The Tenderness of Thieves

by Donna Freitas

  “That’s right, stay calm,” went that fourth voice again. He’d whispered those words, his tone less violent than the others and more in control, a tone that said trust me. I wanted someone to trust right now, too, I really did. But then, how could I trust one of them? He was close, very close, I could feel his body, feel the heat pouring off him from the stress of the situation. From the stress of breaking into this supposedly vacant house and instead finding out it wasn’t vacant at all. “No one’s going to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice low and husky and altered. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, all right?”

  I wasn’t sure if this was a question and it wasn’t like anyone was giving me choices, so I said nothing. Stayed silent in the dark of the night with the blindfold over my eyes, the winds of the snowstorm outside howling.

  But he’d wanted an answer. “All right?”

  I nodded. I nodded, even though it wasn’t all right. None of this was all right. I wasn’t all right.

  “Good girl,” he said, those words spilling out at me for the second time, but this time with urgency, like my whole life depended on the ability to continue to be the good girl, the quiet girl, the girl who listened. “Just stay still,” he whispered, closer now, next to my ear, like he really was trying to save me, as though it was in his power to do this very thing, his breath on my neck, fast and worried.

  And I sat there—we sat there, me and him—I don’t know how long, in the noise of the crashing and the destruction of the O’Connors’ house, the shouting and the shattering, in this place that I loved and relaxed and relished the various books the professor left for me. My mind gone blank. My mind trying not to think anything at all. My mind wishing for this nightmare to end.

  Then suddenly it seemed like it might.

  There came a silence. A stopping. A gathering of footsteps nearby.

  My body tensed with fear, and there came those words for the third time, rewarding the fact that I’d stayed still and quiet, that even in my terror I’d behaved.

  “Good girl,” my captor whispered, trying to soothe me I think, and for a moment he almost had me. I almost trusted him. I almost believed he meant well, wanted to save me after all.

  But then came another set of footsteps, an unexpected set, loud and sure, the steady thump, thump, thump of heavy shoes pounding against the carpeted stairs and then the thwack, thwack, thwack across the wooden floor at the top, the sounds of a man approaching, a confident man. One with no idea what situation he was about to happen upon.

  The footsteps came to a halt.

  “Jane?” My name, called out in the darkness, cutting through the fear. Then again: “Jane?”

  And next, “Daddy?” I called back.

  FIFTEEN

  WHEN I GOT HOME from seeing Handel, there was a surprise waiting for me in the living room—one I wasn’t sure what to think about. When I reached the front steps of my house, I heard voices coming through the open windows. My mother’s and someone else’s.

  I hesitated at first but eventually headed inside.

  “Jane,” Professor O’Connor said when he saw me. He got up from the couch in our living room, the springs groaning. It was strange to see him there, this big man dressed so formally, pressed into our little, sandy house. His hair had gotten grayer since the last time I’d seen him, and I was struck with the urge to weep.

  “Hi, Professor O’Connor.” I hovered by the door. Dropped my bag to the floor.

  My mother was in the kitchen, fixing coffee. “It’s nice of him to visit us, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t sure what to do next, what to say, what to ask.

  He stood there, waiting. Patient. Finally, he said, “I’m glad to see you, Jane. It’s been too long.”

  I nodded again. Couldn’t find my tongue.

  “I was hoping we could talk.”

  My mother joined us while the coffee brewed, the machine stuttering to life in the kitchen. “Please sit,” she said to him. “Sweetheart?” she said to me.

  Normally I would go heap myself onto the sofa, but it was odd to think of sharing our old couch with Professor O’Connor. I pulled up one of the wooden chairs from against the wall, where I usually piled my things when I came home for the day, and positioned myself on the other side of the coffee table. Professor O’Connor sat down again.

  “How are you?” I asked, finding my voice.

  “I’m all right, considering.”

  “Considering?”

  “That’s what I’m here to discuss. Molly?” He turned to my mother, asking permission to say whatever it was he was here to say.

  Her face was blank. “Go ahead.”

  “What’s happened?” I cut in quickly, even as I wanted to cover my ears to shut out whatever came next.

  Professor O’Connor leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped. The wrinkles lining his face left tiny shadows across his skin in the light of the table lamp. “It seems the police have a new lead.”

  “Really?” I asked, feigning surprise. I’d given it to them myself after all.

  His eyebrows went up. “They haven’t been in touch with you about it?”

  “No,” I said, which was only half a lie. I’d been in touch with them, and all Michaela’s dad had done was leave a message confirming he’d gotten mine.

  My mother chose this moment to get up and go to the kitchen to pour the coffee, even though we didn’t need it. It was too hot for hot coffee. “Milk and sugar?” she called back to Professor O’Connor.

  “Just black, thanks,” he said.

