Thieves I've Known (4 page)

She could see the eyes of the man in the rearview mirror.

“You like this music?” he said.

Shelby listened. It sounded rough, static in the background. The guitar player seemed as if he didn't know where he was headed with the riff, with the melody, seemed as if he'd stay awhile where he was.

“This is your playing.”

The man set his eyes back on the road. “That's right. You didn't answer the question, though.”

“I like it.”

“I told you I know a lie when I hear one.”

“You're not knowing one now,” she said.

“I'm not sure,” he said. “I'm deciding.”

Phillip warmed his hands at the vents, turned his hands over and under at the hot air. He felt inside his jacket for the present he'd wrapped for his mother, felt the square of the package, the corners and the crinkle of paper.

The man shifted the toothpick in his mouth. “What's Carney up to?” he said.

“Works at the courthouse,” said Shelby.

“Where?”

“Bremerton.”

“Good lord,” said the man. “What's he do there?”

“Janitor.”

The man nodded. “That sounds right. You tell him hello for me?”

“I'll tell him.”

“I could tell you some stories,” said Otis.

“Is that right?”

“Yep,” he said.

Shelby waited. They passed mile markers on the right, a rail bridge where a line of tankers and boxcars sat overhead, a reservoir that stretched for as far as Shelby could see. The man said nothing, told no stories.

“Can I ask you something?” Shelby said.

“All right.”

“What kind of favor you owe him for?”

The man shrugged. “He got me some dope or something. Not even sure it was him. I got a vague recollection he's got something coming, but I can't name it. Let that be a lesson to both of you. Write down your favors so you'll remember.”

They drove on, listening to the whirr of the wipers, the tap of rain on the windshield, the guitar on the tape deck as it cut off, flipped, played the other side. The man's guitar skill was not good, Shelby thought, but not bad either. He seemed to know when to pause, knew the space between chords, knew the right notes if not the combinations. Phillip took out a sheet of paper from his back pocket, set it flat against his knee, set it like he'd set the others, began to tear and fold.

“Borrow your toothpick?” he said to the man.

“My toothpick?”

“That's right.”

The man drove on for a while, looked at Shelby in the rearview mirror, closed the lid over the damaged eye. He slipped out the pick, handed it to the boy.

Phillip folded, ripped away some paper, took out a penknife and cut slits in the folds, stuck in the toothpick. They drove on. When he was done, Phillip set the paper guitar on the dashboard, lengthwise, pointing the neck toward the man, the toothpick sitting in for the strings.

“How much longer you got in school?” said the man.

“A year for me,” said Shelby. “After this one. Two for him.”

“Where you headed after that?”

“Who says we're headed anywhere?”

“Everybody, as far as I hear, heads out of Bremerton.”

“You been?”

“Out?” said the man. “Or Bremerton?”

“Both then.”

Otis picked up the guitar from the dashboard, set it on top of the steering wheel.

“In the navy, Carney and I saw Germany and Japan, Hawaii and the tip of Greenland. We got off the ship when we could. You wonder, what you see in a port town, and what that tells of the rest of the place. I've seen thirteen countries and four continents, but I'd like to see more. Bremerton I've seen, took the ferry out. My wife and I like the water. I've seen worse and I've seen better. Have I been out? That's a good question. I've been out, but I'm not sure if I've been in.”

The man turned the wheel, and the guitar slid off onto the floor. On a straightaway, he leaned forward and felt at the floorboard, found the paper and set it back on the dash. He wiped his fist at the window to clear off the mist.

“That's a fine guitar,” he said.

As the rain tapered to a drizzle, the breeze from the coastline picked up, bending trees over power lines, blowing sand and black wet leaves across the road. When it was offered, Otis took an apple from the book bag and after set the core next to the guitar on the dashboard. The dull glow of the sun—still behind clouds—began its descent toward the Olympics, and shadows stretched out from barns and shacks, from the clusters of sheep and goats behind fences. Phillip creased and folded more paper, making a shark, then a lighthouse, though not a good one. He unfolded, started over, made a frog that he set on Shelby's hand.

