The Good Thief (6 page)

“Have you ever seen an elephant?”

“A what?”

“An elephant. In India. I saw a picture of one once, in a book.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Benjamin. “I’ve never been to India.” He bunched one of the blankets behind his head. “You better get some rest. We’ve got to be up in an hour or two.”

The boy took a step back. “But you said—” he began.

“I know what I said. Didn’t you listen? What did I tell you before we went inside?”

“You told me not to say anything.”

“And what else?”

“To learn.”

“We needed a place to sleep. And now we have it. I told them what they wanted to hear so they’d give it to us. It’s as simple as that.”

Ren watched Benjamin Nab settle in for the night with a growing sense of alarm. The man gathered a bunch of dry straw with one arm and covered it with a blanket. He took some more straw and stuffed it inside of his coat and down into his boots. Then he took the collar of his coachman’s coat and turned it up around his face, wrapped another blanket around his shoulders, and curled into a ball on the bed he’d made. It was as if he slept outside every day of his life.

“I’d like to see them again,” said Ren.

“Who?”

“Our parents.”

Benjamin reached into his coat pocket. “Here,” he said, “you can have them.” He threw the leather pouch onto the ground.

Ren opened the drawstring. He pulled both scalps out and examined them by the lantern light. The brown piece was small and stiff. It looked like boar’s hair, the follicles thick and shiny and flat against the skin. The blond piece was softer, but the strands were dry as flax. Ren could see where the curls had been glued to the leather.

“They’re not bad if you don’t look at them closely. I think we had that Father fooled at least. He gave you up quickly enough, didn’t he?”

Ren put the scalps back into the pouch and settled onto a pile of straw. He could hear the chickens rustling in the coop, their tiny claws scratching. A breeze threaded through the slats of the barn. “What really happened to our parents?”

Benjamin rolled over onto his back and stared up into the rafters. A long time passed, so long Ren believed he was not going to answer. But just then Benjamin said, “They were murdered. They were killed by a terrible man.”

A moth fluttered against the lamp, its shadow spread across the wall. Ren pulled the collar of his jacket close. “Why did you lie to me?”

“Because you wouldn’t want to hear what really happened.” Benjamin sat up, looking irritated and angry. He pushed the blankets off, marched toward the barn door, and opened it. For a moment he stood there on the threshold as if he was going to leave, his shoulders hunched against the cold night air. Then he closed the door and sat down next to Ren.

“Our father was a soldier. Our mother a woman of station and wealth. They met one day in the woods. She was out picking mushrooms, and he—I’m not sure what he was doing. Maybe he’d spent so much time fighting that he’d lost what it was like to be quiet, and surrounded by trees, without worrying that someone was about to come from behind and try to kill him. Maybe he was just standing there, looking up at the way the branches swayed against the sky, when she came and stood beside him, in a dress as green as the moss under their feet, and said nothing, and looked up as well.

“Our mother had a brother. Some people called him terrible. Others were so afraid of him they didn’t call him anything at all. But he loved his sister. Loved her so much that he wouldn’t let anyone else love her. And it was because of him that our parents kept their meetings secret, until our father was pressed again into the service and sent west. They wrote letters. Wonderful letters that sustained them both as much as food and water, but the mail was slow in coming and often misdirected, and so when our father heard that she was going to have his child it was half a year too late.

“In the end he deserted. He left his station and his horse and traveled the miles back, through forests and over rivers, lakes, and mountains. All the while she tried to hide that a child was on the way. Then her time came and her brother discovered her secret, and he cut off her hands, and her feet, and her nose; every part of her that our father had loved. She was taken away, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of her.”

Benjamin reached out for the lantern and drew it close.

“Give me your arm.”

Ren gave it.

Benjamin held the wrist to the light and ran a finger along the scar, outlining where the skin had been folded over and stitched. Where he touched felt numb in some places and sensitive in others, tiny bumps on the surface tickling. Ren tried to take his arm away, but Benjamin held it tightly.

“I don’t want to know anymore.”

“All right.” Benjamin let go. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No.”

The man reached over, took hold of the lantern, and blew it out. Night enveloped the barn. “Well,” he said at last to the darkness between them, “that’s when you know it’s the truth.”

R
en woke to the sound of chains rattling in the early morning. The barn was still dark, but the boy could make out the shape of the farmer’s wagon. Scurrying back and forth, attaching the horse to the braces, was Benjamin Nab.

“What are you doing?”

“Quiet!” The man crawled underneath the cart. “Get over here and help me.”

Ren stood and moved closer. The straw was damp and stuck to his clothes, a thick cloying smell that filled his nostrils and made it clear that he was not dreaming: Benjamin was taking the horse. Ren felt the same quickening of blood that happened whenever he stole at Saint Anthony’s. The cow in the back of the barn let out a snort and shifted her weight. She was ready to be milked.

Benjamin finished attaching the buckles and threaded the reins through to the driver’s seat. The brown mare was shaking her head back and forth, muscles twitching across her back. Ren took hold of the bridle and tried to stroke the animal’s nose.

“They’ll be up soon. Hurry!” Benjamin rushed over to the hay where they’d been sleeping, gathered the blankets in his arms and threw the pile at the boy. Ren deposited them into the back of the wagon and stood beside the wheels, wondering if there was any possible way that he could stay behind. If he could somehow convince the farmer and his wife that he’d had no part in this. If they would adopt him, too. But then Benjamin climbed into the driver’s seat and told him to open the barn doors, and as he trembled in the cold and the wagon passed through, he knew there wasn’t a chance. He jumped up onto the seat next to Benjamin, who cracked the whip over the head of the brown mare, and the wagon thundered down the hill.