  She returned with three mugs, placing them on the table, mine so light with cream it was practically white. No one moved to touch them, the steam rising up through the air. A shiver ran through me despite the humidity, and I realized that my legs were shaking. I leaned over and grabbed one of the mugs, put both hands around it, the burn along my palms soothing me a little. “So what’s the lead? Do they know who it is?” I asked.

  Professor O’Connor glanced away a moment, his profile stark in the glare of the lamp. Then he let out a big breath. “They wouldn’t tell me. I honestly don’t know where it’s taken them.”

  “Wait—what?” I was confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “The police won’t give out specific details, not even to me,” he said. “I was hoping you might already know what was going on.”

  My back was straight against the wooden chair. I looked down at my hands, so tight around the mug I thought it might shatter from the force. I did know, of course. I’d given them a significant detail to look for and a name on top of it, one that must be panning out if Professor O’Connor was here talking about leads. But for some reason I couldn’t manage to make myself confess all I knew—suspected—right now. I placed the mug on the coffee table, folded my hands in my lap, then unfolded them again. “But why wouldn’t they tell you, of all people? You were the victim,” I said, leaving myself out of the equation. “They should trust you,” I added, even as I kept up my lie of omission.

  “I don’t think the police not telling me about the lead means they don’t trust me,” he said. “Or you, Jane. It’s everyone else in this town that’s the problem.”

  “What do you mean?” This question came from my mother. A worried look had settled over her during the conversation.

  Professor O’Connor leaned forward. Rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands. “You know how everyone is around here. Everyone knows each other, everyone gossips. Word gets out fast, and the police seem to think whoever did this might live very close.”

  “How close?” my mother asked.

  I took the coffee mug back into my hands, warming my palms. As close as the McCallen brothers, I thought right then. I couldn’t stop shivering, even though it was anything but cold.

  “It’s very possible that Jane—that you and I”—he nodded at my mother—“might be acqua
intances with the attackers.”

  At this, I stood, the coffee sliding right out of my hands onto the floor. The mug cracked in half. I bent down to pick up the pieces. Watched the milky liquid run in every direction. My mother got up and ran to the kitchen for something to help clean the mess.

  “Jane,” Professor O’Connor said, his face a mask of worry. “I’m not saying this is definite—the police still don’t know who it is—but you need to be careful. I want you and your mother to be safe, and I’m concerned that you won’t be until the police catch whoever did this,” he added, in a way that said he wished this weren’t true.

  My mother returned with paper towels. She crouched down, glancing at me, in between sopping up the puddle of coffee.

  I stood, the two halves of the cracked mug still in my hands. “But there’s so much I don’t remember. And I was blindfolded.”

  “You may have seen something and not realized it,” Professor O’Connor said. “And you heard everything.”

  I didn’t respond. This part was true.

  “There’s another reason I’m here,” he said next.

  My mother took the pieces of mug from me while I watched her, frozen. Waited for Professor O’Connor to go on.

  “Martha and I have wanted to invite both of you over for a long time now,” he began gently. When I inhaled deep and quick, about to protest, he stopped me with his hand. “I know you might not be ready yet, Jane, and I respect that. But I think it would be a good idea for you to stop by someday soon for a visit, the sooner the better. We could all have dinner.”

  My mother glanced up at him. “Is there any particular reason that’s necessary?”

  He hesitated. “It might help her remember.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I said, but shaking my head no. “I’ve already remembered everything I can. I’m done remembering.”

  “I wouldn’t push you, but—” Professor O’Connor stopped.

  “But?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know.

  “The police think it would be a good idea as well.”

  Anger flashed through me, searing my insides. “The police made you come here?”

  “No, no.” He sighed long and big. “I wanted to come. I’ve wanted to see how you are for a long time. But it’s my worry that finally brought me, and the fact that maybe the police are right and a visit might jog your memory a bit. It also might make you feel better. Going back to the place where you lived through a trauma can get you started on your way through all that dread you feel. It was a trauma, Jane, that night, a real trauma.” His voice was pained. “You were there to take care of our house. All alone and we didn’t think twice. Martha and I feel so terrible we put you in such a vulnerable position. We should’ve hired someone older. We weren’t thinking.”

  My mother took her seat. “Everyone’s blaming themselves,” she said, frustration in every syllable of her words. “Jane blames herself, you’re blaming yourself, I blame myself for not picking Jane up the second it started to snow. But the only people we should be blaming are the ones who did this.”

  Professor O’Connor stayed silent.

  “You really think it would help Jane to go to your house?” she asked.

  “I do,” he said.

  My mother looked at me, then at Professor O’Connor. “Can you give us a few days to think it over?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I should be going now, anyway.”

  Professor O’Connor’s posture, usually so straight, was hunched. He seemed weary and sad. I felt the urge to weep again. He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Jane, you must promise not to give away details about what happened that night to anyone other than your mother or the police. We don’t want you or anyone else in danger.”

  “She understands,” my mother said, answering for me, her tone tight with worry.