“We got a trick on this one,” she said.

“What's that?” said Otis.

Shelby pushed down on the back tip of the frog, pressed it to the edge of the seat top, let her finger go. The frog hopped forward, landing head-first between the boy and the man.

Otis looked down and studied the frog. “Y'all don't have much to do out in Bremerton, do you?” he said.

“It's for luck,” said Phillip. “Frogs bring it.”

“That right?”

“You got a frog in your garden, it means something good's going on.”

“How about in your car?”

“Same I suppose.”

The man picked up the frog and set it next to the guitar, next to the apple core.

“We're about there,” the man said. “How long's this visit?”

“A couple hours,” said Phillip. “We're catching a bus back. You did your favor and then some.”

Ahead, they could see a stoplight and what served as a town—a market and a post office, a boarded-up restaurant named Billy's. A man passed them on the sidewalk, kept his raincoat closed against the wind. Otis slowed the car and stopped at the light.

“It isn't my business to ask, but how long's your mom in for?”

“Five years,” said Phillip.

“And how much of that she done?”

“One, a little more.”

“She sold?”

“We lived in a house that sold. Same thing before the judge.”

“She could've pled that down,” said Otis. “I know that business.”

Phillip looked out at the market on the corner. “She wouldn't testify against her boyfriend, so they sent her down.”

“Love?” said Otis.

Phillip considered that. “Didn't seem like it.”

The man shifted into first when the light changed. “Maybe not to you,” he said. “Bet they were keen on sending you to a home.”

“I been to a home last year in Tacoma.”

Otis looked over at Phillip. “Not even a deal for you?”

“Not from them.”

“But your mom could've pulled one.”

Phillip stared out the window. Up ahead, Shelby could see the towers of the prison, the wire and the fences, a concrete square, ugly and dark like the sky. She closed up her book bag and zipped her jacket.

“I think I've answered more than I had to,” said Phillip.

“All right,” said Otis. “I got somewhere I didn't mean to go.”

The man circled the prison block, looked out through the drizzle and the gray light. He found the parking lot and the entranceway to the gate. A line of people—visitors, old men and women, lots of young children—stood under an aluminum rooftop, dressed for cold and wet. A guard in a green slicker stood behind the fence.

Phillip slipped his fingers into the door latch but didn't open. Shelby waited on him.

“Y'all can stay dry here till it's time to go.”

“We've kept you long enough,” said Phillip. “Thanks for the ride.” They got out, stood in the drizzle as they collected their things. The air was cold and heavy, and the wind blew sand in their eyes and hair.

Otis leaned forward, pointed at the dashboard. “You forgot your little doo-dad.”

“That's for you,” said Phillip. “That frog'll make something good happen.”

“I'll believe that when I see it,” said the man.

They closed their doors and watched as the car moved past the line of people, heading toward the exit near the state road. One of the brake lights flickered like a dim red sparkler, and the windows were fogged over in the side and back. They couldn't see Otis anymore, not the eye or the gray. They stood in the drizzle with their packs, brushed the sand from their own eyes, then walked to the rooftop, waited at the back of the line.

In the greeting room, families fanned out to the line of benches, rows against the cinder-block walls and down the center. Outside, they'd
stood quiet in the drizzle, listening to the raindrops ping against the aluminum rooftop. But inside there was a faint buzz of voices, eyes set on the clock on the wall. Grime and dust caked the windows. The room smelled of disinfectant and coffee. Children played with toy trucks and cars, blocks and electronic games, some on the floor, others on top of benches. A pall of smoke drifted up toward the ceiling as grandparents and a few fathers lit up cigarettes, listened for the turn of the lock at the far door, told their kids to quiet down.

