As a Thief in the Night (15 page)

All of his life Ezra's conscience had attacked him at night. It came with stones and curses and accusations while he lay in bed trying to fall asleep. Previously the smallest oversight or transgression had caused him to tear at his sheets and sweat out his guilt, but during these months it seemed that some hidden hand had silenced his accuser. He lay in his dark room and his mind was blessed with dumb silence. The crimes he was committing, and the people from whom he had stolen, meant nothing to him. The thrill of the friendships he finally had, the intoxication of danger, and the ecstasy of the fall became the center around which his thoughts and actions moved.

He no longer concerned himself with the way Gord and Elsie would have reacted to what he was doing. Until now, Elsie's voice had never been far from him. Even away from her he imagined her praises, criticisms, or indifference for each situation or conflict he faced. It was not that way now. All the usual inhibitions and tensions that had plagued him had vanished. The prayers and paternal image of God he had clung to during the past two years were cast aside.
  The words in which he had found nourishment gathered dust and turned to ash.

Alex was fired from his part-time job and couldn't pay for car insurance anymore, so Adam Nayeve drove them in his dad's car. The three of them drove to different parts of Windsor where Adam would park on the outskirts of some poorly lit parking lot and Alex and Ezra would try car doors. When they found one that was not locked, one of them would act as lookout while the other went through the car, checked the glove box and under the seats, and stole anything of value or interest. It was cold and wet that winter, and they never attended the youth group or church anymore. But Ezra did keep up with his altar boy duties at St. Mark's.

Then they started hanging out with a couple of boys that lived with foster parents on the road that led out to the marina. The first one was a Jamaican kid named Javont, younger than they, but thick and muscular. Brandon was the other boy. He was Chinese-Jamaican, wore his hat too high on his head, and was the tallest and strongest of the group. These boys and their friends that came from Windsor spoke of guns and drive-byes and girls that they were fucking or using for money. They showed Alex how to use porcelain from spark plugs to shatter car windows and gave him a few small pebbles of it.

One afternoon they went to Windsor to meet up with a bunch of other boys that Javont and Brandon knew. They were group home kids too, mostly Jamaican, who had been removed or kicked out of their parents' homes and were now Crown Wards or in the custody (distant custody) of the Children's Aid Society. They were violent and challenged anyone they saw as weaker. Alex liked them and fit in with them right away. They made Ezra nervous but he tried to hide his discomfort. Walking toward a pool hall, they saw a twenty-dollar-bill on the seat of a car that was parked alongside the road. One of them tried the door but it was locked, so Alex dug one of the pieces of porcelain out of the pocket of his jeans, cocked his arm back fast and threw it at the window. The glass split, but didn't break. He had on his Raiders hat and hoodie, so he dropped his head, drove it right through the window, and then
  grabbed the money off the seat.  The boys took off down the sidewalk and then slipped into the pool hall. Inside they laughed and congratulated Alex. Ezra watched the way the others treated Alex, and he was envious. Alex spent the twenty-dollar bill on three packs of cigarettes, which he split up amongst the boys. He gave one to Ezra and he smoked it without inhaling.

Gord and Elsie stared at him gravely as he sat opposite them. Gord leaned back in his chair and put his feet up. He had put on weight lately.

"We've been meaning to talk to you, Ezra", he began, "but we wanted to do it together."

"About Alex," Elsie added, as if Gord weren't getting to the point fast enough.

"What about him?" said Ezra.

Elsie leaned forward in her chair.
  "What's Alex up to, Ezra?"

"He's not up to anything."
 

"Has he been drinking?"

"No. Not around me at least."

Elsie nodded. "I was talking to Mrs. Carraway last night, and she said she found a bottle of whisky in Nick's things. He told her it belonged to Alex."

Ezra looked up at her. "I don't know."

The feeling out period had come to a close. "There's more going on than you're telling us, Ezra. And it's not just drinking...  I've known you your entire life, and I know when you're not being honest with me."

"I
am
being honest," he came back defensively.  He played absently with the lining of the couch cushions. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You know," Gord said in a tone a little less confrontational than Elsie's, "that if Alex gets caught doing anything, and you're there, even if you're not doing it yourself, you'll be held responsible."

"No, I won't."

"Of course you will, Ezra," said Elsie.

"So you're saying I'd be blamed for something I didn't even do?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe it."

