Theft

by BK Loren

  It stings when he says it, and then Mom says, “Well then you don’t know Willa,” and keeps it simple like that, and her belief in me stings twice as much as Dad’s disapproval. I’m proud that Mom thinks I’m strong enough to help her, but I know Dad is right. I sit quiet. Mom notices and reaches her hand to the back seat, rests it on my knee, and when she touches me like that, there’s no shaking or stiffness I can see in her. I know this disease will not get the better of her.

  When we get there, the bells chime and people walk in their Sunday best, the headachy smell of women’s perfume everywhere. The church has ceilings as high as the houses on the other side of the field. I take my seat and choose my hymnbook. I sing when Mom and Dad sing, stand when they stand, and sit when they sit. I want to go up to the altar when the pastor says, take, eat, this is the body of Christ he gave for you, but I stay in my seat and watch Dad wheel Mom up to the front where everyone kneels, except my mom, and she has a hard time getting the little cup of wine to her lips without spilling it. I have to turn away from watching. So I study the stained glass window that shows Jesus opening his robed arms to the little lambs surrounding Him. The colors look like Lifesaver candies to me, the sun streaming through in rays of cherry, lemon, grape, and lime. I think of it: Jesus the Lifesaver.

  When everyone comes back from drinking the wine with the cracker, we all press the palms of our hands together in prayer, and I notice that all these praying hands are shaped just like fish jumping out of a pond. I imagine this is what Jesus sees when he looks down from heaven—the church like a well-stocked pond—and I finally understand what Miss Spraddle meant when she said Jesus is a fisher of men. He has his hooks out for us, and He’ll snag our hands when we’re praying and pull us straight up to heaven. Right then, I look over at Mom and press her praying hands down into her lap. She gives me the eye, then raises her hands back up into prayer, and I slap them down this time, wrestling with her to keep her fish-hands in her lap so Jesus will not snag them. Dad opens his praying eyes now and sees my bad behavior. He shakes his head and gives me the stern look, but I keep wrestling with Mom until Dad takes both of my hands and pins them to my lap. It feels horrible, like my whole body is trapped, and I want to scream, but I’m helpless, and so I turn my prayer away from whatever the pastor’s saying. I squeeze my eyes and pray harder than I’ve ever prayed. I pray when the time comes for Jesus to reel Mom in, she will be like the fish I hooked this morning. She’ll struggle out of His grip and slip down the front of Jesus’s robe and right back into the pond of the living. I realize this is why her limbs flop around sometimes, because He has her suspended on His line above the water, and she is writhing to get free. I pray Mom’s line will snap soon.

  Dad keeps pressing hard on my hands, and I keep stiffening against it. I pray right then and there that I’ll be like that fish, too. When my time comes, I hope I’ll struggle in the bright sun and Jesus the Fisherman will be exhausted when I swim away, back to my life here on earth. I pray this for Zeb and Dad, too.

  After the prayer, the pastor takes up the collection. By now Dad has let go of my hands. He’s still cranky, and he whispers to Mom, “Always a price tag,” then takes a one-dollar bill and tucks it in the collection envelope and signs his name on the back.

  This is the part I’ve been waiting for. I see the collection plate in the row ahead of me, the velvet-lined bowl passing from one person to the next, and I can smell the sweaty cash when it’s right next to me. I take the plate in my own hands, place my ten-dollar bill in there naked, no envelope. “She gave almost a whole year’s allowance,” Mom whispers to Dad, trying to get his anger at me to disappear. He looks at the ten-dollar bill Zeb gave me and raises his eyebrows in surprise. “She should put that in savings,” he whispers to Mom, even angrier at me now, and the pastor calls out “Jesus saves,” and the collection ends. The organ player is joyous about the whole affair. She hits the keys, and everyone in the church jumps to their feet and bursts into song. Holy holy holy, Lord God Almighty. All thy works shall praise thy Name in Earth and Sky and Sea. Holy Holy Holy.

  In the midst of all this joy, Dad forgets about being angry, and I am glad about that. I can feel the forgiveness wrapping around me like water now. Holy holy holy.

  On the way out of church, Dad holds my hand tighter than usual. He looks hard at Mom. “Ten dollars, up in smoke,” he says.

  I can’t understand what Dad’s so mad about. Letting go of that ten felt like heaven, to me.

