Stealing Heaven

by Elizabeth Scott

  “What?”

  “You know. Soda. Bubbles, lots of sugar to rot your teeth. Great stuff.”

  “You drink soda in the morning?”

  “Now you sound like my dentist.”

  “It’s just—well, I do too. But the first time I came in here and asked for one they—”

  “Made you take the walk of shame, right?”

  “The what?”

  “You know, over to the case.” He points to the corner. “Asking you if you want a glass of milk on your way there. The usual.”

  I laugh. “Walk of shame? Yeah, I had to do that.”

  “What about the milk? They did ask you if you wanted milk instead, right?”

  I shake my head.

  “Ruthie,” he calls out, and an older woman behind the counter turns around. “I hope you know I have proof you’re picking on me. I was just talking to Hortense here, and she doesn’t get hassled about milk when she orders soda.”

  I feel my face turn red as everyone—and I mean everyone—turns to look at us. And you know the worst part? Not one person says “Hortense? That’s such an obviously fake name.”

  Oh God, I look like a Hortense. I glance over at him. “Do you pick on everyone like this?”

  “What?” he says. “Pick on? Ruthie loves me. Don’t you, Ruthie?”

  “Like the plague,” Ruthie says. “What happened to your face?”

  “Broke up a bar fight.”

  Ruthie laughs.

  “What? I could have.”

  “Sure,” Ruthie says, still laughing, and finally it’s my turn at the counter.

  “You don’t want that one,” Ruthie tells me as I’m pointing at the cream-filled donuts. “You want this one instead.”

  “I really would rather have—”

  “Trust me,” she says. “And you,” she tells Greg, “have got to stop trying to help Joanie out. She was in here earlier waving her hands around and worrying you’d broken your jaw getting hit with that stupid so-called portable steam tray.”

  “Hey, don’t knock Joanie. She makes a mean lobster roll.”

  “Who do you think taught her how to do that? She’s my daughter and I love her, but these fancy parties she’s trying to do for the summer people after being a caterer for a month and a half? She’s going to give herself a heart attack.”

  “She’s not doing so bad,” he says. “Really, Ruthie, she isn’t. Last night, the whole problem was traffic. That’s all. Tell her not to worry, okay? And don’t you worry either.”

  “I don’t worry. I’m too busy making these goddamned donuts.”

  “Right, right. I forgot. I just meant that if you were thinking about worrying, you didn’t need to.”

  Ruthie waves a hand at him and grumbles something under her breath, but I see her smile as she turns away.

  When I try to pay for my donuts Greg won’t let me, tells the girl working behind the counter that no, he owes me and the last time he didn’t pay up I clocked him one.

  “See?” he says, showing her his jaw.

  She laughs and takes the twenty he hands over, clearly thinking he’s the greatest thing ever. I decide I don’t like her and turn away. I hope Ruthie didn’t give me some sort of weird flavored cream donut. I hate the ones with the “special” fillings.

  “Don’t forget your soda,” the girl calls out.

  Crap, the soda. I turn back around, head toward the case. Greg is already there, holding two cans.

  “Here,” he says, and holds one out to me.

  “Maybe I don’t want that. Maybe I want—” The only other kind of soda they have is diet. Ick. Oh well. “A diet.”

  “Yeah, the look of distaste on your face really has me convinced. Besides, have you seen what’s in the stuff? It’ll preserve you from the inside out.”

  “That’s what I always tell my mother.”

  “Oh yeah?” He waves the soda at me.

  Damn. If Mom were here she’d be so pissed at me. I’m not supposed to mention I even have a mother. “Like I can drink that now. Maybe if you shake it a little more it’ll explode before I even get a chance to open it.”

  “Hey, where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “In the car.”

  He laughs, then hands me the unshaken can. “Okay, here you go.”

  “Thanks.” I turn to leave.

  “Hey, do you—can you stay for a while?”

  “What? Why?”

  “Do you know you almost always answer a question with another question?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  He grins. “No. I’m just saying, that’s all. It’s actually very interesting.” He sits down at a table, motions at the seat across from him. “You want to sit down?”

  “With you?”

  “And again with the questions. Yeah, with me. You should give me a chance. I’ve been told I grow on people.”

  “What, like fungus?”

  He laughs. “Something like that.”

  “Hey, Hortense,” Ruthie calls out. “Sit down and eat with the poor boy already, will you? I win a buck if you do.”

  “Ruthie,” Greg says, “I knew there was a reason why I love you. The continual public humiliation is such a joy, really.”

  “Hey, at least I bet on you.”

  “That’s true. Who bet against me?”

  Ruthie looks at her coworkers. The three other women making donuts raise their hands.

  “Oh, come on,” he says, “I’m not that—oh, forget it.” He looks at me. “I don’t suppose you’re willing to let poor Ruthie win a buck.”

  I look at Ruthie and then back at him. I sit down. Ruthie grins, and I watch her collect her money.

  “See, she’s not so bad,” he says, and then, pitching his voice a little louder, “for a battle-axe.”

  “Don’t think I won’t come over there and kick your ass,” Ruthie says. “And tell your mother she needs to call Stan about the reunion.”

