The Tenderness of Thieves (20 page)

B
EFORE I WENT TO
S
LEEP
, I got down on the floor of my room, flipped up the bed skirt, and searched around in all that darkness, reached beyond the newspapers I’d hidden there for a large, shallow cardboard box. When the tips of my fingers brushed the edge, I flattened myself even further to reach it, carefully sliding it out from its resting place. Box retrieved, I shifted positions, legs out, back against the bed. The lamp on the table just above me provided a soft glow. After one deep breath, and another, I removed the top and set it aside.

There he was. My dad.

In his uniform down by the wharf next to the station, stormy clouds hanging over everything, implying rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

I moved on to the next keepsake, and there he was again, this time in the form of his handwriting.
LOVE, DADDY
written on a birthday card for when I’d turned seven. Then his script on another card, from when I turned ten, this time with a whole line of
X
s and
O
s across the bottom of it, something I’d started to do that year on the cards I’d given him for his birthday and Christmas and Father’s Day. He’d been returning the favor. I had cards for eleven and fourteen and sixteen, too, but that was all. I don’t know why these were the cards I’d saved as opposed to birthdays eight and nine, or even fifteen. It seemed so random to have these and not the others.

Now, in retrospect, I wished I’d saved them all. The fact that I wouldn’t get another card from my father ever again, that when I turned eighteen there would be cards from my mother and my friends, cards sent in the mail by my grandparents who lived in Massachusetts, but not one from my dad, made the ones I’d kept seem precious. The ones I’d so carelessly tossed away or lost seemed like the most foolish, ungrateful thing I could ever have done.

I set the cards aside and peered back in the box.

There, sitting on top of everything else, was the most important thing of all I’d salvaged.

My father’s policeman’s badge. Number 2877. Gold against a black background with black lettering.

Michaela’s dad had given it to me. Handed it to me at the wake, pressed it into my hand without a word as he passed by my mother and me in the long line of mourners come to give their condolences. I didn’t know where he’d gotten it, if my dad had a spare or several, or if Officer Connolly had reached right into my father’s coffin and plucked it off his uniform before it could be lost forever to burial.

All I knew was that I was grateful he’d given it to me.

I’d held on to it so hard that night I thought my palm might never lose the impression of it on my skin. When I’d gone to bed, it was still tight in my grip, and it was only in sleep that I’d finally released it. I woke to find it on my bedside table, shadowed and lifeless in the dim morning light. My mother must have come in to see me and placed it there. After the funeral, I put it in this box with everything else that reminded me of my father and hid it in the safe darkness underneath my bed. I couldn’t bear to see so much evidence of my father’s life.

But just looking at it now, holding the badge in my hands, running my fingers along the rough, scalloped edges, made it seem like he might be here with me. And when I held it up to the light, held it away from my body high in the air, I could fill in the rest of my father around it, remember the way he used to wear it on his uniform, picture things as though he was standing there in the room with me, dressed up and about to go to work, come to visit me to give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before he left, even though I might be too old for that now.

I kept that badge as high as I could hold it, until my arm began to ache and until the moment that image of my father had faded and all that was left was the air around it. Then carefully, gently, I placed it on my bedside table.

I owed it to my father—and to myself—to do whatever it took to find out what really happened the night he was killed. To remember any and every detail, however small—like Officer Connolly had said—because who knew what answers that tiny detail might reveal? And now that the lead I’d given the police about Patrick McCallen didn’t pan out, I had to try for another one.

So I got up from the floor. Tiptoed across the sandy house.

“Mom?” I called softly from the doorway of her room.

She shifted in bed. Then roused a little, sitting up. “Jane?”

“I want to call the O’Connors tomorrow,” I said into the darkness, my mother’s outline just visible in the moonlight. “I think I should accept their invitation to dinner. And . . . you know. The other thing.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” she said, her voice thick with sleep.

“Will you go with me?”

“Of course.”

“Good night, Mom,” I said.

There was more rustling. “I love you, sweetheart,” she whispered. “So much. And so did your dad. More than anything else in this world.” Then she laid her head on the pillow and went back to sleep.

