The Thief
GREGG HURWITZ
Momma came into the living room and asked where I got the Power Rangers pencil case and I didnt say anything. I just scrunched my eyes shut tight and pretended Id gone away.
She said, “Tommy, youre a teenager. You cant keep stealing stuff from the kindergarten kids. If I call Mrs. Connelly and she says something went missing, youll be in big trouble and youll skip dinner.”
The last part about skipping dinner floated in through my scrunched eyes and settled in my stomach and made it hurt. “Im sorry,” I said.
She sighed and pressed her hands to her curly brown hair. “I cant trust you, Tommy. And thats an awful thing.”
When her mouth got like that it meant I should get out of her way for a while, so I went back to my room and sat on my bed. My dad left after I was born. I dont have a picture of him in my head. Just the picture on my bookshelf next to my comics. My favorite is Wolverine. No one knows how strong he is inside. Hes got a skeleton made of adamantium. You never see it, really, just bits and parts, except one time he got in this plane crash and he burned down to his skeleton and I didnt like that at all. He looks like a normal guy, but I like that hes stronger than he looks, way stronger, beneath his soft skin. Im fat. Momma says the proper term is “heavy,” but I know what its really called from the kids outside Mrs. Connellys classroom at school. They arent special, those kids, but Id trade not being fat for not being special.
I could smell the pot roast from the kitchen and it made my stomach hurt some more thinking about not getting any because of a tin pencil case that you can see your reflection in even if its wavery.
Momma says she cant trust me when it comes to stealing things. But thats not true, at least not always. Like I know that she keeps a shoebox full of money in her closet and Ive never stolen that. And she has this pearl necklace and a CD of Frank Sinatra and I dont want those either. Its just some things I have to have. Like the long, shiny shoehorn I took from the Foot Locker. Or glowy green bubble gum people leave on sidewalks. We have a problem with the salt and pepper shakers from Mommas work, and she searches me before we leave just like the cops do black people on TV. And the cook at the diner just laughs and says, “Let him take em,” and she says, “You have no idea what I put up with, Frank.”
There was a knock at my door and she came in and sat next to me on the bed and I closed my eyes again, tight. She said, “Its okay. I forgive you.”
So I said, “Can I keep the Power Rangers pencil case?”
Momma said, “No.”
I opened my eyes. I said, “I thought you forgive me.”
She sighed again and said, “Help me, Jesus.”
So I said, “Okay. You can give back the pencil case,” because I dont like when she brings Jesus into it.
The doorbell rang, and she said, “Oh, thatll be Janice.”
Ms. P works with Momma at the diner and they go to movies sometimes and do each others hair and drink pink wine out of the skinny glasses. I followed Momma out to the front door. Ms. P said, “Whos that handsome fellow there?” like she always does even though she knows its just me. Ms. P wears pretty magenta lipstick like in the sunset I drew in Mrs. Connellys class. I like sunsets.
I didnt say anything about not eating pot roast and Momma mustve forgotten because I took two servings and even had grape juice. I liked the sound of Ms. Ps voice in our kitchen. We dont have people come over to our house much. Usually, Momma goes out and leaves a TV dinner in the microwave and the numbers already put in so I just have to push the green button. I watched Ms. Ps magenta lips all through dinner. They crinkled and smiled. Magenta is my favorite color.
After, Momma said, “Why dont you go read your comic books?”
And I said, “I dont read them. I look at the pictures.”
And Momma said, “Well, whatever, same difference.”
I never know what she means by “same difference” since the two words dont really go together and they sort of cancel each other out if you ask me, but no one ever asks me. So I went to my room. But I didnt really go to my room. I opened and closed my door and then I tippy-toed down the hall again so I could listen to Momma and Ms. P. That wasnt very nice of me, but Im home alone most nights so when I can hear other people talking in the house, its a treat.
I hid behind the little half table at the end of the hall. Ms. Ps purse was there, right by my head, and her keys, which had more key chains than keys, which made no sense.
