The Good Thief (33 page)

“We’re going back,” Brom whispered.

“To Saint Anthony’s,” said Ichy.

“We think you should come with us.”

“What about Tom?” Ren asked.

“We’ll say he’s dead.”

“Someone else will come.”

“Someone else will take us.”

Ren looked at his friends. Their pants were too small, their jackets worn to shreds, their prospects uncertain. If they had separated sometime in the past, while they still looked like children, they might have stood a chance. But if they went back now, they’d be sold into the army for sure. “No one is going to adopt you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Brother Joseph said so. I should have told you before.”

The twins looked confused. Ichy tugged on his earlobe, and Brom cocked his head, suspicious. “Why wouldn’t anyone want us?”

“Because of your mother,” said Ren. “Because she killed herself.”

Brom threw himself forward with a cry. He hit Ren’s stomach and the two went falling back into the house, a jumble of legs and arms. The jar slipped and smashed on the floor. Ren landed hard, sprawled next to Mrs. Sands’s money, and something broke loose inside him, and he began to fight with all his strength—kicking; punching with his good hand, elbowing with the other—then felt his ankles yanked from underneath, and Ichy was on top and pummeling him, and the boy was strong, much stronger than Ren ever thought he could be.

The boys rolled into the kitchen, one on top of the other. The blows came from everywhere now, and Ren was crying out, with all kinds of furious sorrow, biting and sending his feet in every direction, trying to land a fist, and then he got hold of someone’s hair, and Brom was screaming in Ren’s ear and scratching Ren’s arm with his nails, tearing the skin from his wrist, and still Ren would not let go.

A flood of icy water splashed over Ren’s head and clogged his ears. He coughed as the water washed over them all, sending bits of uneaten food and broken plates and mugs swimming across the kitchen floor. Tom was leaning over them with a rain bucket, and he swung it now over his head and knocked Ren on the side of the face as Brom and Ichy crawled away, soaked and dripping.

“Leave them be!” Tom shouted. “Just stay away from them!”

Ren lay on his side, catching his breath, his cheek smarting. The wall in front of him was made of split wood, and it showed all the knots, all the darkened holes, that seemed like faces. Bits of hair were still caught in his fingers. He had no way of telling whom it belonged to.

Tom dragged himself back to the bench in front of the fireplace. “My boys,” he said. “Come to me.” When the twins shuffled over, he threw his arms around them both and held them to his chest, and wept, and kissed their foreheads, and wept again. In the midst of this Brom and Ichy stood frozen in a state of confusion and embarrassment. Tom rubbed his eyes and patted them on the shoulder. “Now find me something to drink.”

The boys glared at Ren, then went to search for a bottle. As soon as they were out of hearing, Tom reached down, took hold of Ren’s jacket, and pulled him close, his breath heavy and sour. “Why didn’t you tell me about their mother?”

“I didn’t know it mattered to you,” said Ren.

“It matters,” said Tom. His voice was hoarse.

Ren yanked out of his grip and Tom fell forward, crumpling onto the floor. Brom came back into the room holding some wine. He saw Tom floundering, and crouched by his side.

“We need to get him upstairs.”

“He’s your father,” said Ren.

Brom walked over and punched Ren in the leg, just hard enough to let him know that they weren’t finished. Then he went back and opened the bottle for Tom to drink. He retied the splint, got the man onto his one good knee, and then, leaning, into the chair. Ichy arrived with a moth-eaten blanket and wrapped it around Tom’s shoulders. The twins went to the woodbasket Mrs. Sands kept near the pantry and carried in the logs that were left. Ichy crouched in the ashes and struck a light to the branches, while Brom went outside for another load and propped the wet logs around the irons. Then they took off their wet coats and Tom’s, too, and hung them by the mantel to dry. The rain continued overhead, drumming on the roof and washing through the gutters. Ren sat in the corner, and rubbed his burning cheek, and hated them all.

Tom took another drink. “It’s time we got our bearings.” He settled his leg out before him, then pulled the blanket across his knees with a wince. “What did that mousetrapper want with us?”

“He thinks I’m his nephew,” Ren grumbled.

Tom scratched underneath his beard. “And are you?”

“It seems so.”

“That’s a pickle.” Tom took another sip from the bottle. “You’ll have to keep out of sight. There must be somewhere you can hide.”

“Until when?”

Tom seemed surprised he would ask. “Until Benji comes back.”

Ren touched where the bucket had hit him. He thought of the look on Benjamin’s face as he said good-bye. “He’s not coming back.”

Tom waved his hand. “He always comes back. I’ve been through this a dozen times.”

“They could have killed me,” said Ren, “and he didn’t care. He just gave me away. And he left you with your leg broken, wrapped up in a rug on the street. You would have died if the twins hadn’t gotten you to the hospital.”

Tom took another drink and stared into the fire. The logs were blazing now, heating the room, so that steam began to rise from the man’s wet shoulders, as if his spirit were slowly evaporating.

“In another hour he’ll be knocking on that door.”

“He won’t,” said Ren.

Tom shook his head, but Ren could tell he shook it from not knowing what else to say. He motioned for Brom and Ichy, and the twins helped him balance as he hobbled out of the kitchen and began to heave his leg up the stairs. From the doorway Ren watched them make their slow progress, Ichy pushing a rug out of the way, Brom with the man’s arm across his shoulder. Tom paused on the landing, his breath uneven. “I’m not leaving. Not until I get word.”

“If we stay in North Umbrage, McGinty will find me.” Ren was sick of arguing, sick of being the one in charge. He crossed his arms and slid down farther against the wall. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

Overhead Tom leaned against the banister and appraised him carefully. Then he wiped his nose in a way that blamed Ren for everything.

“You’re the thief,” Tom said at last. “You think of something.”