  By the time I get home, I feel light and happy. I change my clothes real fast, and I run to find Zeb out in the field. “Hey Willa,” he says. “Done talking in your walkie-talkie?”

  I got nothing to say back to him. And somehow that makes him quit acting so tough. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll buy you a pop.”

  We walk together up the hill to Johnny’s filling station and pharmacy. “Hey Johnny,” Zeb calls out, when we cross his tiny, paved lot.

  Johnny’s there in his blue and white pinstriped overalls, red oval patch encircling his name in cursive above his left chest pocket. Johnny. He pumps gas and talks to a pretty girl driving a white convertible Mustang.

  “Man! Look at that cherry ragtop ’stang,” Zeb says. He ogles the car, cranes his neck backward as we walk into the store. Inside, Zeb finally quits staring at the car and heads straight for the Fanta machine. It’s one of those vendors with all the bottle caps of sodas showing through a skinny glass door to the right. Slip in a quarter, and the clamps release so you can pull out the soda of your choice: Grape Fanta; Orange Fanta; A&W Root beer. Zeb drops in fifty cents, pulls out the orange-capped bottle and hands it to me, then pulls out a grape one for himself. Right next to it is the cage where Mr. Alarcon, the pharmacist, works. It’s closed today, but Zeb eyes the pills shelved there.

  “Easy take,” he says. “Once you’re in the main part of the store, it’s an easy take.” He’s half talking to himself. Behind the cash register sits a big metal case holding columns of cigarettes: Winston; Lucky Strike; Kool; Pall Mall. Zeb taps his quarters on the glass countertop, waiting. “Think you could fit through that tiny window there?” he asks me.

  I glance up, see the window, and shiver. “I could do it,” I tell him, and just then Johnny walks into the store for a split second, grabs a key from behind the counter, and ignores me and Zeb.

  Zeb stops tapping his quarters and stares at Johnny.

  I see his anger growing, and I point inside the glass case. “Hey Zeb, I like those rabbit’s foot key chains. You like those key chains at all?”

  Zeb quits staring now. “Which one you like, Willa?”

  “I don’t know. The green one.”

  Zeb reaches over the counter to the backside, slides the door of the case open, and picks out the green rabbit’s foot. He sets it on the counter. “You like it, we’ll buy it for you.”

  Johnny checks the oil in the Mustang. The girl rests her forearm on the rolled down window, and Johnny cranes his neck around the raised hood so he can smile at her like a monkey.

  Zeb watches them, then steps behind the counter and selects his own Pall Mall reds. He walks over to the pharmacy cage, lifts me up, sizing my body against the entrance to the cage. “You could do it, Willa.” He sets me back down. “One take is all Mom needs. I’d clean the whole damn pharmacy out.” He says it like he knows.

  I start shivering. “I’m in,” I tell him, and it’s almost like I can’t control the words coming out of me. I want Mom to be healed.

  The pretty girl has paid Johnny, and he’s already tucked the dollar bills into the pocket of his overalls. But he still stands there smiling and talking. Zeb looks out the window, then rubs his ankles together like he has an itch he just can’t scratch. He hooks the sole of one shoe on the hem of his jeans, pushes the pant leg up, shows me the pearl handle, the snub nose barrel of that gun he stole half-tucked inside his sock, held tight with a handmade holster—Zeb’s own craftsmanship. “Fucking Johnny,” he says. “Look
at him out there. Younger than Dad and he owns this place.” He stares, and Johnny leans against the Mustang, flirting.

  Finally, Zeb laughs, taps the counter one more time with his quarters, then stabs his hands into his pockets, rabbit’s foot and Pall Malls right along with them. He reaches over the counter, slams the cash button on the register. The drawer slides open, and he grabs a couple twenties. On the way out the door, he snags the red licorice that is placed exactly where it ought to be if people intend to buy it on whim, and where it ought not to be if they don’t intend to pay for it at all.

  “Hey Zeb. Get what you need okay?” says Johnny.

  Zeb takes a swig of his soda, holds it high. “Got it, Johnny. Thanks!”

  I walk fast behind him, barely able to keep up. “You shouldn’t have done that, Zeb.”

  He keeps walking fast.

  “You made that promise. You made that deal about not stealing and Mom getting better.”