Momma kept saying, “Its so hard, Janice.”
And Janice kept saying, “I know, honey. I know. But hes a sweet kid.”
And Momma said, “I feel so alone,” which made me feel weird because Mommas not alone, since I live with her.
Momma said, “Sometimes I just miss grown-up company, you know?”
And Ms. P said, in a different kind of voice, “I know.” Then she said, “There was that salesman I fixed you up with last year.”
Momma said, “He was nice and owned a house, unlike the jerks I used to date. Maybe thats why it didnt work. He wasnt enough of a loser to interest me.”
They laughed about that. Then Ms. P said, “I heard he met someone, moved to Cleveland.”
“Maybe I blew it,” Momma said. “He was very nice. Plus he wasnt hard on the eyes.”
Then Ms. P said something in a low voice and they both laughed.
My shin itched so I reached to scratch it and I hit the table and Ms. Ps keys jangled and I said, “Oops.”
Momma said, real pointy-like, “Tommy!”
And I said, “Uh-oh.”
And Momma said, “Come out here, Tommy.”
And I didnt say anything. I just hugged my knees and squeezed my eyes shut but then I heard some rustling and opened my eyes and Momma was standing right there.
I said, “Im sorry.”
She said, “Remember the guest rule when Im in the living room?”
And I said, “Oh yeah,” like Id just remembered it, but I dont think she believed me.
As I went down the hall, I heard Ms. P say, “Youre too buttoned up in all this. You deserve something for you. A warm little something on the side.”
But Momma just gave a giggle and said, “I can barely remember.”
I went into my room and closed the door, which made me sad because I couldnt have their voices keep me company, but a closed door was part of the guest rule. So I played for a while and then readBatman until I got to the Joker, who always scares me too much because he smiles all the time but hes not happy. And someone like that you cant trust. And thats an awful thing.
After a while, I heard the front door close and then I heard Ms. Ps car drive off and then Momma came in my room and stared at me and said, “You look ridiculous. Whered you get that lipstick?”
The next night I walked home after school alone. The fourth graders followed a few blocks like they sometimes do and threw rocks, but they didnt mean anything because they threw little pebbles not like the real bullies. The fourth graders were just jealous because they werent in the special class. At least thats what Mrs. Connelly says. And they never throw real rocks because they know if they do Ill sit on them and they dont like that very much at all.
I got home and ran into the kitchen and checked the microwave, like I always do first thing. But it was bad news. There were numbers punched in already, which meant that Momma was working a night shift and she wouldnt be home until after dinner. That made my stomach go all achy, but not big achy like when I ate all those hot dogs and threw up in the back of Ms. Ps Mustang named Coop.
The doorbell rang and I ran over, excited, and opened the front door even though Momma always tells me not to. A guy stood there. He wore overalls with stains on them and he had big shiny arms and black tangly hair down over his eyes. A silver pen stuck up out of the bibby part of his overalls. In front of our house was a beat-up brown truck.
He said, “Is your dad home?”
And I said, “I dont have a dad. I live with Momma.”
And he smiled a real toothy smile like in the soap operas and said, “I fix driveway cracks. I finished the house up the street a bit early today and I noticed you had some in your driveway. Cracks.”
I said, “I didnt do it.”
He stared at me sort of funny, then said, “Is your mom home?”
I said, “No.”
He ducked his head a little to look past me into the house and said, “Its just you and your mom living here?”
I said, “Can I have your pen?”
He pulled the shiny silver pen from his overalls and turned it so it caught the light. It sparkled a bit. He said, “This pen?”
I said, “Yeah.”
He said, “This one right here?”
I said, “Yeah.”
He said, “You wont tell your momma I gave you this pen?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “No sir.”
He handed me the pen and walked back to his truck. After a few tries, his truck started and he drove off.
