Stealing Night

by Peter Giglio

  “You quit when I was a kid,” I say.

  “Well, you’re still a kid, and once a smoker always a smoker.” He lights the cigarette and takes a deep drag.

  “Can I get one of those?” I ask.

  “Not you, too.”

  “Quit a few months ago for Nora, but…”

  “But you still sneak one every once in a while. You’re preaching to the choir.” Dad hands me a cigarette then lights it for me. We stand there for a while, looking at each other and smoking, then he asks, “So, where did you go last night?”

  “Heard me, huh?” I’m trying to act casual while my mind races around for a lie. Dad, he just nods, then takes another deep drag. “I couldn’t sleep,” I say. “Went for a walk.”

  “Do you always take a gun on your walks?”

  “No, I—”

  “Don’t lie to me, son. That gun and her ammo haven’t moved more than a centimeter in the better part of a decade. Might be getting old, and I don’t care if you call me a little OCD, ’cause I am, but I know when someone’s been rooting through my shit.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad, but—”

  “You’re in trouble, I can tell.”

  “Not anymore, Dad. Everything’s square now. I promise. I didn’t shoot the gun.”

  “Yeah, I know. All the bullets are accounted for, and the thing hasn’t been fired—I’d be able to tell if it had.”

  “I just thought I needed it for protection.”

  “Protection against what? Who? What the hell have you—”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Goddamn—”

  “Just trust me, okay?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Good. I can’t ask for more than that.”

  “You shouldn’t even be asking for that.”

  “I know.” I turn away from Dad and study the backyard. It seemed so big when I was kid. Now, it looks small. Sprinklers sputter water into the lush grass. Nearby, a hummingbird eats from a hanging feeder. Dad’s small patch of paradise, same as it ever was.

  You make your own environment…

  That sure is true for the old man.

  In my mind, I imagine the old swing set where it used to be, and Lily pushing me, her younger brother. We’re both smiling. “Higher, Lil,” I would shout. “Higher. Higher.”

  Now, here I am, so very low. Out of excuses. Running on fumes.

  “Dad,” I say.

  He doesn’t respond, just keeps puffing on his Kool.

  “Why didn’t you just leave Mom before things got out of hand? I don’t think she would have put up much of a fight.”

  “Because,” he says, tone sad, “I loved her.”

  I spin to face him, and the lie I expect to see on his face registers as truth.

  “I loved her,” he repeats. “Still do.”

  “How?”

  “You love Nora don’t you?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Love and sex don’t have anything to do with each other. You get that when you’re young. You get it again when you’re old. But somewhere in between, folks, they just sorta lose sight of simple truths when their hormones run amok. It’s how we’re wired. People talk about ‘being in love,’ as if that label means anything. Folks even qualify love as something like ‘love you as a friend.’ But, fact is, love is love. Sex, that’s a whole different bug.”

  “So…?”

  “So, I love your mom, always will. More importantly, I loved us. Always wanted a family, but my biology, my sex side, wanted something else. Tried to have my cake and eat it, too. Nowadays, gay men can live more normal lives. We can marry in some places, adopt children. That’s good. Puts our biology in line with our ideals. But that luxury didn’t exist for me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Hope so, but it doesn’t matter if you do or you don’t. All that matters is love.”

  “Do you have anyone?”

  “I don’t know. What about you?”

  “Have a date on Saturday night. Does that count?”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Just met her.”

  “Well, then it counts for something, maybe, but it’ll count a lot more when there’s love.”

  I field strip my cigarette butt and throw the debris into the yard. Dad does the same.

  “I’d buy an ashtray,” he says, “but then I’d have to admit that I’m really a smoker.”

  “Are you mad at me, Dad?” I ask.

  “Just disappointed. Not mad.”

  “We gotta take this slow.”

  “Can you and Nora stay for a while? A few days longer? I feel safer with you here.”

  “We’re not much protection.”