  “It was a stupid promise, Willa. I know what Mom needs, and it’s right there.” He swings one arm back toward Johnny’s pharmacy. “It’s not some stupid ass promise.”

  We walk home without saying a word. When we round the corner, we see Dolly and Chet standing in their front yard, just back from their mountain trip. It’s edging toward evening by now, and Chet has the hose in his hand, watering the lawn, just like he does every day at this time. I can’t even look at him, knowing what me and Zeb have done. But Zeb suddenly turns all chirpy. He waves like a real pal to both of them.

  Dolly waves and walks toward us, looking sideways at Chet. She’s overly kind and happy like she always seems when they’re out in public. “Good to see you, kids. How’s your mother doing?”

  “Not good,” Zeb says.

  “Your mother’s a strong lady. You know that.” Dolly has on a purple robe with a white collar that looks like a party doily. She scooches up close to us. Chet keeps watering the lawn, does not even turn his eyes when Dolly bats her eyelashes at Zeb and whispers, “Oh he’s gone off the deep end now.” She looks toward Chet and rolls her eyes, then leans into Zeb. She pets his upper arm and whispers. “Funniest thing. Oh, I shouldn’t be telling you.”

  “What?”

  She shakes her head.

  “No, really, what?”

  She leans her whole body into Zeb, and right then, Chet glances over. “He’s gone bonkers,” Dolly says.

  “Well, I don’t know, Mr. Thatcher’s okay if—”

  “No, I mean it, Zeb. He lost all his belts, every dadburned one of them.” She’s nearly giddy by now. She rests both palms on Zeb’s chest so he has to back away to keep her face from touching his. “And he’s claiming someone came in and took them.” Tears fill her eyes to help her hold back from bursting into a laugh.

  Zeb looks down at me, keeping his cool, but a smile curls the corner of his lips, something only I can see because I know him like my own self. I start thinking of horrible things then—cancer, the world without birds in it, Mom’s Parkinson’s—horrible things just to keep from bursting out laughing, myself. I hold it back so much my jaw aches.

  “He honestly believes someone broke into the house and stole nothing but his belts.” She glances back at Chet to make sure she’s safe whispering to Zeb like this. “‘Well, tell the insurance man,’ I said to him.” Her fingernails dig into Zeb’s chest, and she laughs that wheezing kind of whisper-laugh that sounds like she’s choking.

  Zeb puts on his best performance, commiserating about the missing belts.

  “Chet swears the latch on the back door was fiddled with, too. Proof, he says. Says ‘I’m going to have to fix that thing now.’” She imitates Chet’s gruff voice, and I can see the anger in Zeb’s eyes light up. He hates leaving behind any kind of sign. Dolly goes on about the latch, and I see Zeb doubling up his fists.

  Right about then, Chet turns the water off and drops the hose. He looks square at Dolly cuddling up to Zeb, then drills those beady blue eyes of his into my brother.

  Dolly notices, too. She stops clinging to Zeb. She takes a step back, collects herself by rubbing her hands over her robe as if she is pressing out the wrinkles, then she talks in a too-high voice, changes the subject. “And Chet’s put in a new lawn, Zeb, and we hope the kids’ll stay off’n it, so it could get a good healthy chance at growing.” She looks sweetly at Chet, but I can see the muscles in his jawbone flexing, and he starts taking these real slow, deliberate steps toward Dolly, me, and Zeb. Dolly keeps up the fakey voice. “Me and Chet don’t want to be the neighborhood ogres, Zeb, but you know how it is.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Thatcher. I’ll keep an eye out, yes.” Zeb follows Dolly’s lead, his voice all out of pitch, too. He nods hello to Chet. “Good evening, Mr. Thatcher.”

  “Think so, huh?” Chet says. He walks closer, and his waist is just below my eye level. I see the belt he is wearing, and at just about that time I see Zeb’s eyes catch on that belt, too, and he goes from doubling his fists to shoving them into his pockets because we did not think of the belt Chet was wearing.

  Chet stands right in front of Dolly now.

  “The fuck,” Zeb says, underneath his breath, and he pats his chest pocket for the cigarettes he knows aren’t there.

  “What’d you say, boy?” Chet is not whispering.

