The Good Thief (8 page)

Jefferson took off his glasses. “I’ll give you five cents.”

“It’s got to be worth more than that,” said Benjamin, snatching the book back.

“It’s a fair price,” said Jefferson.

“We’ll take it somewhere else.”

“There is nowhere else. Not in this town, at least. You could take it to Rockport, but I doubt they’d offer more. No one around here is interested in saints.”

“Fine.” Benjamin dropped the book onto the table and picked up a large dictionary, weighing it in his hands. “Five. Hand it over, then.”

Jefferson crawled behind his desk and counted out the pennies. There was a moment, when his back was turned, that Ren was certain Benjamin was going to smash the dictionary over his head. But instead Benjamin opened the volume, licked his finger, and turned a page. “‘Parsimonious,’” he read. “‘Exhibiting or marked by parsimony, excessively frugal, penurious, niggardly, poor in quality or meager in quantity. See stingy .’”

The Lives of the Saintsrested on the desk. Ren thought of Brother Joseph giving the book to him, the weight of it in his hand. He walked over to Jefferson and tugged on the man’s sleeve.

“It’s mine,” Ren said.

Jefferson stopped counting the coins. “Pardon me?”

“I want to keep it.”

Benjamin closed the dictionary. “Don’t bother with the boy. My sister dropped him on his head when he was a baby, and he’s never been right since. Always walking into things and kneeling down in the middle of the street.” Benjamin leaned in and whispered, “He thinks he’s a Catholic .”

Jefferson raised his eyebrows.

“It’s true,” said Benjamin. “He’s collected all kinds of popery. If you don’t take the book, I’ll have to burn it.”

Ren could see that the thought of burning any book, even a Catholic one, was distasteful to Mister Jefferson. The man bent over his purse again.

Benjamin gave Ren a savage look and pointed at the door. Ren let go of Jefferson’s sleeve. He pressed his fingernails into his palm. There was no way to get The Lives of the Saints back, but he decided right then that he was not going to leaveMR. JEFFERSON’S
NEW
,
USED
&
RARE
empty-handed.

If he was going to steal the book, he would need a distraction. Ren closed his eyes, and instead of going to the door as he was instructed, he walked deliberately straight into the nearest pile. It toppled over. Volumes went crashing into the next stack, and the next, histories and biographies and collections of maps, science textbooks and series of lithographs, slave narratives and songbooks, were all mixed together, a huge mess across the floor.

Benjamin crawled out from under a mound of pamphlets. He shook his head, then got unsteadily to his feet. Jefferson stood in the back, his store ruined. With a grim face he handed Benjamin the money. Then he plucked his green handkerchief from his pocket, reached down, took up a collection of poetry, and began to dust the jacket.

“You better leave now,” Jefferson said to the book in his hands.

Benjamin nodded. And with that he pushed Ren out the door, slammed it behind them, and started off down the street.

Ren lagged behind. “It was an accident,” he said feebly.

“No, it wasn’t,” said Benjamin. He turned to look at the store, and when it was clear that Jefferson had not chased after them, he started to laugh. “He deserved it, though. Five cents!” He slipped his fist into his pocket and rattled the coins, then slapped the boy once on the back of the neck. “That’s for not telling me first.”

Ren nearly lost his grip on The Deerslayer, now tucked underneath his coat. It was smaller than The Lives of the Saints and fit between his shirt and where the sleeve began. Ren slipped his arm inside his jacket and took hold of the leather binding. It had been easier to take than he’d thought.

They went past candlemakers and blacksmiths, fishmongers and cloth merchants. Before long Ren realized that they were walking in circles. Down to the wharf and back again, in and out of side streets, and then returning to the main square, where the people bargained over prices and smoked in circles and gathered in a crowd around a small puppet show. All the while Benjamin was scanning the street, looking into people’s faces.