"Alex has a talent for taking care of himself that you don't have, Ezra. And you might not believe it, but if he had to, he'd cut you loose in a second."

"It's not only that," Gord continued, "but if it were anything illegal, any chance you'd have of playing football, or getting a scholarship and playing in the States, would be ruined."

"The drinking wasn't all Nick's mother told me about, Ezra."

He was becoming more and more agitated. He took a deep breath to try and suppress his anger. "What else did she say?"

"That he's been in trouble with the police before. That he was caught dealing acid at the high school a couple of years back."

"I don't know."

"Don't play stupid, Ezra. We weren't born yesterday."

"So he made a mistake."

"He was dealing drugs."

"Olyvia was arrested when she was young, but that didn't stop you from giving her our house."

"Who told you that?" Elsie asked, taken aback. Memory took her away for a moment.

"She did."

Elsie shook her head at her sister. "Olyvia is not the point, Ezra. That was a long time ago.
  We're talking about you. In the present!"

"But it
is
the point! You're trying to say that someone who got into trouble shouldn't be trusted, that I shouldn't be friends with Alex."

"I don't think I want you hanging around with
anyone
from that church anymore."

"It's a church! They're my friends."

"I know that."

He sat back on the couch and turned his head to the side.

"The only reason we're confronting you is because we're concerned, Ezra," Gord said.

"Listen," he said, gathering himself again, "for a long time after we moved here I didn't know anyone. So I'm not walking away from the friends I have now."

"We know it's been hard on you," Elsie began again. "And we know, especially at your age, how important having friends is."

"What about family?" he came back defiantly.

Both Gord and Elsie were taken aback. "What's that suppose to mean?" she asked.

Ezra turned away again.

"We just want to know that if something is going on that shouldn't be going on that you'll have enough sense to walk away from it," Gord said finally.

"I will," he said.

Elsie breathed out.

"Can I go now?"

"Yes," Gord said, "you can go."

"Ezra," Elsie said as he reached the doorway.

"What?" he huffed.

"Where did you get that ring you're wearing?"

A
lex, Adam, and Ezra had spent most of the night hopping cars. Alex had become more and more daring. Two nights before he had resolved to simply walk into a convenience store, snatch the cigarette stand on the counter, and run out of the store. Adam and Ezra waited down the street with the car running, far enough away so that if the person behind the counter decided to give chase he wouldn't be able to identify the license plate. Alex burst out of the doorway. He ran hard, with pumping arms and legs.  Ezra kept his eyes on the door of the store, but no one came after him. Alex jumped into the car, but instead of a cigarette stand in his hands he had a fistful of cash.

While he had been inside waiting for an opportunity to grab the cigarettes, a man had won some money from a lottery ticket. The clerk had been counting out the winnings on the counter, in cash, when Alex snatched it up and flew out the door before either of them could even get a good look at him. Of the two hundred and fifty dollars, Alex gave Adam and Ezra seventy-five each and kept one hundred for himself.

The night they stole the car they also had been stealing change from car consoles. Once again cloaked in the anonymity of the local McDonald's, they sat in a booth eating hamburgers. It always seemed to smell of grease and dirty, melted winter slush inside. He slid his boots around on the brownish water under the table. After they'd finished eating, they crumpled up their wrappers, threw them onto the tray, and got up to leave.

"Where to now?" Alex asked.

"Home for me," Adam said. "I've got to get the old man's car back." 

"Where's your dad gonna go this late?"

"The casino. He's always going to the casino now."

"What's he play?"

"Roulette. At least that's what he says."

A woman rushed in through the doors as they were walking out. Alex stepped to the side to let her pass. It was cold outside and it felt like it was raining and snowing at the same time. Ezra and Alex followed Adam to his car, but as soon as they stepped off the sidewalk they stopped as if the same thought had occurred to both at the same moment. A compact silver four-door, empty inside, still running...
  Alex checked inside. It must belong to the woman who had just run past them, he surmised.

"What do you think?" Alex asked Ezra.

Ezra looked the car over. The exhaust drifted up and clouded the cold air. "I don't know."

They looked at each other, wondering if they really had it in them to do what they were both thinking.