  “No. I feel like it’s safer for you and her.”

  There’s no arguing with that, so I don’t. “Sure, Dad. We’ll stick around.”

  “I can take Nora shopping later, get her some new clothes so you don’t have to take her back to Lily’s.”

  “Thanks.”

  He lights another cigarette and turns away from me, now looking into the yard. His eyes follow movements that aren’t there, and I wonder what ghosts he’s seeing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  While Dad’s shopping with Nora in Grand Island, I head over to my apartment. Lee’s gun is cold against my back, stuffed in the band of my jeans, and the fact that I’m carrying the murder weapon isn’t lost on me. I don’t plan to hold onto it much longer, if I can help it, but I’m not ready to lose the gun just yet; not until I know it won’t be needed.

  When I get to my front door, I instantly notice that the wood around the deadbolt is splintered. Not happy to see this, but I’m not particularly surprised. I push the door open slowly as I slide the Glock out of my pants.

  “Lee,” I say, “you here?”

  I sweep the living room and the bedroom, but there’s no sign of him. I look under the bed. The money, of course, is gone, and that includes the five hundred plus change I’d stashed away honestly. I sit on the edge of the futon, shaking my head. And despite Lee’s final betrayal, taking something that was rightfully mine, I’m strangely relieved. After all, he had four hundred dollars of that money coming, and a hundred and change is a small price to pay for absolution.

  Then I look at the gun in my palm, and that word—absolution—it just withers and dies. There’s none of that for me; never will be. Whatever happens from here, Jenny Snowdon will haunt me for the rest of my days.

  I put the gun down on my night table then snatch the phone book from the floor. I flip through the thin white pages and quickly locate the number for Lee’s grandmother.

  Four rings, then an old frail voice answers.

  “Is Lee there?” I ask.

  “No. He’s not. Can I ask who’s calling?”

  “This is Jack Lewis, his old friend.”

  “Oh, Jacky Boy, how are you?”

  “Fine. How are you?”

  “Old,” she says flatly, then laughs. “Not much fun, I’ll tell ya.”

  “Do you know when Lee will be back?” I ask.

  “Well,” she says, as if she’s just been asked the million dollar question on a game show. “Well, he packed up this morning and said he was off to make his fortune, so…”

  “So, he already left town.”

  “Sure did. Heck, you know how that boy is. Hard to pin him down, that one.”

  Swept up in a wave of relief, I laugh at her observation. “Sure is.”

  “He does talk about you a lot, Jack. You was about the only real friend that boy ever had ’round here.”

  “Next time you see him, will you tell him something for me?”

  “Let me get a pen…” Before I can tell her not to worry about it, a series of clatters fill the line, followed by a period of silence. Finally, after an abrupt thunk, she says, “Shoot it at me.”

  Looking at the gun, I cringe at her choice of words. “Just tell him I don’t really hate him.”

  “That all?”

&nb
sp; “Yes ma’am.”

  “All right then, sure he’ll be glad to hear it. Next time he’s around you should let me cook for you boys.”

  “That sounds nice.” I end the call with a series of pleasantries then grab the gun. Walking for the bathroom, I discharge the clip. Then I snatch a clean hand towel from below the sink, wrap the gun in it, and methodically wipe the weapon free of prints. I lay the gun on the sink, careful not to touch it, then I wipe down the clip. After I’m satisfied, having cleaned both items for more than twenty minutes, I slide the clip back into gun, careful not to touch it directly, then wrap the weapon in the towel.

  * * *

  The walk to Cromwell’s Pond on Farm Road 19 takes more than thirty minutes, but I can’t risk potential lookie loos. Old people in Sunfall, they tend to sit in front of their windows, and anything a notch above slow-drying paint has a way of becoming gossip.

  Now at the pond, I let the gun slide from the towel.

  Plop.