M
Y MOTHER AND I
were having breakfast. Coffee and a jelly doughnut for her, and coffee with so much milk that it was almost white for me, with my favorite morning sandwich on the side: toasted peanut butter and jelly. Mom was silent, the paper open to the movie reviews. The letter from the life insurance company wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“Why did you name me Jane?” I asked, unaware this was about to come out of my mouth. But then, I’d been thinking about family all night.

She looked up, mid-chew of her latest bite of doughnut. She swallowed. “Where did that question come from?”

In my mind I answered
Handel,
but out loud I said, “I don’t know. I was just wondering. Jane is such an . . . ordinary name.”

“It absolutely is not!” Her protest was passionate, her eyes fiery as she said the words, a nerve touched.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I like my name. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

She let out a big breath and closed her eyes. “No, it’s all right. It’s fine. It’s just been an intense couple of days.”

I waited for her to continue.

When she opened her eyes again, they were glassy. Tears brimmed. “It was your father’s idea.”

“Dad?” I said, surprised, my voice hoarse, both from the mention of him—so many mentions in the last twenty-four hours—and from seeing my mother so emotional.

My mother picked up her empty coffee mug. Studied the stray grinds clinging to the bottom. “He was such a romantic. And we were in love. He would do just about anything I asked, and to prove how much he loved me”—she smiled through the tears streaking her cheeks like rain against glass—“he read every one of Jane Austen’s books.”

I laughed, but it came out more of a sob. “Dad read
Jane Austen
? You have to be kidding me. He was so . . . not . . . feminine at all. Or literary.”

It was my mother’s turn to laugh. She wiped her face with her napkin and left a trail of sugar from the doughnut across her cheek. “No, that he wasn’t. Not either one. But that first summer we met, he’d seen me reading
Pride and Prejudice
on the beach and wanted to impress me, so he got a copy out of the library and threw himself into it.”

“That
is
romantic.” I smiled despite the tight feeling in my throat.

“Well, your father, much to his grave dismay and stubborn complex about his masculinity, got addicted to Miss Austen and confessed one day that if we ever had a girl we would name her Jane, because little girls should start out life with auspicious names so they could one day grow up to be young women who would make their own marks on the world.”

I put my hand over my mouth.

My mother cocked her head. “What?”

I took my hand away. Swirled my milky coffee around in its mug, staring at it like it might tell my future. “It reminds me of a story someone else told me once. About his name.”

“Handel,” she said simply.

“Yes.”

“You really like him.”

“I do.”

She nodded. Took this in. Then switched the topic suddenly. “I called the O’Connors,” she said. “They’re expecting us at six this evening. We’ll go together. Okay?”

“Okay.” I swallowed. “I’m going to take a walk.”

My mother looked away. “Be careful. It’s been a hard year.”

I looked away, too. “I know.”

• • •

“If I wanted you to read a novel by Jane Austen, would you do it?” I asked Handel.

I’d gone down to the wharf to see if Handel’s boat was docked or out on the water. I’d found him alone, smoking a cigarette, staring out at the ocean, no boat in sight.

He laughed. Brushed a lock of hair from his face. It kept blowing into his eyes. “How do you know I haven’t already?”

“Because unless boys have to read Austen in school, they just don’t.”

His eyes narrowed as he took another drag of his cigarette. “Maybe that’s true.”

I wanted to reach out and grab his hand, but I didn’t. Standing here on the docks, we were so out in the open. Exposed. Anyone could see us, and after our last meeting I was feeling private about sharing intimacy. To be honest, I couldn’t wait to be in private again. “So you haven’t, then.”

“No,” Handel admitted.

I could feel his eyes on me. It made my skin burn hot. “But would you? If I asked you to?”

“Tell me why you’re smiling first.”

I didn’t look at him, but my smile grew. “I was thinking . . .”

“About what?”

“The other night. And . . . what happened.”

“You have regrets,” Handel stated, like this must be obvious. His voice was pained.

Now I did turn to him. Looked him in the eyes as seriously as I could. “Not at all. I was thinking about . . . when we’d get to do it again.”