  “I’m not a messenger service,” he says.

  Ruthie glares at him.

  He grins at her. “I’ll tell her, I promise.”

  “You’ve lived here forever, haven’t you?” I ask, fascinated. I’ve never known someone who’s lived in one place their whole life.

  “No,” he says, surprised. “Why would you—oh, because of Ruthie? She’s my mom’s cousin and she has lived here forever. I moved here about a year ago.”

  “Because you wanted to be a cop?”

  “Yeah. That and if I worked here I’d get to live near the beach. I like the ocean.”

  “Why?”

  “I knew you’d go back to the questions. What do you mean, why? Who doesn’t like the ocean?”

  “It’s just water.”

  “So then why are you living here?”

  “You have to like the ocean in order to live here?”

  “You know, one of these days we’re going to have an actual conversation.”

  He grins at me, and I find myself grinning back. “I can just imagine how thrilling that would be.”

  “See, progress already! That wasn’t even a question. In fact—oh hell. It’s after nine? Damn.”

  After nine? I look around and sure enough, the donut-shaped clock on the wall says it is. Mom is going to be mad. Shit. “I gotta go.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he says. “I’m gonna be late for work. But hey, it was really nice running into you.”

  I look at him. My heart is suddenly pounding really hard.

  “No chance of getting that in reply, is there?” he asks.

  “Nope,” I say, and hope my voice sounds normal. “But thanks for the donuts. And the soda.”

  “Anytime. I mean, I am still waiting for a name, you know.”

  “Bye.”

  “Hey, was that a smile?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “Sorry, my mistake. It was a definite frown. Pretty, though.”

  I look at him. He shrugs and then stands up. “What? It is.”

  He thinks I hav
e a pretty smile. “I—uh—look, thanks for the food, okay? But I’m not—you’re just—I can’t—”

  “Oh. Is it because—I saw you with that guy last night. Are you two…together?”

  Yes. That’s what I should say. Instead I shake my head.

  “Oh,” he says, and grins. “That’s nice to know. Maybe—”

  “I really do have to go,” I tell him. I feel weird. I want him to keep talking. I’m very sure that I shouldn’t.

  “Right,” he says, and grins at me, a crooked sad little smile. “Me too. I’ll see you around, Hortense.”

  I watch him leave. I like talking to him. I really do. But he’s a cop.

  “A cop,” I mutter to myself, and get up. I have to remember that. I drive back to the house, back to Mom and everything that’s familiar.

  12

  Mom’s gone when I get back, a scribbled note telling me she’ll see me later. There’s nothing angry in it, nothing about missing donuts or anything, and I know that means she left soon after I did, probably forgetting I was out picking up something for her.

  Upstairs I find one of those free real estate guides lying on her bed, a red circle around one of the entries. She must have seen it and decided to pay Harold a visit. I sit down and read the whole thing: house for rent, two bedrooms, water view, right by an ocean inlet, blah blah blah. The person listed as contact is—yep, that’s right, Harold. I bet we’ll be moving real soon.

  I pack up my things and most of Mom’s. Under the pile of maps she’s been working with is a piece of paper with a list of names on it. Maid to Order, Merry Maids, that sort of thing. I can guess what’s coming. We’ve never done anything exactly like it before, but going in as a maid to snag the silver is a good option, a smart one. I can’t think of any reason why it wouldn’t work.

  This means in a few days Sydney will be gone and someone else will take her place. We won’t need any more information and I’ll become someone who will do—well, whatever Mom tells me to. Someone who won’t have time for the beach, for hanging out. It’s for the best and I know it. I can’t keep talking—really talking—to someone I’m going to steal from. I should be able to but I just…I don’t like how it makes me feel.

  I leave the house, go for a walk. I head toward the public beach but don’t go there. Instead I stop at a convenience store at the beginning of the tourist strip and grab a bottle of water.

  “Sydney?”

  “Allison?” What is she doing here?

  “Hey!” She grins. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Same here.”

  “I’m just—well”—she lowers her voice—“I thought Brad might, I don’t know, be here. I know it’s dumb but he lives nearby, so…” She blushes. “How about you?”

  “Just out for a walk.”

  “Everything okay? You look a little—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Really?”

  I nod.

  “You know what?” she says. “You should totally come to my house for dinner.”

  “What?” Dinner? Inside the Donaldson house? That would make Mom’s year.

  “It’ll be fun. Well, not like wild party fun or anything. But you get to watch my dad try to light the grill, which is always hysterical.”

  “I—well, the thing is, I—” I can almost hear Mom hissing “Go!” in my ear.

  “Filled up on water?” Allison laughs. “Besides, you never did tell me where you got your dress.”

  “Okay, I’ll come.” I tell myself I’m going because I have to, because Mom would want me to. But I’m not. I’m not going because of Mom. I’m going because I want to. I’m going because I want to have dinner with a friend. I’ve never done that before.

  The house is exactly like it is in the pamphlet Mom and I have gone through, and I see rooms I know, rooms that I’ve studied. I see silver laid out in the open, resting on what looks like a dining room table.