  I wad the blue towel and stuff it in my back pocket, then I kneel before the shimmering green water, tears streaming down my face, my reflection a haggard imitation of my better self, the self I’ve never really been and hope to one day meet, and whisper, “I’m sorry, Jenny.”

  * * *

  Back at Dad’s, I finally watch the news. I listen to the desperate, tearful pleas of Lyle Snowdon.

  And I cry a lot more.

  * * *

  Unable to stomach more misery, I head to the garage. I grab Dad’s tool kit and a container of wood putty, then walk to my apartment and fix the broken door.

  And still, I cry.

  * * *

  It’s a little after seven when Nora and Dad get home. Nora’s excited about all her new clothes, trying on outfits for Dad, doing little fairy dances around the living room. Her happiness brings some comfort, but I’m not really there for it.

  Pulling Dad aside, I say, “I need to be alone tonight.”

  Understanding lights his eyes, for which I’m thankful. “We’re going over to Seward in a little bit to see Lily,” he says.

  “Best I don’t go,” I say. “I’ll only be used to run defense, and I think it’s important you talk to her.”

  With that, I start toward my old bedroom, Henrietta following close at my heels. Before I disappear down the hallway, Nora stops me, twirling around in a baby blue summer dress. “Don’t you just love this blue?” she asks with a smile.

  Leaning against a wall, I smile and say, “Uncle Jack’s gonna need to be alone tonight, okay?”

  “You’re tired, aren’t you?”

  I laugh, not just for her benefit but because of her ability to see simple truths. “It’s the most beautiful shade of blue in the world, Bear.”

  She hugs me tightly as I prepare to walk into the past. And in that moment, that one simple moment, I’m awake once more.

  Awake and ready.

  So it’s not with tears that I walk into my old room. Not with the burden of despair that I stare at old family photographs and friends now lost to the tyranny of clocks.

  It’s with hope. Hope for a new and better tomorrow.

  Around eight-thirty, the sun still shining like an angry god, I lie in my old single bed, pull the covers over my head, snuggle a pillow close to my face, and let myself dream. Dream about Paige.

  Less than a minute later, I’m asleep.

  Saturday

  Chapter Seventeen

  I arrive on the lot early, thinking I can get started before Bud gets into the office, hoping that I can get off before five to get ready for my date with Paige. To my surprise, Bud’s already there, standing outside his office, wearing, in addition to a spiffy hat of some bygone era, a suit that actually looks like it was tailored in this century.

  “Can you step into my office?” he asks in a hauntingly official manner.

  The air conditioner rattles and papers do a slow dance on Bud’s desk. Lighting a cigarette, he leans back in his chair and motions for me to sit.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, taking the seat across from him.

  “Wife’s sister in Omaha went and died on Wednesday,” he says without emotion. “Never cared much for that busy-body bitch, but Brenda’s a wreck over the whole mess.” He takes off his hat, puts it on the desk, then runs a hand through his thinning red-gray hair.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Funeral’s today,” he says, “which is why I’m all gussied up.”

  “No worries, Bud, I can take the day—”

  “How serious are you about selling cars?” He leans across the desk, staring at me, through me, his bullshit detector turned past ten.

  I take a deep breath and say, “Very,” pushing hard into his gaze, forcing myself not to blink.

  Bud smiles and leans back as he takes a drag from his Pall Mall. Smoke serpents swirl around his head. “You know the routine. We finance through First Confederated across the street.” He hands me a credit application. “Most important thing on there is the Social. Get as much as you can, but don’t let them leave the Social Security Number blank. Fax it to the number on the top and they’ll give you a yes or no.”

  “Bank’s closed today, Bud.”

  “The faxes route into a call center on Saturdays. Response time is actually a hell of a lot faster, believe it or not.”

  “Okay.”

  “Answer comes back yes, you give ’em the keys and make sure they drive off the lot. Comes back no, you give ’em the bad news. Hate to say this, but the bad news is likely all you’ll be giving.” He hands me a triplicate form. “Here’s the contract. Make sure every field is filled out, and make sure they sign it. Don’t worry about titles or anything; I’ll process that shit on Monday. Not that I think they’ll be anything to process.”

