone. She's slipped away. Because that is what a fast speed does.

The trainer moves away from his corner.

Do you know what you're going to do? he says.

Yes, says Helen.

What's that?

Keep moving, she thinks, but she says nothing. She lets go of the ropes, fits her mouthpiece to her teeth, walks to the center of the ring, meets him, and moves in.