Ren clung to the wooden seat and turned to look at the house as they sped away. There was a light in one of the windows. He held his breath, waiting for the farmer to come rushing after them, waiting to hear the shotgun blast. The front door opened just as they reached the road. The wheels of the cart lifted as they took the turn. Ren held on to the side of the wagon, certain that someone was following, but when he glanced behind again at the house all he saw was the farmer’s wife, silhouetted in the frame, a pail in each of her hands.

It was another hour before the sun began to rise. Ren kept one of the blankets around his shoulders and watched the sky slowly turning pale. The air was crisp, the color of the leaves a dull bronze. They came out of the valley and the land around them began to flatten, the oaks and maples and elms towering overhead.

Benjamin was in much better spirits and began to point out things along the road, as if they were on some sort of holiday instead of running off with stolen goods. He told a story about the marks on birch trees, and another about a stone wall that went all the way to Maine.

As he listened, Ren tried to imagine the proper penance for their crime. The longest he’d ever received was ten Our Fathers and fifteen Hail Marys. Running away with another man’s horse and carriage was an entirely different category, and probably deserved twice, if not three times, as many.

“What are you doing?” Benjamin asked.

“Praying.”

“So we won’t be followed?”

“No,” Ren said. “For stealing.”

“This isn’t stealing,” said Benjamin. “It’s borrowing, with good intent.”

Ren pulled the blanket closer. He’d told himself similar things when he’d stolen at Saint Anthony’s, but in his heart he knew God would find a way to punish him. Ren often thought of the old man as a benignly neglectful gardener, carefully snipping His roses but leaving other areas to go wild, until something caught His notice, a tendril poking its way beyond the fence, and then His full wrath would come thundering down and the entire bed would be ripped out. Ren knew this sin was too big to hide. It would take some work to garner God’s patience.

Benjamin Nab spit off the side of the wagon. He slowed the horse. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve seen a lot, and praying never made any difference for anything. Now, I understand you’ve been raised with a different set of rules, but if you want to stay alive out here you’re going to be forced to break them. Know what you need, and if it crosses your path, take it.”

The boy watched the back of the mare bobbing up and down. She was a powerful animal and could easily outmaster them if she wanted, but she kept the bit in her mouth and continued moving down the road.

“How’d you end up at Saint Anthony’s in the first place?” Benjamin asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“You must remember something.”

“I was put through the door. Just like everyone else.”

“You’re not like everyone else.” Benjamin said it with approval, and Ren felt a blush spread across his cheek. Just to hear the words was thrilling.

“I have a good eye,” said Benjamin. “Most of the time I can look at a person and see their whole life. Small things give them away. That farmer, for instance. I could tell by the way he tied his shoes that he’d never traveled more than twenty miles from his home, and it was unlikely that he’d follow us for long. And that Father John of yours. I knew he had something hidden in that sleeve. And I knew he’d used it on you. The only thing I didn’t know was if you deserved it.”

The birds were awake. It was not possible to see them yet, but as the wagon passed the trees there was a cacophony of chirps and songs going back and forth, repeating on one side of the road and then the other, so loud it was as if all the winged creatures in the world had surrounded them.

“I’m not your brother,” said Benjamin.

“I know,” said Ren, although he had not given up hope until that very moment.

Benjamin pulled his coat back and revealed a pistol stuffed into the belt of his trousers. “Showing this doesn’t mean I’m going to hurt you,” he said. “I just want you to know you’re dealing with a man who knows his business.”

Ren tried to keep his face passive, but the moment Benjamin said he wouldn’t harm him, the boy was somehow convinced that he would. He looked into the woods. He wondered if he should jump off the wagon.

“That hand of yours is going to open wallets faster than any gun.” Benjamin pulled his jacket closed. He brought the horse to a stop. “Now I’ve told you where I’m coming from. And even though you’re signed over to me and legally bound to do as I say, and I’m armed and could shoot you if it pleased me, on my word I’ll let you out here and you can find your way back.” He smiled. “Or you can stay with me and take your chances.”

Around the wagon the birds continued their calls. They were softer now as the sun was rising, but to Ren they still seemed frantic.

Benjamin leaned in close. “What’s the thing you want most in the world?”

Ren had never been asked this before. As he considered the question, he realized that he was more certain about what he didn’t want. He didn’t want to be shot by the gun he’d just seen. He didn’t want to be left alone on the road. He looked up at the early-morning sky and thought of the farmer’s wife.

“A family,” he said at last.

“Don’t be simpleminded,” said Benjamin. “I mean anything. Anything in the world.”

The boy tried to think of something else, something beyond the limits. “An orange,” he said. “I want an orange.”

“I can get you that.” Benjamin held out his hand. “What do you say, little man?”

His fingers were long and thin. But there were no calluses, nor any sign that he had ever worked hard labor. His wrists were delicate, his nails remarkably clean. Ren noticed a freckle, nestled in his palm like a coin—a mark of good fortune—and it was this, more than anything, that made him reach forward and take it.

T
hey arrived at Granston in the late afternoon, hungry and thirsty, the horse covered in sweat. It was a harbor town; the shops and houses hugged the circle of the shore, and a small jetty served as the mouth to the ocean, with a lighthouse at the very tip. The roads all led to the water, and before long the wagon was in the chaos of the docks. Fishermen unloaded nets of salted fish and stacks of crates full of crabs and lobsters, still alive, their pincers snapping against the bars. There were casks of oil being lifted from the whaling ships, the men tattooed and hard-muscled. From the merchant vessels came barrels of spices and bolts of fabric and boxes of dishes.