  “What if they want to pay cash?”

  Bud laughs. “Son,” he says, “no one pays in cash anymore.” Then he scribbles something on a piece of paper and slides it across the desk. “But if some Rockefeller wants to buy one of my beauties, call me here and I’ll walk you through the paces. Easy peasy Japanesey.”

  “No problem.”

  “You know where the temp tags are. Folks ’round here are no-joke broke so give ’em thirty days, and be sure to slap one inside the front and back window.” As he’s saying this, Bud grabs his hat and starts for the door.

  I spin my chair and ask, “What about margins? Wiggle room?”

  Laughing, he keeps moving, then, before stepping outside, he puts his hat back on and turns to me. “I know you look at the books, Jack. Just follow my lead.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, unsuccessfully fighting the flush that’s rushing my face.

  “And don’t get nervous. Hell, if you actually sell something today, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Better bring some ketchup on Monday.” I put on my best smile. “Might help that thing go down a little easier.”

  With a dismissive wave and a dry chuckle, he says, “Oh, I almost forgot,” and fishes a cluster of keys from his front pocket. I approach him as he untangles a key from the chain. “Lock up for a few minutes,” he says, “then head home and put on something a little more…professional. Open up when you look respectable.”

  “Suit and tie?” I ask, taking the key from him.

  With more than a trace of disbelief, he asks, “You have a suit?”

  “Yes.”

  Rapidly nodding as he steps through the door, Bud says, “That’ll do.”

  * * *

  While the kid is admiring the Korean sports car, I pull his father, my old high school track coach, aside. “Mike,” I say, “that’s the car your son seems to want.”

  “What can you tell me about it, Jack?”

  “She’s fast, has high miles, and the last kid that drove her is lucky to be alive.”

  Mike Mitchell laughs. “Interesting sales tactic.”

  With a smile, I say, “Come here,” then—Mike’s son still ogling the Tiburon—I lead him over to a Chevy Cavalier. �
�This,” I say, “is the car you want to buy.”

  “What year?”

  “’98.”

  “Little old, don’t you think?”

  Opening the door of the coupe, I invite Mike to have a seat. “Fifty thousand original miles on the engine,” I say. “Was owned by Bea Lumley, and she drove it to church once a week in Seward. Regular oil changes, well taken care of. Best of all, it’s a four cylinder, which means your boy’s less likely to wrap it around a telephone pole.”

  Looking around the dash, Mike says, “No CD player. Rick isn’t going to like that.”

  “The first thing he’ll want to modify is the stereo, no matter what’s in the dash. Question is, you buying your boy his first car or his tenth stereo?”

  Mike keeps laughing.

  “Reliable transportation,” I say, “safe, and…it’ll cost you half what that Korean bullet will.”

  “You know we’re just window shopping today, don’t you?”

  “You mentioned that. Planning to head into Lincoln later and check the lots there, you said.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Might be able to save a couple hundred bucks that way, but here’s the difference.”

  “Hit me, I’m all ears.” Really, he’s all smile, and about a thousand miles from buying anything.

  “You know who owned this car. You know she didn’t abuse it. Also, you buy this car, your money stays here in Sunfall. Lincoln takes care of Lincoln, Mike. Times like these, a man has to ask, who’s taking care of us?”

  Mike stops laughing, his look suddenly serious, and I’m not sure whether he’s getting ready to hit me or leave. Instead, he sticks out his hand. I take it. We shake. Two men. Eyes locked. “You’re right,” he says in a deep, serious voice. “You’re absolutely right.”

  Five minutes later, we’re in the office.

  Thirty minutes later, the late Bea Lumley’s Cavalier leaves the lot with Rick Mitchell, happy as he’ll ever be, behind the wheel.