“Oh.” He sounded surprised. Relieved. Then that lustiness I was learning to love seeing in Handel’s eyes appeared. “How about tonight?”

The humming that had started to sound through my body from our exchange suddenly stopped. My smile drained away. “I can’t. I wish I could, though.”

“So change your plans.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Handel’s index finger glided lightly, almost imperceptibly, along the bare skin of my arm from shoulder to wrist. I wondered if anyone was watching the two of us standing here, witnessing this gesture. “What could be so important that you can’t reschedule? Another night at Slovenska’s with your friends?”

I decided to be honest. I suddenly wanted Handel to know everything about me, even the painful parts. “I have to go to the O’Connors’ for dinner with my mom. I haven’t been there since the night of the break-in, and everyone seems to think it’s important that I go back.”

Handel was silent awhile. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

I shrugged. Didn’t look at him. Just stared out at the water. “Maybe they’re right.”

“Who’s they?”

“My mom and the O’Connors. The police. Maybe it
will
be good for me. Maybe it will help me remember.”

“What
do
you remember from that night? You still haven’t talked to me about it.”

The ocean was calm today. Like fragile glass that might shatter. “Not enough. I remember voices, but even those are jumbled. Most of the time I couldn’t see anything. And then, I didn’t pass out exactly, but I hit my head, and it blurred everything.”

Handel didn’t respond, not at first. Then he turned to me, a flick of long hair swinging with the sharp movement. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I wish I could make it all disappear.”

I looked at him. Saw the sincerity on his face. The sorrow. And something else, something unidentifiable. I took his hand into mine, not caring who saw us. “It’s okay.”

He shook his head. His eyes were glassy. “No. It’s not.”

I closed the distance between us, and he pulled me to him, his strong arms around me, tightening around my back, his lips in my hair, kissing the top of my head. We stayed like that a long while before pulling apart. “I should probably go.”

“Okay. Let’s see each other tomorrow?”

The possibility brought a smile to my face, albeit a small one. “Definitely.”

I was about to go when Handel stopped me. “Why were you asking me before about reading those Austen novels?”

“Oh,” I said, remembering how this conversation started. “The first night we went out, before you told me how you got your name, you told me to ask my mother how I got mine, and I did. Turns out it’s not an accident that Jane Austen and I share the same name.” I smiled, thinking about what my mother told me earlier, even though it made me sad to think about it. “Apparently, naming a girl Jane is an auspicious way to send her out in the world.”

Handel nodded in understanding. “Your mother was reading a lot of Austen before she had you.”

“No—well, yes. But it was my father’s idea. He was reading Austen because he wanted to impress my mother.”

Handel winced a little. “Oh. I see.” He turned around. Looked behind us. “It’s me who should get going now. I’ve got to get to work.”

“Okay. See you soon, then.”

Handel seemed distracted. “Yeah. See you.”

This time I did turn and began walking away. At first I didn’t realize that we had an audience, but as my attention to my surroundings expanded beyond Handel, I saw that Handel’s brother Colin was standing a little ways off, smoking a cigarette, eyes on me, his expression neutral. But next to him was someone else, one of the guys I’d seen with Handel that night when I’d run into him and Tammy and Seamus down on the wharf, one of those friends who made Handel want to keep things between us a secret. The skinny, mean-looking one. Between then and now I’d learned that his name was Cutter, and that he was probably as mean as he seemed, news that made me wonder why Handel would be hanging out with someone like that. It didn’t seem to add up with the Handel I knew. And right now, this boy, Cutter, was watching me hard as I passed, the salty breeze mixing with the faint scent of cheap cologne, sour and sweet, an attempt to mask the smell of fish. Unlike Handel’s brother, Cutter’s face was full of expression.

Like he couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed.

There was malice, too. It was all over him. You couldn’t miss it.

I hadn’t felt that kind of violence coming at me since, well, since the night of the break-in. My skin prickled as I hurried away, his eyes cutting into my back the entire time, just like his name suggested, and I wondered if that was how he got it.