The storm continued, reigning over the night. Ren rummaged through the mess of the kitchen until he found a few stale pieces of bread. Then he set a blanket down into the potato basket and crawled inside. It seemed a flimsy hiding place, but at least it put something between himself and the world. All he needed was a few hours so that he could rest.

Lightning flashed against the kitchen window. Ren began counting again, tracking the distance of the storm. One, two, three—he heard the roll of thunder a few miles away. Moments later the sky flickered again. One, two—this time he could feel the walls shake. There was a crack as the lightning struck close. One—and the thunder roared. It fell down on the very top of him, as if it would split the building in two.

When it finally subsided, Ren brought his elbows down from where they’d covered his head, and that’s when he heard the front door. Not a knock, but a heavy, hard thumping, as if someone was trying to push the wood aside with his shoulder. Ren stayed in the basket, hoping it would stop, and when it didn’t, he crawled out and took the poker from the fireplace. They’d drawn the bolt across the front door when they arrived, and now, as he approached the entrance, he could see the boards straining against it.

Ren watched the hinges start to give. He wrapped his arms around himself. Rain was seeping in from outside, over the threshold and across the stone floor. In another moment it would touch his feet.

“Ren,” said a voice behind the wood.

The boy reached forward and pulled the bolt. The wind was strong and the door flew open, smashing into the wall, and a figure came stumbling forward from the night.

“Dolly!” Ren cried. He threw open his arms, but Dolly pushed him aside and continued walking into the kitchen, knocking against a stool and then a table before reaching the fireplace. Dolly’s face held the same dark calm from when he murdered the men beneath the streetlight. He stared into the ashes of the fire, and his giant hands opened and closed, opened and closed.

“You left me,” Dolly said.

“I didn’t mean to,” said Ren.

Dolly turned now and offered his backside to the hearth. Tiny droplets from his robe spattered across the stone, making a circle of water around him. He stood within this circle, the cloth plastered to his legs like a second skin.

Ren felt weak with regret. He dropped to the ground, his head against the bench. Dolly towered over the boy, as if he were a judgment. As if he were about to lift his foot and press Ren into the earth.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Ren said. He told Dolly everything that had happened, from the moment Tom hit Dolly on the head with the shovel to Benjamin chasing Ren down the road. While he spoke it was as if Dolly could not hear him. The expression on the man’s face was immovable, as black and solid as the irons in the fireplace. The thunder drummed overhead, softer now. It was a mile away, and then another, the lightning only a glimmer against the window.

All the penance Ren had neglected to say for the past eight months came back to him now. “You’re right,” he said, his voice breaking. “I left. I’m sorry.”

Dolly stepped out of the circle of water and crouched next to the boy on the floor. He took hold of Ren’s head, one massive hand covering each ear as if he would crush it, and then quickly leaned in and kissed the boy on the forehead, in the space between his giant thumbs. Then he let go and turned away for a moment, mopping his nose with his sleeve. When he looked back, his countenance was ragged and soft, a mountain already toppled and fallen.

“Friends again,” he said.

R
en fed the fire. Before long it was crackling and warming the hearth. Dolly took off his boots and clothes and hung them to dry. Then he sat down on the bench in his long underwear and declared that he was hungry. Ren gave him the bits of bread that were left, then searched the kitchen and found two small apples. He handed one over and took his place next to Dolly, and together they watched the monk’s robe dry.

It was in complete disrepair, the bottom torn in several places and the sleeves covered with dirt. The stitches on the shoulders were coming undone, and dried blood was splattered across the chest. It was only a costume, worn once a year for Christmas. It was never meant to last.

The ceiling still leaked, dripping rain into the buckets and pans on the floor. Ren listened to the sound of water falling into water and watched Dolly eating. The man’s chin was sticky. The hair from his chest curled between the buttons of his undershirt. His forehead wrinkled as he chewed, his eyes opened a bit wider, but altogether his face seemed at peace. He ate slowly and licked his fingers. When he was done, Ren handed him the other apple, and asked how he’d made his way back.

“I followed the road,” said Dolly. “There were tracks in the mud. And I found the wagon. And the horse.”

Ren had forgotten the mare, left half buried in the swamp—her neck broken, her eyes wide with terror. He wondered what the animal had thought as she lay there dying; if she even remembered the farmer who had loved her so well.

The bruises on Dolly’s neck had healed. There were only traces of a scar where the rope had worn the skin. Ren remembered the first night they had spent together, just after they had dug Dolly out from the earth. When Benjamin unwrapped the dead man in the back of the wagon it was almost as if he had conjured him. As if Benjamin had brought Dolly to life from sheer will.

Now Dolly sneezed a great boom of a sneeze, spraying the side of Ren’s face. The boy searched the kitchen until he found a rag, cleaned his cheek, then handed it to his friend. In the morning they would have to make it out of this house, Ren thought, and over the bridge, and far away from North Umbrage. With Dolly, he knew that he could make it. He looked around the destroyed kitchen. There was hardly anything salvageable. Still, he told his friend to start packing.

Dolly blew his nose. “What about the others?”

“They’ll be better off without us.” Ren waited for a moment, trying to decide if this was true. He knew that Brom and Ichy would hate him for leaving. But Tom was determined to stay, and he needed to rest his leg. And Ren knew now that the twins would take care of him. And he would take care of the twins.

Ren got up and started to gather what he could. They would have to leave early, before anyone else was awake. He pulled two blankets from the floor and rolled them and slipped them into a bag. He took a frying pan and a cup of lard. In the bottom of the potato basket he found two small neglected sprouts and packed them in too.

“Where are we going?” Dolly asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” said Ren. “Somewhere they don’t know us.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico.”

Ren wondered for a moment if that’s where Benjamin had gone. “We could do that.”