Thieves I've Known

THIEVES I'VE KNOWN

 

TOM KEALEY

THE UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA PRESS ATHENS AND LONDON

Published by the University of Georgia Press

Athens, Georgia 30602

www.ugapress.org

© 2013 by Tom Kealey

All rights reserved

Designed by Kaelin Chappell Broaddus

Set in 9.5/14 Quadraat Regular

by Graphic Composition, Inc.,

Bogart, Georgia

Printed and bound by Sheridan Books, Inc.

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

Printed in the United States of America

17 16 15 14 13 c 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress

Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kealey, Tom.

Thieves I've known : stories / by Tom Kealey.

pages cm. — (Winner of the Flannery O'Connor Award for Short Fiction)

ISBN
-13: 978-0-8203-4537-6

(hardcover : alk. paper)

ISBN
-10: 0-8203-4537-7

(hardcover : alk. paper)

I. Title.

PS
3611.
E
146 2013

813′.6—dc23

2012049542

British Library Cataloging-in-Publication

Data available

ISBN for digital edition: 978-0-8203-4636-6

To Helen, Jack, and Kerri And to the Kealey and Carroll families

INTRODUCTION
,
OR NOBODY

FROM BREMERTON

THE LOST BROTHER

THIEVES I'VE KNOWN

THE BOOTS

CIRCUS NIGHT

GROUNDSKEEPING

THE PROBLEM
WITH FLIGHT

COYOTES

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THIEVES I'VE KNOWN

Many of my favorite things are broken
.
MARIO BUATTA

Nights at the store, the brother and sister bagged the groceries that tumbled down the conveyors, rarely looking up, a simple nod of the head at a thanks from a customer. The girl, Merrill, was fifteen and tall for her age. The brother, Nate, was sixteen and trying to grow a moustache. He often wore a green knit hat. They didn't talk much with the cashiers or the manager. A yes sir, no ma'am here and there. When the store was slow, they brought in the carts, held contests between each other: who could bring in the most. Other times, one of them would take the broom and move down the aisles, collecting the candy wrappers, the spilled sugar, the vegetable leaves in the produce corner, while the other rotated stock, made the shelves look full. They had a rubber ball, the size of a tennis ball but bright red, that they played a game with, sometimes down an empty aisle and sometimes in the parking lot. There were rules involved in the game, it was clear to the manager the times he watched them: the number of bounces, the left or right hand that they sometimes grabbed with, sometimes slapped back. Often enough, they simply rolled the ball to each other, set it to strange spins, and after, they would hold up fingers—between two and five, he could never predict. When he asked the girl about the rules, she simply blushed and looked at the floor, like she'd been caught stealing something.

It was late summer, almost autumn, and after work they'd play other games in the parking lot, and the manager would watch them out there while counting his receipts, marking up the inventory for the next day. They'd ride a shopping cart down the hill, one inside the cage, other
times the both of them hanging off the back. For all their games, they rarely smiled, and something about the way they held themselves reminded the manager of his brother, who had died as a child. He'd been younger by many years than these two. They would often bounce the red ball over top the manager's car—one of the few left in the lot at that hour—and he considered each time to go out and chase them off. But he was afraid they might take it harder than he'd intended, like his younger brother had taken things, and other than the games they gave him no trouble, which was rare for his workers.

Merrill and Nate were not aware that they were watched. The windows at the office were dark, and they could see only the dull lit aisles in the store, the stillness inside. Often, they'd watch the heat lightning in the sky, the red blip of the radio tower beyond the tree line, a small and slow airplane headed miles toward the country runway. This night, a small bat skipped around the glow of the streetlamps, searching for the night bugs that were also drawn there. Nate found the smallest of pebbles and began tossing them up at the lights, and the bat would swoop and dive at what the boy threw, catching the small stone for a moment, then dropping it again. Merrill watched them both.

“You try it,” Nate said to her.

“Why?”

“Because a rock is like a big bug to him.”

“But not when he catches it.”

This response annoyed him. “So?” he said.

“So, would you tease a blind person?”

He frowned. “Don't be a dolt.”

“You're the dolt.”

“Oh, that's clever,” he said.

