The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to be sorry about, you didn’t cause this.” Michael’s mind couldn’t seem to shake the thought that this terrible trial was a punishment for his past deeds.

  “How are we going to pay for this?” she asked softly, knowing the pressure that just asking it put on Michael.

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Our savings are almost tapped out.” Mary struggled to hide the desperation in her voice as she nervously fingered the gold cross hanging from her neck. It was a habit she had developed in her teens: whenever her stress level rose, her fingers would run to the little cross seeking comfort and protection, like it was some all-powerful amulet. Over the years the gesture had become an unconscious reaction and Michael was sure she was unaware of it even now. She’d had the cross since her First Holy Communion, a gift from a beloved uncle. She rarely took it off. It always bothered Michael when they were making love and she was on top, the moonlight catching it as it dangled from her throat. He found the cross as intrusive as if someone was spying on their intimate moments. Although Mary insisted that it had always protected her, Michael’s doubt of that was surely confirmed by her current diagnosis.

  “You just focus on getting better, Mare. I can finance it, not a problem.” His stomach was in knots. Through all the years they had been together, through thick and thin and most particularly through his arrest and jail time, he had never lied to her, ever. Maybe a little fib here and there—I love your haircut; I’d love to see that movie; she’s not prettier than you—but not direct, deceiving lies. Now, within two minutes, he had laid three at her feet.

  “Michael?” Mary managed that smile that always warmed his soul.

  “Hmmm?”

  “We’re going to be fine.” And while she sincerely meant this, Michael couldn’t shake the fear that the worst was yet to come.

  Michael was trying to get comfortable in the most uncomfortable chair he had ever been in. Mary was tubed and wired from head to toe, restlessly asleep. Varrisa Schrier was the night-duty nurse and chief of the nursing staff, ruling her people with a strict German discipline. To say Varrisa was big-boned was being kind; her ample body strained her white uniform. And her face…Well, her visage was just about as harsh as her big hands. But her nature was far from strict, for compassion ran deep in her. She was always assigned the tougher cases.

  “Mr. St. Pierre?” He could hear the concern in the nurse’s voice as she poked her head in the room. “Go home, get some sleep, you need your rest just as much as your wife.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be sleeping for a while.”

  Varrisa nodded and stepped inside. Quietly, she went about cleaning up the magazines and newspapers, discarding the empty food bags and generally returning a sense of order and normalcy to the place. Michael looked at Mary and wished the industrious nurse could restore his wife’s health as easily.

  “Let’s see what happens.” Varrisa put her man-sized hand on his arm. “You’re no good to her if you’re not one hundred percent.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ve ever been one hundred percent for her.”

  “Now would be a good time to start,” Nurse Schrier said matter-of-factly. She picked up Mary’s chart and quietly made some notations. “You can’t blame yourself for her condition. I’ve seen this too many times. Loved ones look for a reason for these tragic situations, and when they can’t find anything logical, they turn to the illogical and blame themselves.”

  The large nurse knew too well that the immediate family needed as much support as the patient. She had spoken at length to Mary about Michael. Both women shared the same concern; he needed a friend, a confidant, someone other than his wife with whom he could share his thoughts and, more important, share his grief. With Mary’s permission, the nurse had made the call an hour ago.

  Silently, the door swung open. Standing there, taking up the entire doorway, was Busch.

  Busch was shooting a lone game of pool on his favorite table, the green felt stinking of whiskey and practically worn through to the underlying slate. He sank almost everything he touched. One of the grimiest bars in North America, the Old Stand dated back to the fifties. Busch’s father used to hang here shooting on this very same table. The place was alive at eleven thirty on a Wednesday night: a few blue-collar regulars arguing the pros and cons of unions and what they had done to their lives, while the jacket-and-tie bunch scoped the door for the girl of their dreams to walk in.

  “Another drink?” Busch asked.

  Michael, impassively throwing darts, didn’t answer; he hadn’t answered much lately. Busch waved to the bartender for another round. He had spent the car ride over and the last half hour trying to crack through, to get Michael to talk. He had seen firsthand what pressure did to cops, to criminals, to people in pain. They either exploded, hurting others, or shut down, killing themselves. But he knew, too, that until a person was willing to accept help, there was not much he could do.

  “Life sometimes just sucks out loud,” Michael finally said.

  Busch lined up and sunk the two ball, clearing the table. “She’ll pull through this. She’s tough.” He walked across the sticky barroom floor, reminding him of hot tar in summer, grabbed the triangle, and reracked the billiard balls.

  Michael hurled a dart. “Two hundred and fifty thou. That’s more money than I’ve ever had. Hell, I never even got away with stealing that much.”

  Busch ignored the comment. “How could you guys not have insurance?” he asked instead.

  “We thought it would only be for three months. When Mary left her last job, the insurance didn’t carry and we had to wait ninety days before it kicked in at her new school. The state made her old job offer Cobra coverage but we had to pay for it. It was too expensive. We didn’t think much about it.”

  Busch understood; clarity always came after the fact.

  “It was only going to be three months,” Michael repeated. The barmaid set down Busch’s Coke and Michael’s Jack Daniel’s and left.