I went into Mommas room and played in her closet. Shes got this one shirt that I like to pet thats all shimmery like snakeskin. I took it a few times but she always notices right away so I dont take it anymore. I wasnt supposed to touch it neither but Momma wasnt home and what was I supposed to do? Next I took the lid off the shoebox and looked at the rows of green bills. Momma gets paid a lot in cash—her tips, she calls it, but the tips of what?—and if she keeps it in the shoebox instead of a bank then she gets to keep more of it instead of the damn government stealing it, which is weird because I thought it was harder to steal from a bank. Its the only time Momma says “damn” except when shes talking about her damn life insurance which she has so shell know Ill be taken care of if something ever happens to her. The damn life insurance costs her an arm and a leg and I dont even know where to start with how many ways that doesnt make sense. If something happened to Momma shed go to heaven and Id go to the home where some of the other kids in Mrs. Connellys class live and they get movie nights and chocolate ice cream if they earn points by behaving well. If I behave well I dont get any points. But every Wednesday Momma buys me a comic book so I guess thats something.
A couple nights later, Momma came in my room. She was wearing her shimmery snake shirt, and makeup, which was weird since it was her day off work.
She said, “Tommy, listen. I have someone coming over for dinner, and Id really like it if you could behave.”
“Is she a waitress, too?”
“Its a he, actually.”
“I dont want him to touch my comics.”
“He wont touch your comics.”
“Can we have pizza?”
“Sure. We can have pizza.” She stopped in the doorway and her eyes looked a bit tired, even with the makeup. She said, “This is important to me, Tommy,” and I wasnt sure what that meant so I didnt say anything.
I read Batman again, but still couldnt get past page eleven where the Joker comes in smiling that smile. So then I read one of my Wolverines and that calmed me down so much I didnt even notice Momma was at my door until she said, in a stiff voice, “Tommy, Id like you to come meet someone.”
So I got up and followed her down the hall. Who do you think was there but the guy in the overalls whod given me the pen! Except he wasnt in overalls now. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and a leather jacket and he smelled like cologne.
Momma said, “Tommy, Id like you to meet Bo.”
I remembered about the pen and about how Momma wasnt supposed to know, so I said, “Nice to meet you, Bo.”
And he shook my hand and said, “Good to meet you, Tommy.”
He came in and was all nice to me, slapping my knee and asking if I like football (no) or baseball (no) and saying he betted the girls were just crazy about me at school (no). Momma watched and smiled except when I said, “no,” then she stood behind him and gave me that angry scowl, which was weird because Momma always taught me not to lie. But she also taught me not to talk to strangers and now here she was wanting me to lie to a stranger. It was very confusing.
The doorbell finally rang and Momma said, “Oh, that must be the pizza,” and got up.
Bo said, “No, please, let me,” and he pulled a cool wallet out of the inside pocket of his jacket. The wallet was leather with pretty Indian-looking stitching on the back that showed a sunset, the sun all yellow and wobbly going down into the ocean. Bo took out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Momma and she bit her lip and smiled at him then went in the other room.
I said, “I can eat eight slices.”
Bo said, “I bet you can, chief,” and then Momma came back in with the pizza.
Momma put the pizza on the kitchen table and said, “Thank you.” Then she looked at me and said, “Say ‘thank you.”
I said, “Say thank you.”
Momma hates when I do that but I pretend I dont know any better. She smiled at him and said, “He doesnt know any better.”
He said, “I completely understand.”
We ate. I ate a lot. Momma excused herself to the bathroom. Bo got up and looked around a little, peering through the door to the garage and into the closet door and the little den, checking out the rooms like he was gonna buy the place. When the toilet flushed, he sat back down in a hurry.
Momma came back in. She said, “I just need to clean up and read Tommy his story before bed. Unless…”
And Bo said, “What?”
Momma said, “Unless you want to read him his story. Then we could be done quicker and, you know, alone.”
Bo smiled extra-wide and said, “Id love to.”
I went back and got in my jammies and he watched me while I changed, and smiled but it wasnt a nice smile. It was like the Jokers smile.