  I nodded to show that I did, too. “Thank you for coming,” I whispered to the professor, my voice nearly gone.

  “I wish I’d done it sooner.” He got up. “I think about you all the time.” He turned to my mother. “It was good to see you, Molly.” Professor O’Connor turned to me now. “It was good to see you, too, Jane. I’m sorry for everything.”

  He was at the door in two long strides and was almost gone, but I stopped him just in time. I placed a hand on his arm, and as soon as I mustered the courage, I gave him a hug. He wasn’t sure what to do, I think, not at first, but it only took a second before he pulled me in tight. For a moment, just a quick one, it could have been my father with his arms around me, and this feeling—I held on to it for as long as I could before it faded away.

  • • •

  “I’m going to bed,” my mother said shortly after the professor had left, her voice heavy, her steps heavier. She wiped a hand across her eyes, then ran it through her hair.

  “Okay,” I said quietly. “Good night.”

  I stood there, in the middle of the living room, thinking awhile.

  Trying to decide how I felt.

  In some ways, certainly not in the ones that Professor O’Connor had intended, his mandate—don’t talk to anyone about that night other than the police or your mother—had unwittingly offered me a way to assuage my guilt for not telling the people around me all I knew, all that I suspected. The notion that I should keep quiet for my own safety gave me permission to do what I’d wanted to all along, to let whatever was buried deep down in my memory about that night in February, hidden in the darkness, sink even further away from the present until it disappeared altogether.

  When I finally went to bed, when I slipped my body between the sheets, they felt as cool and soothing as the mandate to keep silent about things. Everyone always spoke about how talking was supposed to make things better, but no one ever told you how silence could be healing, too.

  • • •

  The next morning, as I got ready for the beach, I put on my favorite string bikini, the same one I wore on the day when Handel first spoke to me. After I left the house and got closer to the ocean, I pulled my T-shirt over my head and stepped out of my shorts even as I continued to walk, the sand greeting my toes with soft sighs. I tossed my hair once, then again, its texture velvety against my shoulders and bare back. As I made my way toward my girls, there was a strut in my step, the ties of my bikini bouncing along the tops of my thighs. The stares from the boys were blatant as I passed, and I drank them in like lemonade.

  “Hi, ladies,” I said when I reached Michaela and Tammy and Bridget. I saw Seamus loping toward us from the water, and noticed his towel and flip-flops laid out next to Tammy’s.

  “Hey, Jane,” Seamus said when he reached us.

  I went to him and gave him a little hug. “I feel like it’s been ages since you’ve shown up unannounced at the house.”

  Seamus blushed. “I’ve been . . . kind of busy.”

  I glanced over at Tammy, who was suddenly preoccupied with her magazine. “I bet.”

  Bridget smiled up at me from her towel. “You seem happy today.”

  “I am,” I told her, removing my sunglasses from my eyes. “I really am,” I said, and then lay on my back to soak up all the bright sun.

  SIXTEEN

  THE GIGGLING COMING FROM my mother’s sewing room was becoming unbearable. An entire wedding party—four bridesmaids plus the bride—was getting their measurements done and talking to my mother about dress styles and possible designs. They spilled out into the living room, which was why I’d taken refuge on my bed, staring into my closet and wondering what a girl wears on a group date to a place like the Ocean Club. I thought of that woman heading into Christie’s the night I’d seen Miles valeting, the way she’d walked along in her tight white dress and those heels, gripping a matching white clutch in her hand. I didn’t have anything like that. It just wasn’t my style. Well, it wasn’t anyone’s style around here.

  “Oh, that’
s so beautiful,” one of the girls in the wedding party cried out, followed by a lot of oohing and aahing from the others.

  Though I didn’t really want to enter into the fray of Mom’s current clients, whenever I was in doubt about attire, she was my consultant and savior, so I decided to brave the sewing room situation.

  A pretty girl with long red hair, all spirally curls falling everywhere, was sitting on the couch in the living room. She looked up from a sketch in her lap as I passed through. Her face was freckled. “Hey there.”

  I searched the catalog of town families stored in my mind, trying to locate her among them, but came up with nothing. “Hi. Are you the bride?”

  She shook her head. “No, that’s Jenny. She’s in there with your mother and the rest of them. I’m just a bridesmaid.”

  “Can I see?” I asked, gesturing at the sketch.

  “Sure.” She handed it over.

  My mother always outlined the designs for her clients as many times as necessary until they were satisfied. I could already tell this one was complicated, and what’s more, three separate fabric swatches were stapled to the paper, all in different shades of green, and this was only for the bridesmaid dresses. That meant the bride had money. Lots of it. “Pretty,” I said.

  “Your mother’s kind of a genius. She’s determined to make everyone in the wedding party happy, and you know how difficult that can be.”

  I laughed. “She’s good at what she does,” I said as another shriek followed by more giggling spilled out of the sewing room. “All right, I’m headed in there.”