  “I got about thirty-five thousand dollars,” the big cop offered.

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t take your money.”

  “It’s not for you, it’s for Mary, and you’ll take it.” Busch stopped his game and leaned back on the pool table. “Damn, though, thirty-five k is still a long way from covering your nut. You’ve got to be able to get something against your business.”

  Michael shook his head. “The banking community wasn’t real helpful.”

  “Any family? There’s got to be someone.”

  “Mary’s mom was broke until the day she died. And my folks left me nothing.”

  “Did you ever think of looking for your real parents?”

  “While Michael’s last name was French in origin, it wasn’t the name he was born with. All he knew of his real parents was that they were three-quarters Irish and, for some unknown reason, dumped him in an orphanage when he was barely a month old. Michael never went down the self-pity route of seeking out his birth parents. The way he looked at it, he considered himself lucky: the St. Pierres had chosen to adopt him instead of some other child.

  “A little late for that,” Michael answered. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  A couple of after-work softball players got rowdy celebrating a win, their whooping and hollering competing with the rock-and-roll jukebox. Busch was draining balls left and right, the cue ball always in place for the follow-up. He lined up the seven ball with the corner pocket, drew back his cue, and suddenly spun around to Michael. “Shit! You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  “I gave my word to Mary,” Michael answered. Returning to a life of crime had definitely crossed his mind, but he would never break his word to his wife. “If I can’t raise this money…” His eyes were grim.

  “Hey, quit talking shit. There’s always a way.”

  “Isn’t fair,” Michael said.

  “Nothing is.
God didn’t create this world to be fair.”

  “I’m not really buying into the God thing anymore.”

  “I wouldn’t let Mary hear you talking like that.”

  “Look, I did some things, paid the price, never complained.” He was throwing the darts harder now. “But Mary—she’s never wronged a soul. She’s the essence of good. After everything I put her through—You know she never misses church? I can’t believe there’s a god that would let this happen to her.”

  “You’re just looking for someone to blame.” Busch ignored the fact that every dart Michael threw nailed a bull’s-eye. “And hey, I can’t say I’d be any different if I was in your shoes.”

  “I’m serious, Paulie. I see no evidence God exists. Explain Mary’s illness. And don’t give me any of that test-of-faith crap. My faith has been tested enough and every time it comes up empty. Mary has nothing but faith and look where she is.”

  Busch sat on the pool table. “We all need something to believe in. Doesn’t matter what. God, Buddha, Elvis. We all need faith. That’s what gives us hope, hope that there’s something better out there, something to strive for. Hope is what drives you. Hope gets you out of bed, hoping you’re going to make that big sale at work, hoping you get to make love to your wife at night.”

  “You can’t get by on hope. It doesn’t pay the bills and it doesn’t save lives.”

  “You need hope and a simple code. A creed that guides you, compels you to go on. Mine’s the law.” Busch threw back the rest of his Coke.

  Michael smiled, turned, and raised his glass. “Truth, justice, and the American way. Right on, Superman.”

  “Thanks, Lois.” Busch forced a smile. He wasn’t getting through. “How about you, what drives you?”

  Michael paused a moment and then simply said, “Mary.”

  Before dawn, Byram Hills Memorial Hospital was a different world, no outsiders to deal with, no phony smiles or sympathy to help the confused and grieving. Visiting hours didn’t start until nine a.m. The medical machine of nurses and doctors prepared for the coming day’s business, scurrying about, filling out forms, prepping for surgery.

  Like a ghost, Michael glided down the hall in the same clothes he’d left in, five hours earlier. He knew he shouldn’t be there, but it was hard for him to stay away. Besides, a little sneaking around always seemed to get his blood flowing. A file tucked under one arm, a big shopping bag in the other, he snuck along the corridor, quickly ducking in a doorway to avoid the notice of a passing nurse.

  Mary was scheduled for another battery of tests this morning and Michael wanted to see her before they whisked her away. The bills for the testing alone had swiftly drained what little funds they possessed. If he didn’t come up with the money for her surgery and treatment soon, the hospital would discharge her to make room for someone else, and what little chance Mary had would surely evaporate.

  Michael slipped silently through the door into Mary’s room, careful not to make any noise. She looked so tired, sitting at the little table next to her bed. She was always an early riser, up before the sun, she’d say, when the world was fresh and new. Her auburn hair was perfect, as if they were going to a royal ball, but then again it was invariably that way no matter the hour. Mary had always taken care of herself, not out of vanity but for her husband. Whether it was staying fit, doing her hair, or fighting the desire to wear grungy sweats, Mary strove to remain pleasing to her husband’s eye at all times.

  Michael stooped to gently kiss her cheek. “Good morning.”

  “Hi,” she answered warmly, kissing him back.

  “How was breakfast?”

  “I think it was reheated meat loaf in the shape of waffles.”

  Michael couldn’t help smiling.

  “Sleep OK?” she asked him.

  “Bed’s too big without you.” He unloaded the bag: makeup; fresh clothes; bath towels, soft ones instead of the white sandpaper hospital standard. He pulled out her favorite book, Oh, the Places You’ll Go! by Dr. Seuss.