He tossed a few more, and eventually the bat figured out the game. They collected the rest of the carts, though their shift was over, set them in a line near the front door. After, they could hear the deep whistle of a train from beyond the back of the store, through the narrow woods, the bells of the crossing signals, the rumble of boxcars along the tracks. They
picked up their aprons and box cutters from the sidewalk and headed that way. It put Nate in mind of a story he'd once heard: a deaf girl picking flowers too close to the tracks. He named her Klara in his mind, as he and his sister picked their way through the line of trees toward the train. His mother had told him that story as a warning, though she'd left out the name. He thought about the engineer in the locomotive, and what he must've been thinking, looking down the tracks at the girl. The man must have pulled and pulled at the horn, and the boy tried to figure if the man understood her as deaf after a time, or just without sense. Hadn't the girl felt the vibrations of the tracks? There was no answer, but the boy liked to think about these things: at what point the man had punched the brakes. The boy thought of the man, thinking. The number of cars behind him and the distance ahead to the girl.

They waited, watched the dark boxcars and the rounded petroleum tankers pass, felt the rumble beneath their feet and the breeze, which smelled of coal and grease, at their faces. As the last car passed, they watched the cloud of dust and grit that settled behind it, the moon ahead, low. It seemed that the train might be headed there.

Across the tracks and into the next line of trees. They found the creek that they could jump and the ditch that they couldn't. Their feet slipped in the dirt and mud, and they picked mosquitoes and thorns from their necks and arms.

The cemetery was beyond the woods, and in the starlight it often looked like a miniature city to them: buildings and roads, shadows that somebody could hide in. They hopped the gate, watched the sculptures as they passed: an angel here, like a child, an eagle and an owl sitting together there. The first time, they'd thought the owl real. They stopped at the largest angel, the one not like a child, just before the lane of unmarked graves. The angel was tall and dark and skeletal, and it held a large sword above its head. In the moonlight they could see the jagged teeth and the empty eye sockets. The mouth looked like it was ready to scream bloody murder, or commit it, and they didn't consider it much like anything they'd like to meet in heaven. They stood watching it for a
while, as they always did, nudging each other with a finger or an elbow, trying to work up a scare.

Merrill tried to make a scary voice. She moaned. “Bring me back my eyes.”

Nate set his hands in his pockets. He watched the clouds behind the statue, kept an eye on the length of the sword, the broken tip at the end.

“Did you see it move?” said Merrill. Her voice seemed to indicate that it was important that he did.

“If it'll make you happy I'll say that I did,” he said.

But honestly, it always seemed to move a little, so they walked on, poked each other some more as they made their way past the gravestones. Merrill stopped and straightened a cluster of dead flowers that had been knocked over. When they came to the unmarked graves, they both thought of the ghost stories: one of the cashiers had told them this. When the ghosts were alive, generations ago, they'd worked in a textile mill, south of the town, and then they were burned up in a fire. The mill was made of bricks, and there were no windows, and the foreman—examining the remains—couldn't tell one worker from the other. Immigrants, they were believed to be, and no one came to claim the bodies. So, they got buried here, in a long line, with just the date of their deaths. If you walked close enough, they'd reach up and grab you, and they'd steal your name. This is how the story went. And after that, you were just nobody. Nate kept his distance, but Merrill walked close enough, felt that they could have her name if it would do them some good. But neither ever walked right over them.

They hopped the far gate after that and headed east.

They were miles from the Sound and from home, but they were getting closer. The smell of salt water was in the air. At a familiar neighborhood, Merrill and Nate balanced on the curb as they walked, made their way around garbage cans and mailboxes, took three steps each in the driveways. A few dogs barked from backyards, and they could see their shadows at the fence lines. They passed all sorts of things in yards: cars with hoods up, no engines inside; lawn chairs here and there; a mower
in a yard with no grass; and once a pyramid of beer bottles set on wooden boards. In one driveway they passed a pair of boots, empty, but pointed out at the road, like they were waiting for the owner to return.

They listened to the static of radios here and there, somebody running an electric saw in a garage. It put Merrill in mind of their previous home, years ago, when they'd lived with their mother, where Merrill and Nate would often enough sit at the kitchen table alone, listening to the rattle of the old refrigerator.

Lights were on in houses, though often curtains were drawn, and from the curb Merrill and Nate began to imagine what might be happening inside each house. This was a game they often played. It was almost all guesses. They couldn't see much.

“Somebody's in love,” said Nate, pointing at the first chosen house.

“Somebody's coming out of it,” said Merrill toward the second.