They came to the butcher shop. Carcasses hung in the window, white and red hollow casings. There was a row of tiny rabbit skulls, the flesh still hanging from the bone. Benjamin stopped and Ren stopped beside him. Somewhere close by, a bell began to ring. Ren turned and saw a square stone church with an iron steeple set back from the road and he remembered that it was Sunday. He had never missed a mass before. And he realized, in the confusion and transition of the days past, he also had not gone to confession. He could see the doors of the church beginning to open, and he almost expected Brother Joseph and Father John to emerge and point him out.

Parishioners were coming down the stairs. There were families. Lots of families. Mothers and fathers and grandmothers in their best clothes, children in starched white linen. They were laughing and talking and wishing each other good morning, the boys and girls screaming and chasing one another up and down the street. The pastor stood at the gate in his robes, a short, wiry man with a large mole on his chin, trying to look dignified as the people walked by, but instead seeming rather afraid of them.

Ren felt a familiar shove from behind. He tumbled off the sidewalk and into a mountain of horse manure, right in front of the church. The families stepped back. The pastor lifted his robe. And they all looked at the boy in the gutter, streaked brown from head to toe.

“Hey there!” A voice came from the crowd. People were moving aside; someone was pushing through. Ren saw that it was Benjamin. He had his spectacles on and his hair neatly pulled back. “Are you all right?” He lifted Ren from the gutter, shook the dirty lumps from his shoulders, and looked through the pieces of glass on his nose directly into Ren’s eyes, as if he were searching for a piece of manure there, too.

“I’m fine,” the boy said quietly. He tried not to look at the pastor or the women gathered round.

“What’s this?” Benjamin said loudly. He took hold of Ren’s left arm and pushed back the sleeve. The boy’s wrist was revealed before all of them, a cold and lonely nub. Ren tried to pull away, believing this was payback for what he’d done in Jefferson’s store. But Benjamin held on tight and turned to the families on the sidewalk, his face a combination of horror and pity. “Here, take something that will help your poor, miserable life. Here, here,” said Benjamin, and he dug into his pocket and held out Jefferson’s five cents. “It’s not much, but I hope that it will bring you comfort.” He blinked rapidly, as if he were trying to hold back tears. Then he took his pocket handkerchief and began fiercely rubbing manure from the boy’s cheeks.

The parishioners gaped at Ren’s arm. Some whispered among themselves and moved off. A few of the children looked frightened. Ren tried to yank free, but Benjamin refused to let go until an old, bent lady came forward.

“Poor thing,” she said. “Here, boy, here you are.” And she reached into the inner folds of her bosom and produced a large coin. She touched it to his nose and it was warm.

“Thank you,” said Ren. His cheeks burned. The woman slipped the coin into the pocket of his coat. Benjamin paused for a moment, then continued to vigorously rub away the manure.

“ Iwant to give money to the cripple.” A small girl stamped her foot on the sidewalk. Her mother tried to pull her away, but the child fussed, shaking her dark, shiny ringlets until the woman gave in and handed her a penny from her purse. The girl approached, holding her coin out far away from her, as if she were feeding a wild animal. Ren stared. He had never seen hair this perfect. It was the color of a crow’s wings—so black and so rich.

“Go on,” she said, “take it.” She held the coin up to his face.

Ren’s left arm was useless. His right was tucked inside of his jacket, holding on to the book he had stolen. He did not want to let it go, and so instead of reaching for the money the boy opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, and the girl, understanding, placed the coin upon it like a communion wafer. Ren stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of the metal, the tang of the copper. The crowd lightly applauded. More people came forward, coins in their fists, and began stuffing them into Ren’s pockets.

“Hank hoo,” said Ren. “Hank hoo, hank hoo.” The coin dropped from his lips, and Benjamin caught it.

T
he men went out that night. They left Ren behind in the crumbling basement, with a few candles and a promise that he would not open the door, not to anyone, no matter what was said or who came knocking. Tom took the lantern and Benjamin grabbed the wooden shovel he’d bought earlier that afternoon. It had cost five cents, the same amount they’d received for The Lives of the Saints .