The water was running down the hall in the kitchen and Momma was humming to herself.
I climbed into bed and I said, “I want The Hardy Boys. The one about the missing gold. Momma and I are on chapter three.”
Bo said, “Tough luck, retard. Ill read you Goodnight Moon.”
I think he picked that one because its the skinniest.
I said, “Goodnight Moon? You think Im a baby?”
And he said, “No, I think youre a retard.”
I told him he was jealous, but he just laughed.
He read it real fast, not even turning it so I could see the pictures. Then he put the book down on his knee. I could hear Momma putting the dishes away in the cupboards. He said, “This is a nice house. A real nice house.”
I said, “Uh-huh.”
He said, “I could get used to living in a house like this.”
Then Momma walked down the hall and leaned against the door and said, “How sweet.”
And he said, “It was nothing at all.”
He walked out and she stayed behind and whispered, “Remember the guest rule.” And then she closed my door.
But I didnt want to sneak down the hall and listen to them. I didnt like listening to him the way I liked listening to Ms. P.
The next day at breakfast, Momma said, “Do you like Bo?”
I said, “Hes mean.”
She said, “Hes not mean. He read you a story, didnt he?”
And I said, “Hes mean.”
She said, “Youre just jealous.”
I said, “Hes jealous.”
She looked at her coffee cup for a while, maybe checking for cracks. Then she said, “Sometimes grown-ups keep company for different reasons.”
“Than if someones nice?”
“Yeah. You know when you get lonely?”
“No.”
“How lovely,” she said, and got up to go to work.
That night when I walked home from school I saw Bos truck outside. But when I went in, the numbers were punched into the microwave anyway, so that meant they were going out to dinner. They were sitting on the couch together and Mommas hair was wet, which was weird since she only showers in the morning. They were all smiley and their faces were red. Bo pretended to be nice to me but I went back to my room to read comics.
I heard Momma say, “Let him go.”
They went out. Momma came in to give me a kiss first and she held my head and said, “You know I love you, right?”
And I said, “Me, too.”
I ate alone. They got home late. I was watching TV. Momma opened a bottle of her pink wine so I hid in my room because when Momma drinks her pink wine she gets louder and her voice sounds different. She never gets mean, but I dont like her voice getting different. Its sort of like this one time when Wolverine was in the plane crash and it burned away all his skin and, well, you get the idea. I went to bed and got up later to pee and I heard them kind of grunting in Mommas room and I thought they were moving the bed because Momma likes to redecorate sometimes.
At Mrs. Connellys the next day I drew a big pumpkin head with a mean, fake smile like the Jokers. Or like Bos.
Momma was supposed to work because it was Tuesday, but there werent any numbers on the microwave when I got home. I stood there for a long time, staring at the blank microwave, getting that hurt feeling in my stomach when I think theres no food. A toilet flushed. And then Bo came out.
He held out his arms like a scarecrow. “Im your babysitter tonight,” he said. “Your moms working the night shift. Aint I a nice guy?” And then he laughed but it wasnt like he thought something was funny. It was a Joker-smile kind of laugh.
I stayed in my room until I got too hungry and then I came out and said, “Will you make me a sandwich?”
He was watching a football game and he didnt look over at me. He just said, “No.”
So I got the Salisbury steak TV dinner from the freezer and said, “Will you punch the numbers into the microwave?”
He said, “What numbers?”
And I said, “I dont know.”
He said, “Retard,” then he got up with a groan and shoved the box in the microwave and hit some buttons and after the ding went off the steak was all rubbery. I ate it anyways.
I didnt see Momma that night, but I saw her the next morning, dressed for work again. Bo was there, too. I think they had a sleepover. Mommas mouth got the way it did when I was supposed to leave the room, but I think Bo got it that way, not me, and besides, I wasnt done with my Corn Flakes.
They kept talking in quiet voices like I couldnt hear but I was sitting right there.