Phillip took out the boxed present from his jacket, set it at the edge of their bench. Shelby was unsure of what to do. She thought about the bus station she'd seen on one of her maps, but hadn't spotted it on the way into town. She tried to keep her mind on the present, took hold of Phillip's hand and rubbed at his middle knuckle. He kept still, kept his hand in hers. Above them, the rows of lights buzzed and hummed, echoed against the high ceiling. Phillip looked lost.

“I thought you'd been before,” she said.

“I never said that.”

She looked down at his hand. “You want to draw something?”

“No.”

“I got a notebook in the bag.”

“You can take that carton out if you want.”

She unzipped the bag, reached past the bread and the maps, took out the cigarettes. As the lock turned, the sound echoed above the pitch of the lights. The children stopped their play at the trucks and blocks, at the games. Men stubbed out their cigarettes. A tall guard came out the door, followed by the first of the prisoners.

Phillip and Shelby watched them come. They were each dressed in red, the women, all of them with their hair tied back or shaved short. Some were old, gray, others little older than Shelby. They walked in single file, then spread, some running, some walking to the tables. An older prisoner put her glasses on. There were hugs, a shriek of delight here or there. A few simple nods. Many kept the same distant, cold expression as they sat down with their families. Children seemed to be the center of attention. An old man set his watch, glanced at the clock. One
woman in long, dark braids circled the room, examined each cluster of visitors at the benches, examined Phillip and Shelby. No one had come for her.

Phillip stood as a woman was wheeled through the door in a chair. Her skin was pale and gray, her eyes sunk in lines of wrinkles and brows, and one of her legs had been amputated at the knee. Her red pant leg was tied in a knot below. She pointed at their table, and the tall guard wheeled her over, set a brace against the rubber tire, edged back through the door, observing the other prisoners.

“Hey,” said Phillip.

The woman had long, black-and-gray locks of hair pulled back behind her ears. She kept her dark eyes aimed at the table, glanced once up at Shelby.

“Hello,” she said.

“This is Shelby.”

The woman nodded. She looked down at her legs. “What have you brought for me?”

They listened to the buzz of voices around them. Phillip reached into his pocket, took out a chocolate bar, slid it gently across the table to the woman. She looked at it but kept her hands down at her sides, at the wheels of the chair. Her hair was slick, seemed not to have been washed in days.

“Go on,” Phillip said.

When she made no further movement, he unwrapped the bar, reached to her hand, placed it between the fingers. Behind them, a child began to cry. Laughter here and there. The guards said nothing, stood together in a huddle near the door.

“How are you?” he said.

“This leg is getting me down.” She took a bite of chocolate.

“I'm in school,” he said. “Shelby helps me.”

“He helps me too,” said Shelby.

The woman nodded. “Have you found him?”

Phillip slid the cigarettes across the table. “These are for you too.”

The woman picked up the carton and placed it in her lap.

“I see you took some,” the woman said.

“It was a long trip.”

“I asked you a question.”

Phillip picked at the tabletop with his finger, drew what looked to Shelby like a face, large eyes and a thin mouth. He'd hunched his shoulders, become smaller. He circled the skull again and again. When he took his finger away, Shelby tried to find the face in the dust.

“It's hard.”

“It's harder in here,” said the woman. “It's been half a year and you can't do one thing I ask?”

“I made some calls. Your boyfriend was in Portland for a while. After that, I lost him.”

“That does me a lot of good.”

Phillip picked up the box. “I'll keep looking.”

“I want a phone number.”

“You'll get it.”

The woman took a small bite of chocolate and looked at the clock on the wall. Shelby couldn't guess her age. She held herself old but looked younger up close. The woman's fingernails were clipped short, pointed at the tips.

“It takes an effort to come down here from the hospital,” she said. “I'm in pain a lot. Next time you come, bring some news.”

“I brought you something better,” said Phillip.

The woman looked at the package. “Open it then,” said the woman. “My hands can't fool with that paper.”

Phillip tore the wrap up the side, slipped out the cardboard box. Shelby sat with hands flat on the table, watched for some expression in the woman's face but found none. When he opened the top, he took out something wrapped in paper towels. He placed it in front of his mother.