  I don’t go near it. I don’t want to. Instead I walk outside with Allison, head across a perfect lawn. I should be guessing how long it is, looking for security lights, for motion sensors. Instead I talk to her about Brad and suntans and shoes.

  Her family is nice. Her mother and father are distracted but polite, shake my hand and offer me something to drink, ask about school. I tell them the story I told Allison the day we met and then realize James has arrived and that he and Allison are talking. Arguing, actually.

  “I don’t need you deciding things for me,” Allison says, her voice rising. “I’m eighteen. I can—and I know this is a shock for you—make up my own mind, James.”

  “Do we really have to talk about this now, Ally?”

  “No, because you’re going to mind your own business and let me lead my own life.” She turns to me. “I mean, that’s not too much to ask for, right, Sydney?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, and she grins at me.

  “I’m just trying to look out for you,” James says.

  “Are you?” Allison says, voice suddenly sharp. “I would think you’d be too busy looking out for yourself.”

  “Allison, James, keep your voices down, please,” their mother says. “In fact, both of you come with me—your father is attempting to light the grill and we all know what that means.”

  Both James and Allison laugh, the tension between them broken. “Come on,” Allison says. “James and I will have to save him from himself and possibly run and get the fire extinguisher.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I say, and watch them go. I can have tonight, just a few hours I’ll keep to myself. I’ll be careful. I won’t forget why I am really here. There is silver in this house and I saw it. I know I will see it again. Silver is the story of my life.

  It is how Mom and I ended up here.

  When I was little Mom did stuff she wouldn’t touch now. She and Dad stole jewels, paintings, credit cards, basically anything they could get their hands on. But then Dad got arrested and Mom got worried. They’d never gotten married but I was around, proof of a connection between them.

  I suppose I shouldn’t say she was worried. Mom was angry. When I think back to what I remember most clearly about her then it’s that she was always in motion—pacing around whatever apartment we were living in, tossing our things into paper bags and telling me to get in the car. We were constantly on the move and had nothing to show for it. I remember a series of uniforms—waitress, I guess, Mom going back to what she’d once known—and food brought home in grease-stained bags.

  “This isn’t living,” she said one night as I was eating and she was pacing around the room. “I’ve got nothing now. Nothing. I need—”

  I swallowed and watched her turn toward me, eyes shining.

  We moved again and the uniforms stopped. Mom was home now, all the time, and one night we went for a drive, stopped, and walked to a large house. We stood in the shadows and waited for a long while. “Not a sound, baby,” Mom whispered, and her fingers slid over my ear in a way I knew like breathing. I waited—and worried—but Mom came back and the next day I had new clothes and a new doll and Mom was happy.

  Getting into silver was an accident. One night she went inside a house and paused before going upstairs to where a safe with jewels was supposed to be. I saw her through the window I was waiting by, watched her walk into a dining room and open a cabinet. Crammed inside were boxes full of silver forks and knives and spoons. There were other things too: tea-pots, candlesticks, serving trays. Mom took it all.

  She let me look at it later, happiness lighting up her face as she did, and for once we didn’t leave right away. We stayed and she checked the papers every day. It took a week and an overzealous housekeeper looking for something to do before anyone noticed the silver was gone. It got a paragraph in the paper and nothing more, didn’t even make it onto the front page. Silver gone, burglary suspected, insurance claim filed. End of story.

  “Silver,” Mom told me, said the word like it was magic, and ever since it’s ruled her. Ruled us. It’s
easy enough to find if you know where to look, and it’s not high-profile enough to attract a lot of public attention. And anything that isn’t high-profile is always easier to fence.

  Because of silver I can pry the molding off a window without making a sound. I know how to test for plate even though I don’t usually need to. I can drive a car, climb into a house, deal with growling dogs. I know exactly how much your average nineteenth-century tea service weighs—in troy ounces, even—and how many pieces it has.

  For silver I learned to read, write, work numbers. For silver I learned the names of every plantation from Virginia to Florida. I can tell you which ones we’ve visited, which ones we want to, which ones we never will. I can tell you how to find someone’s house no matter where it is. I can tell you what to do if there is silver inside.

  The story of my life can be told in silver: in chocolate mills, serving spoons, and services for twelve. The story of my life has nothing to do with me. The story of my life is things. Things that aren’t mine, that won’t ever be mine. It’s all I’ve ever known.

  I wish it wasn’t.

  I can’t stay here. I want to, want to eat hamburgers and talk about the beach. I want to help Allison plan ways to see Brad again. I want to be just like everyone else, but I can’t because I’m not. I won’t ever be.

  I walk back to the house. Allison catches up to me as I’m heading for the door.

  “Are you sneaking out?” She laughs. “I promise, despite the production with the grill—you really should have seen it—dinner will be edible. Daddy’s just allowed to light it. Our cook wouldn’t actually let him cook anything.”

  “I’m not feeling very well.” I feel bad for her, for how she’s standing there so trusting, so…so secure in what she knows, so sure of what she sees. I envy her. I wish I could feel that way, have that kind of life.

  “Oh no,” Allison says. “Do you need anything? Do you want me to drive you home? Let me just grab my keys and—”

  I shake my head. “Tell everyone I said good-bye, okay?” My voice is so level, so polite.