Momma would say, “Its too soon.”
And then hed say, “It could save you some money, too, having me help out.”
And shed say, “Not in front of him.” Or, “He doesnt do well with change.” When she said, “Plus, were still getting to know each other,” he frowned and Momma looked like her stomach hurt.
Then he said, “Maybe thats how you feel.”
She said, “Im off at two. He doesnt get home until three. Well discuss it then.” And she went to put her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.
When I got home from school, the lamp by the couch was knocked over and that made me stop inside the door and scrunch my eyes shut. I was pretty sure I didnt do it, but you never know when youre gonna get blamed. In the dark, I said, “Momma?” but she didnt answer me.
When I opened my eyes, I saw that Bos leather jacket was hung on the back of the kitchen chair. I went over and looked at it. It felt smooth and had lots of neat hidden pockets and stuff.
I said, “Momma?” again, but no one answered me. That almost made me forget how hungry I was.
I walked down the hall past my room and checked the bathroom. No Momma. I went in her room.
Momma lay on the floor with her mouth open. I thought she might be dead.
I said, “I want a sandwich.”
But she didnt say anything back. Then I held out my toe and shoved her shoulder and she moved a little, but stiff, all at once. It was like the hamster babies in Mrs. Connellys class, who also went to heaven.
When I turned around, Bo was standing in the doorway behind me. He looked at Momma, then at me. He said, “Whatd you do?”
And I didnt answer because I didnt know what I did.
He shook his head and made a tut-tutting sound. He had a book in his hand. He said, “You like stories, right?”
I nodded.
He said, “Come on, lets get out of here. Away from what youve done.”
And we went in my room. He pushed me onto the bed and sat in the chair like he did last time when he read me Goodnight Moon. He took out this skinny book and said, “Heres a book about a guy like you, retard. Hes a stone-cold killer.”
He read some then skipped a bunch of sections because there were no pictures and he probably got bored, too. There were these two guys who talked funny and one was tall and then there was a huge imaginary talking rabbit and someone died in a barn. Thats all I figured out. I would have rather watched Pokémon.
He closed the book when he was done. “Did you get it?” he asked.
And I nodded because people get mad at me when I dont get it. And he said, “Every story has a moral. And the moral of this story is that people like you cant be trusted.”
He walked out into the other room. After a while, I followed. He was wiping off doorknobs and the glasses in the sink with a rag.
He said, “People tell you you think different, right?”
I nodded.
Now he was wiping off the kitchen chairs. “Im not really here, retard. Im in your imagination, you hear? You ever seen Pinocchio?”
I said, “I want to be a real boy.”
“Thats right. Im like Jiminy Cricket. Or like that big rabbit in that book. I dont exist. Im a voice in your head. Got it?” He put on his leather jacket and walked out, using the rag to open the front door and close it behind him.
I stood there for a while. I went back into Mommas room and looked at Momma. There was blue around her eye. Then I went in my room and read Batman again, up to page eleven. I checked the microwave but there were no numbers and I wasnt sure how I would eat so I called 911.
The cops came in and looked in Mommas room. Then they patted me down like Momma does at the diner after her shift when shes looking for salt and pepper shakers. They sat me down on Mommas bed and asked me some stupid questions. Then another guy showed up who I knew was a cop from the shiny badge on his belt even though he was too lazy to wear a uniform.
He came into Mommas room, looked up, and said, “Holy Christ.”
I said, “Youd better not say that in front of Mrs. Connelly.”
He said, “Whos Mrs. Connelly?”
And I said, “Shes Irish.”
He said, “Lets get him out of here, Eddie.”
Eddie said, “Okay, detective.”
He and Eddie took me into the living room and I sat on the couch. Other cops were putting dust all over the glasses and the doorknobs and using makeup brushes to wipe it off, which didnt make sense because why put it there in the first place? They kept shaking their heads. I didnt blame them.
Eddie said, “Whyd you kill her?”
I said, “I dont know.”