"Let's go!" Alex had chosen for them both. He was sitting in the driver's seat before Ezra had even tried the passenger door. It was locked. Alex put the car in reverse as Ezra knocked desperately on the window to let him know he couldn't get in. Already moving, Alex hit the brakes and reached over to unlock the door. Ezra jumped into the car, but as soon as he looked up he saw the woman standing dumbfounded on the other side of the glass. She knew her car was being stolen. Her hair tossed to the side as she turned to call for help, and he thought of the way he had seen women in old movies throw their hair like beautiful waves. Then the car swung violently onto the road and Alex pushed the gas pedal to the floor. Ezra looked around wildly, expecting the police to already be trailing them.

The car moved faster and faster down the street as Alex looked wide-eyed out the windshield. The woman's purse was open on the console in between them. Ezra checked behind them again. The back of the car swayed as they tore into a parking lot. Alex pulled into a stall between several other cars and in front of a big apartment building. As soon as he'd parked, he began rifling through the purse. There was no wallet inside, just a few stray bills, some change, and cigarettes. Alex stuffed them into the inside pocket of his puffy winter jacket.

"Alex! We can't do this!" The reality of what they had done overwhelmed Ezra.

"Let's go," said Alex, and he pushed open the door and started to run.

"Alex! Alex!" Ezra pleaded from behind as they ran across the lot. Alex stopped on the shadowy side of the building near a dumpster.

"What! What is it?"

"We can't do this," Ezra gasped. "We've got to take it back."

"No! No way! We're not taking it back. It's done."
 

As his friend jumped the high fence in front of them, Ezra heard sirens. Suddenly Ezra thought to himself: "
It is one thing to hear sirens, when the crisis is far away (the old man dies, the fire consumes the photo, the bloody knife falls to the kitchen floor, the child is pulled from the pool, the neighbour hears...what?), it is something very different to hear sirens and know they are for you.
" Snapping back to reality he jumped the fence and chased after the dark silhouette of his friend. Finally, Ezra caught him, his eyes filled with tears from the icy wind and from his own fear too, and he begged Alex again to go back, but DaLivre would have none of it.

Together, they ran behind an industrial mall, across a muddy lot where construction had stopped for the winter, and stumbled onto a cross street. Pulling up to a stop sign just ahead of them, they saw the back of Adam Nayeve's car (they knew it from the way the back bumper was hanging loose). Alex sprinted up to it, catching Adam just as he was pulling away again, and hammered his fist hard on the trunk to catch the driver's attention. Scared to death because of what had happened, Adam slammed on the brakes again and looked around wildly as if he expected the very hounds of hell to pounce on his father's car. But then Alex showed his face in the passenger window, and Adam knew that the fist pounding had happened only because his friends had found him by a lucky chance. Ezra got into the back seat, his lungs burning from the cold. "You crazy bastards!" Adam said as soon as they were inside.

All the way home they watched for police cars, but saw none. Adam told them what had happened after they had left with the car. For maybe five minutes he had just sat in the McDonald's parking lot and watched in his rearview mirror. The woman had come back outside with a guy who looked like the manager and pointed to where her car had been. Then the two of them just stood there, probably waiting for the police. Adam had pulled out and left right in front of them.

"I'm done," Ezra said. "I can't do this anymore."

He did not sleep that night. Layne was away staying at a friend's house, and Ezra went up to his room, put a chair in front of the second-story window, in the middle of pile of clothes Layne had left on the floor, and looked out along the long driveway. He wondered about fingerprints. Had they been taken when he was a child? Would his be found on the woman's car and be matched to the ones he began to think must exist in some massive database somewhere.  It was done on television. He was not sure if his mother had taken him to have them done when he was young. Did mothers do that? At any moment he expected to see a police car turn its lazy black and white body between the two stone pillars at the end of the property. Elsie was a light sleeper. The headlights would shine through the windows and wake her.

The police did not come. All that Ezra saw from his window that night was Jason B. Prism. It was not unusual to see him wandering alone and aimlessly at some strange hour. Streetlights lit his ragged figure as he walked under them, the light overhead embracing and then abandoning him to the darkness again. The winter firefly at the end of his cigarette brightened and then blurred again as he breathed in his solitary pleasure. He walked without knowing where he was going but not without a sense of purpose. Pausing in front of one of the pillars, it looked to Ezra as if he were using one of his long fingernails to try to pry something loose from the stone. But whatever he was after was too securely attached and he gave up. Without stopping again he disappeared down the road. There was no rain anymore, but it was now snowing. Soon the snow would cover the tracks his big shoes had left behind.