When they were gone and the locks were fastened, Ren made his way down the dark staircase and settled himself at the table. There were still a few chunks of bread and sausages and pieces of salted cod, purchased with the money from the parishioners. The boy chose a piece of bread and gnawed at it, even though he was no longer hungry. The bread was fresh, the inside soft and chewy.

The men had left one candle going, and the dim light made shadows on the walls. It felt strange to be there alone. Ren had hardly ever been by himself at Saint Anthony’s. The last time was two years before, when the twins had come down with the measles, and then one by one all the small boys were sick—all but Ren. By the time it was over, three children had died. The brothers had made Ren sleep out in the barn so he would not catch the disease. It had been lonely, and Ren was glad when it was over.

There was whiskey on the table that the men had shared before they left. Tom’s mood had changed with each sip, from an initial jovial gladness at the meal before them, to a numbed silence, and then finally back to his regular irritated state, as if he had not been drinking at all. Ren lifted the bottle and sniffed. It made the hair inside his nose tingle, but when he tried a sip the whiskey scalded his throat, and he spit what was left in his mouth onto the floor. He had never tasted anything so terrible, except perhaps the wine they made at Saint Anthony’s. He’d stolen a bottle once and shared it with the twins. Hidden in the field, the boys had passed the wine among them until they felt dizzy. Then Brom had twisted his ankle doing cartwheels, and Ichy had thrown up, and Ren had caught the hiccups so badly that it was two whole days before he was right again.

Looking back, Ren realized how much he missed his friends and decided right then to write Brom and Ichy a letter. He searched the small apartment and found a pen and a bottle of ink but no paper. He looked through the rest of the room, until at last he discovered a stack of printed advertisements for Doctor Faust’s Medical Salts for Pleasant Dreams. He turned over the bill and began to write. He had never written a letter before, but he had some idea that they should carry good news.

Dear Brom and Ichy,

First, I should tell you that I’m drunk. I’ve had a whole bottle of whiskey. I will probably throw up before I finish this.

Benjamin bought a horse and carriage and we rode to a town full of ships and sailors from faraway places. Benjamin said we’re going to take one to India to see the elephants.

I have my own room and he doesn’t make me go to church. I hope that you both get a family soon and don’t have to go into the army.

Your friend,

Ren

It needed an envelope. And a stamp. And those would cost money, he supposed. He folded the letter in half, and then in half again. With each fold he became less enthusiastic about sending it. He felt somehow they would know that he was lying. Then he realized that all the letters sent from the children who had been adopted had probably also been lies.

Ren heard something outside the door. He crept carefully up the stairs and listened, wishing all the while that he were not alone. He checked the locks again, put his eye to a crack in the wood, and peered out. He could see a bit of the yard, but nothing was there. He waited, and waited some more, then went back down the stairs and took out The Deerslayer .

The Indian gazed at him from the cover, cool and exotic. Ren ran his fingers over the picture, moved closer to the light, opened the book, and began to read. As he entered the story, hemlocks and pine trees soared overhead, a lake spread out before him like a mirror reflecting the sky, and the sound of a rifle shot boomed in his ears. Ren made his way through the dense forest with Deerslayer, chopping down trees and turning them into canoes, hunting and fishing and saving Indian maidens. Then there was an ambush, and Deerslayer shot a native down and was given a new name for doing so— Hawkeye—from the very man he’d killed.

This was better than histories or psalms, better even than The Lives of the Saints . At times Ren felt like he was reading fragments of his own dreams, reassembled into words that pulled at his heart, as if there were a string tied somewhere inside his chest that ran down into the book and attached itself to the characters, drawing him through the pages. The boy read and read and read and read, until his eyes burned and the candle went out, and even then, in the darkness, he could still see Deerslayer, pushing his way through the thick leaves, sighting his mark, raising his long thin rifle to his shoulder and firing.