  The dog sits quiet in his little fenced-in area behind Chet and Dolly, and I pray he doesn’t start barking again, not with Chet already this pissed off. Dolly’s eyes turn little and wrinkly. She backs away from Chet, squinting and blinking. Zeb watches her. He stares at Chet’s belt. Then he looks up, riveting his eyes on Chet, and just when I think he’s going to lose his temper, his shoulders relax. He shakes his head, gives Chet this look of outright disgust, then turns his back on him. He takes my hand, and we walk one step away, and I think everything is going to be all right. Dolly has backed off, and Chet has not said shit or fuck or bitch, and everything’s fine. But that asshole Chet cannot leave well enough alone. He calls out, “I asked what you said to me, boy!”

  Zeb’s fingers tighten around my hand.

  “Goddamnit, boy!”

  Thank God Zeb keeps walking. I close my eyes tight for a second and will him to keep walking, which he does, and so Chet finally shuts up. I can’t see Chet, but I can hear his footsteps on the paved sidewalk, the sound fading away, and I feel a relief—until I hear a scream, and my knees buckle. The sound comes from Dolly. Zeb stops and turns. Chet tells Dolly to get in the house, and when she doesn’t move fast enough, he grabs a fistful of her short hair, whips her head around with a crack. She stumbles forward and falls, skinning her hands and knees on the sidewalk. Right then, the dog starts barking, too, and Chet hollers at it to shut the hell up.

  I wish I could say what happens next, but I can’t. All I know is that one minute Zeb is standing next to me, and then, all of a sudden, he’s like a bug on Chet’s big, barrel back, pounding with his fists. There’s nothing that makes any sense about it. How Zeb got there, what he thought he was going to do next, or how he thinks he’s going to get out alive. I think of running, but my legs won’t go. I cannot leave my brother in this bad situation, but no one’s around to help us, and then, suddenly, I can’t believe what I am seeing. There’s no need for anyone to help us because Zeb has somehow made his way from Chet’s back around to the front of Chet’s face, and skinny Zeb has knocked fat Chet to the ground. Zeb straddles Chet like he straddles me when we’re play-wrestling, but this time, Zeb is fighting hard, and I do not mean sucker punching.

  Things happen like a home movie when the film breaks and we have to splice it back together. The picture jumps ahead. One second there’s no one in the whole neighborhood but me, Zeb, Chet, and Dolly Thatcher, and the next second, kids are everywhere, standing in a circle around Zeb and Chet, streaming in from the field, pouring out of their houses, yelling, “Get him, Zeb, go! Yeah!” They’re cheering Zeb on, and Chet is laying on his back swinging up at Zeb. I hear the sound of Chet’s fleshy body being hit, see the skin of h
is face split like a too-ripe plum, and there is blood on Zeb’s arms now, splattering all the way up to the hemline of his short-sleeved shirt. He has this wild look in his eyes, like he can’t see anything in the world but Chet, Zeb a fish underwater when he is concentrating, and there is no pulling him out of his bloody pond.

  “You sorry, sad fuck,” I hear Zeb saying, “You good for nothing son of a fucking bitch.” It comes out of him in this voice that he can barely squeeze from his lungs. He keeps saying it over and over, “You fuck, you fucker,” and the dog starts barking and Zeb hits harder and harder until Dolly comes at Zeb from behind, wraps her arms around him in a bear hug, and tries to pull him off.

  She doesn’t. She can’t. But Zeb feels her arms, and it makes him come to the surface of his pond just before he drowns. He gasps. He stands up. His heart is beating so fast I can see it throbbing in the earthworm-like vein on the side of his neck. He’s breathing like he’s running, but he’s stock still and silent. He looks down at Chet, wipes the corner of his lip, shoves his hands in his pockets, and smiles. It’s a pissed-off kind of smile, but it’s a smile all the same. Then, real deliberately, he reaches down to his ankle, takes out the gun, crouches low, and presses the snubbed barrel against Chet’s temple. I hear him whisper, “I can tell your future, old man.” And I hear myself telling my brother “no,” but nothing comes out of my mouth.

  He holds that gun there a long time, ten seconds maybe, a whole lifetime ticking inside each one of those seconds. The field and sky disappear, and it feels like just me and Zeb and Chet in the world right now. The tug between me and my brother aches. I whisper to him, my lips moving without me controlling them, and I think he feels me telling him to stop, but just then, he leans in closer to Chet, and I see his forearm muscles swell, and his bony hand squeezes tight, and the hammer of the gun slams down. The click echoes through my head.