Jason B. Prism was black. This, as well as his madness, made him a different sort of man than one usually saw in Belle River. At the age of twenty-four he had had a schizophrenic attack and lost his mind. It happened at the University of Toronto, where he had been a promising archaeology student. Ezra saw him nearly every day, usually asking people for change or cigarettes outside of the coffee shop or the convenience store. He was six feet-five, wore a tattered, stained winter jacket that was too short for his arms, and took poor care of his matted dreadlocks and beard. Sometimes Ezra and his friends would stop to talk with him and give him quarters and dimes for coffee. When they did he held his hands together strangely, as if he expected a waterfall of coins to fall over them and was just trying to catch what he could.

He was always rambling incoherently about archaeology; the various strata and quality of soil, the means by which archaeologists succeeded and failed to find artifacts, the way in which artifacts and the earth that hid them had to be studied to be understood, and the locations which he believed concealed the bones and tools of primeval men. Would you please make sure he got to this or that location in Mesopotamia? Or to the banks of this river in South America? Or to this desert in North Africa? It was necessary that he go quickly, before some other explorer gained access to the information he had. His sophisticated diction made it obvious that he had once been a man of reason and intelligence.

No one seemed to know where he lived. Ezra imagined it was in some small apartment above a shop, or in someone's dank basement. Wherever it was, Jason B. Prism spent very little time there. He preferred to be outside, no matter how cold or how late at night, mumbling to himself, walking alone in the empty streets and staring, his eyes glazed with the hint of something unpredictable in them. Weather was irrelevant.

As a young Ph.d candidate he had been close to the conclusion of his thesis, which dealt with nomadic hunting patterns and their relation to archaeological finds, but as he neared the end of the paper on which he had worked so passionately, the fears that had lain dormant in some remote part of his mind—the same fears that most of us have the good fortune of never being exposed to—began their slow incursion into his sanity. At first he had been able to see his fears for what they were and keep enough distance so as to appear normal, though preoccupied, to his colleagues and few friends at school. The very frightening thing about such thoughts though is that, in relation to the will of their victim, they are an
autonomous
force. They are the demons that attacked our more God fearing ancestors. As Jason got further and further into his work, the sense of separation he had been able to maintain from his delusions became narrower, and then finally collapsed.

He had been walking in downtown Toronto, as was his habit before his evening work session, and had seen a horse and carriage, of the kind that still treats romance hungry couples to old fashioned rides around the city. Apparently, one of the horses had misbehaved in some awful way, because the driver had stopped the carriage, looking as if he had finally lost his temper after a long series of ignored warnings, gotten down from his seat, and was smacking the horse with his open hand and giving it a good tongue lashing to go with it, while the shocked couple gawked at his show of violence from their seats. For some strange reason this was the breaking point for Jason B. Prism. He rushed up to the horse, threw his arms around it as if he were a mother protecting her endangered child, began weeping terribly, and could not be convinced to let go. Prism was unusually strong and it had taken four police officers to pry his grip loose and finally subdue him.

Ezra was frightened in the days that followed the car theft. He believed the police would arrive outside his door at any moment; the crime had been too stupid and sloppy to escape punishment. In daydreams he saw the small car still sitting in the parking lot with the spiral patterns of his fingerprints glowing hot blue in all the places he had touched it. It would not be hard for them to find him.

Finally something had scared some sense into him. In the weeks before he had begun to feel as if the momentum of their crimes had grown beyond his control and that, if they did not stop, something he would not be able to come back from was on a horizon he could not see, but knew was close. Maybe Alex or one of the other boys they had been hanging with would make good on one of their threats. In their voices and eyes he'd read a new willingness toward violence, and was beyond anything he was willing to be a part of.
  So, he thought to himself, maybe it was good that they had stolen the car. Perhaps it had brought an end to what could have ended so badly.

The smoking area was outside beside the parking lot, against the fence. Students skipping class for the afternoon drove by them and hit the speed bumps harder than they should have.

"I was thinking," Alex said as he lit Adam's cigarette for him, "about doing one more job." He said "job" as if he were Butch Channer or John Dillinger. It was cold outside and Ezra put his hands in his pockets and drew his shoulders up to stay warm.

"What kind of job?"

"A place where we can grab a lot of easy money. A place with an open door."

"An open door?"

"Yeah," he exhaled. "I know a door they keep open, even at night."