And the detective said, “What were you feeling?”
I said, “I wanted a sandwich.”
Eddie said, “Theres our headline.”
I said, “I dont know why I wouldve killed Momma because I love her and she makes me sandwiches and Im real hungry.”
The detective said, “Arent you sad?”
I said, “Shes in heaven now.”
And he said, “Well, theres that.”
Eddie said, “Youre gonna go away. To a different place.”
I said, “Im in a different place now. I ride a van to school and sit in a different classroom.”
Eddie frowned and said, “Not like that, exactly.”
One of the other cops stopped in my doorway and said, “You never know with these types.”
The detective said, “I guess not.”
The other cop said, “Hit her pretty good first. The black eye. Maybe it was accidental.”
Eddie said, “Naw, the bruising needed some time to come up before he twisted her neck.”
The other cop said, “Hes got the weight for it,” and then he walked off.
I said, “I must be stronger than I think. Like Wolverine.”
The detective said, “What do you mean?”
I said, “He heals fast.” I held up my hand. “No owies.”
The detective took my hand in his, then my other, and looked at my fingers. His hands were warm and they felt nice.
I said, “I punched Sammy White once when he tried to put Jenny Littles head in the toilet and it hurt my knuckles and the skin came up and Mrs. Connelly had to tape up my hands and put orange stuff on it that smelled funny and I cried. But not as loud as Sammy White.”
The detective said, “Ill bet.”
He let go of my hands and said, “Not a mark, Eddie.”
I said, “Momma said she couldnt trust me. But she could trust me. I never took her Frank Sinatra CD or the shimmery snake shirt or the shoebox in the closet.”
The detective said, “Shoebox? Whats in the shoebox?”
“Mommas tips.”
“How many tips?”
I held up my hands, like showing how big the fish was I caught. “About that many.”
Eddie walked out. He came back a few minutes later and shook his head.
“Theres no shoebox,” the detective said.
“I guess I took that, too,” I said. “I cant be trusted.”
“Is that true?” the detective asked. “That you cant be trusted?”
“I think so. Thats what the voice in my head told me.”
“A voice in your head told you to do this?”
“Yeah. Hes like Jiminy Cricket. He doesnt exist.”
They looked at each other like when people say, “There you go.”
I said, “But know whats weird about it?”
The detective was watching me closely now, with wrinkles in his forehead and his mouth a little open like I sometimes keep mine before Momma reminds me to close it. “What?” he said.
“I have a picture of him, even though hes just in my head.”
The detective said, “You do?”
“Uh-huh.” I stood up and they followed me down the hall. I went into my room and dug beneath my pillow and took out the wallet with the pretty Indian stitching on it and opened it up and there was a little driving card with Bos picture on it.
I said, “I stole it from his jacket and Im sorry.”
The detective smiled and said, “Thats okay. You did just fine.”
I said, “Can I have a sandwich?”
* * *
GREGG HURWITZ is the critically acclaimed, internationally bestselling author of ten thrillers, most recently Theyre Watching. His books have been short-listed for best novel of the year by International Thriller Writers, nominated for the British Crime Writers Associations Ian Fleming Steel Dagger, chosen as feature selections for all four major literary book clubs, honored as Book Sense Picks, and translated into seventeen languages.
He has written screenplays for Jerry Bruckheimer Films, Paramount Studios, MGM, and ESPN, developed TV series for Warner Bros. and Lakeshore, acted as consulting producer on ABCs V,written issues of the Wolverine, Punisher, and Foolkiller series for Marvel, and published numerous academic articles on Shakespeare. He has taught fiction writing in the USC English Department, and guest lectured for UCLA, and for Harvard in the United States and around the world. In the course of researching his thrillers, he has sneaked onto demolition ranges with Navy SEALs, swam with sharks in the Galápagos, and gone undercover into mind-control cults. For more information, visit www.gregghurwitz.net.
Copyright © 2010 by International Thriller Writers, Inc.