  “You are so good to me. I was reading this to my students before I left.”

  “I know.” Michael pulled out a tape recorder and placed it on the table. “They would like you to finish it. Record at your leisure. Liz said she’d pick it up and play it for them.”

  “This was your idea, wasn’t it?” she said, with a tear in her eye.

  Michael said nothing, but smiled as he continued emptying the apparently bottomless bag. Last but not least, he pulled out the goodies: cookies, soda, Ring Dings.

  “Are you trying to fatten me up? I’ll never eat all that junk.”

  “Actually, it’s for me.” Michael gave her a sly look. He pulled out a file marked School Work and offered it to her.

  Mary took the file and stared down at it, wishing she were in class with her children. A chill came over her as she looked at the dozens of pictures sent by her students; she was so afraid she’d never see them again. “I was thinking—now, don’t get upset, it’s really just a precaution…” She paused. “Maybe I should get my affairs in order.”

  Michael pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat down. “What?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that—”

  “No! I don’t want to hear that. We’re going to get through this.”

  “I know, I know.” She took his hand in hers. “I’m sorry. It’s just so much money….”

  “Don’t say that again. St. Pierres never give up.” Michael was doing everything in his power to keep from losing control. “Never.”

  There was a quiet knock at the door and Father Shaunessy popped his head in. “Mike, Mary—is this a bad time?”

  Michael glared at the priest. His timing couldn’t have been worse.

  “Could you come back in a half hour, Father?” Mary asked.

  “Sure, sure.” The priest nodded as he closed the door behind him.

  “Why is he here?” Michael’s anger was spilling over the surface.

  “I thought—” But Mary didn’t get the chance to finish her statement.

  Michael stood abruptly. “Thought nothing. Don’t even tell me you were doing the last rites thing.”

  “Michael, you’re jumping to conclusions. I asked him here to talk and pray.” Mary’s voice was tight. She was now equally upset, but unlike Michael, she reined in her anger.

  He paced the small room. “Pray? Do you really believe that if He was merciful He’d let this happen to you?”

  Mary took a moment. She never thought she would have to defend herself, let alone her beliefs, to the person she loved more than life itself. Her anger dissipated as she answered quietly, “Michael, you have to understand something. There are two things I have always counted on to get me through hard times: you, and my faith in God. And right now, darling, I need both.”

  The hospital was abuzz with activity as Michael left his wife’s room. On a crowded bench in the corridor among a cluster of older ladies sat Father Shaunessy. The women were chatting about forgiveness as he thumbed his rosary beads: they were almost worn down to the nub. Michael ignored him and continued down the hall.

  “Mike?” the priest called out.

  Michael stopped and turned; not a word escaped his lips.

  “How are you?” Father Shaunessy asked.

  “My wife is dying.”

  “You should have more faith, Mike, that is far from a certain conclusion. Come inside, we can talk. Pray with us.” The priest waved a hand toward Mary’s hospital room door as if showing the way to redemption.

  Michael exploded.

  “You got to be fuckin’ kidding me! I’ve prayed nothing but unanswered prayers since I was a child. Spent more Sundays than I can count looking for answers and I got nothing but betrayal. And now, my poor wife…She put her faith in God—look where she is.”

  “Well, you’re certainly not the answer. While you sat in prison, she waited for you. You wrecked her life and yet she always stood by you, always had faith in you. God knows what she sees in
you.” The little priest was shaking with anger. “Maybe you should stop being so damned selfish for once and stand by her. Help her, instead of feeling so damn sorry for yourself.” The small man stepped into Michael’s space. If he hadn’t had his collar on, he would have reverted back to his days on the streets and slammed Michael in the jaw.

  “Sorry for myself?!” Michael shouted back. “The only person I feel sorry for is you and your misguided beliefs. You’re leading my wife down a path where hope doesn’t even exist.” He turned and stalked away.

  The rage Father Patrick Shaunessy felt was like nothing he had ever experienced before. And yet he couldn’t help feeling that he was watching Michael’s soul slip away down the cold white hospital hallway.

  Michael slammed out of the hospital, his brain a jumble, his hope falling away. He had always been a problem solver, a fixer, and not just of mechanical objects. He was superb at seeing things from a different perspective, stepping out of the box and coming up with solutions. The talent had saved him on more than one occasion and served his former career well.

  That career was not something he had aspired to, desperation had not driven him to be a thief nor had a lack of abilities in more legal arenas. It was something discovered through a selfless act to help a friend.

  At the age of seventeen, while Michael was still looking for his purpose in life, his best friend, Joe McQuarry, had already found his. Joe was the one with the natural athletic ability; the one with the scholarship and early acceptance to college to play baseball. Joe found his talents young and knew how to exploit them. Humor and sports. The sports got him popularity and girlfriends while his humor brought him charm and trouble. Joe was the good-natured kid who could never seem to get out of his own way. His idea of fun usually consisted of pranks and laughter at the teacher’s expense. Because of it he had his own seat at Holy Father High School; it was reserved especially for him in the principal’s office.