Thieves

Thursday afternoon, after Ma left for her shift at the plant, my father tossed me my shoes and shut off the television. "We're going for a walk," he said.

"I don't want to go," I said. "I'm sick."

"What you need is fresh air." He sucked his big stomach in and let it out. "Go comb your hair."

That morning, when I told Ma it hurt to swallow, she looked down my throat with a flashlight and checked under my ears for lumps. Her hands smelled like dish soap. Leaning against the sink, she read the thermometer and clucked her tongue, then called Miss Paxton, the lady who ran vacation bible school. We weren't even Methodist, weren't anything really, but Ma signed me up to get me out of the house.

"Richie," my father called. "Where's your mother hide her mad money?" I heard him opening cupboards, moving pots and pans. The broiler drawer screeched. Something in the pantry crashed. The fridge kicked on and I heard the suck of the freezer seal. "Bingo," my father said. I went out and watched him pry the lid off the frozen orange juice container Ma used to save change. He hadn't found her real stash, the one she used to get her hair done at Mr. James. He sipped his coffee and built a tower of quarters, leaving the dimes and nickels. Saturday, Ma would be angry when she found the wash money missing again. There might be enough for a couple loads, but not enough to hurt him, like the time she went after him with a sock full of nickels after he'd threatened to put her lights out.

"Aren't you ready, yet?" my father said. He went and pulled a wrinkled sport shirt out of the hamper and over his head. The sleeves were too tight, cinching his arms like tourniquets, but his legs were like clappers in his blue work pants. He looked like something from Mix 'n' Match, like an ape with giraffe legs. My father has two sets of clothing in different sizes—one for when he's working, the other for when he's laid off. He hadn't been called in a month and nothing fit.

"You go," I said. "I can take care of myself."

"Right," he said. "Your mother'd have my head on a plate." He posed like a strongman and flexed, tossing a wave of muscle from one arm to the other. "Toughen up," he said.

I didn't need him to tell me to be tough. I changed into shorts and brushed my teeth, then followed my father out on the porch where he locked the door and tried to take my hand to cross the street.

"I can cross myself," I said.

He marched ahead, jiggling the change in his pocket. "I know you can."

"Where are we going?" I said. I hoped he didn't have a plan, that maybe I could talk him into springing for a float at the new A&W.

"I want to drop by the Melrose," he said. "You got a problem with that?" He stopped and put his hand on my forehead. "You feeling okay?"

I didn't feel good before we left, but shrugged and said I'd live. I was hot and my throat hurt, but my father promised me a Coke at the Melrose. We'd been there the weekend before, when Ma suggested going up the road to the Pleasant Tavern and my father confessed that Big Tony had banned him for good this time. That night at the Melrose, while my parents played cards at the bar, I sat in back copying cartoons from the funny papers. Rody the bartender accused me of tracing, then bet me a glass of maraschino cherries that I couldn't draw King Guz. When I finished, he made me write his name under the caveman and taped it to the front of the register.

The sun burned the back of my neck. The heat rising off the street made everything look wavy. When we got to the Methodist church, the kids were all gone, the windows in the rectory dark. Taped to the glass were the pages we'd colored of Jesus going through His life.

"That's mine," I said. I was the only one who picked Jesus on the cross. It was harder. He was all alone, His chin on His chest like my father when he fell asleep in front of the television. I didn't like that He was sad. He should be happy—He was going home. I dressed Him to look like my grandfather the time he went on an airplane to see his sister, and then added some birds and people waving.

"Jesus never wore a three-piece suit," my father said.

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

My father took me down Crane Street past Boulevard Bowl and the transmission shop and the laundry mat where Ma and I played Old Maid waiting for the dryers. When we got to the Pleasant Tavern, my father thumbed his nose at the place. "Don't ever drink there," he said. "Big Tony waters down the booze." The door was open, and I saw the pool table where my father had pinned some guy for shooting off his mouth. I imagined Big Tony butting in, giving my father a hard time, and my father turning on Big Tony. It wasn't fair. The other guy started it.

The Melrose was cold. Empty, too, except for a couple of guys in white shirts eating sandwiches at the bar. One of them had a napkin tucked in his collar with his tie over his shoulder. The other had a mess of red hair. My father took a stool by the register and ordered a bottle of Utica Club. I told Rody I wanted a Coke.

"He'll have water," my father said.

"You said I could have a Coke."

"Drink water. It's better for you."

Rody put the glass on a napkin and smiled. My father unloaded his change on the bar.

"No work today, Buddy?" Rody adjusted the waist of his Sansabelt pants.

My father looked down the bar at the guys drinking drinks from short glasses.

"Not today," he said.

"Been a while?"

"Not that long." My father was still watching the men, glaring almost, as they opened their wallets. Then he turned and watched Rody, who had his hand cupped below the bar, counting the quarters—Ma's quarters really—over the edge.

"Can I get you gentlemen anything else?" Rody called. He flogged himself with a dishtowel and slid a clean ashtray down the bar.

"We're all set," the man with the napkin said. "Keep the change."

Rody stacked the plates and dumped them in a dishpan behind the bar. He made change from the cash register and put the tip in an egg jar. In the mirror I watched the men walk behind me. The way their heels echoed through the bar made them sound important. The redhead excused himself and went into the men's room. The other man straightened his belt, then took a mint from the UNICEF box without paying. I glanced at Rody, who was wiping down the other end of the bar, then turned back to the man, who raised his finger for me to keep his secret. The bathroom door swung open and the redhead came out straightening his tie. He slapped the other man on the back. "You ready?" he said. The man sucking the mint nodded and took another candy from the box, closing it in his fist. My father was reading the race scores, picking at his beer label. The man reached out to shake my hand and palmed me a root beer barrel.

When they left, I unwrapped the barrel and popped it in my mouth.

"You know what they do to thieves in other countries?" my father said. He was still looking down at his paper. "They cut off their hands so they can't steal."

My father ordered a shot and a beer and asked Rody to make change for a nickel.

"My son stole a candy from you." He handed me a penny. "Go pay."

I slid the coin through the cardboard slot. It sounded flat when it landed—the box was empty. My father told Rody about how they punish thieves in foreign countries, and Rody nodded. "It's true," he said. "When I was stationed in India, I watched them cut a guy's hand off with a machete." He pulled his shirt down over his hand and flapped the empty cuff. "Know what he got caught stealing?" he said. I shook my head. I wanted to tell him I didn't take the barrel, that the man had given it to me. My father knew.

Rody poked his fist through his sleeve and slapped the bar. "A chocolate bar," he said.

I drank my water.

"Doesn't scare easy, does he?" Rody said, pointing his thumb at me.

"Nothing scares him," my father said. "Doesn't cry, either. Put his head through the storm door. Took six stitches. Not a peep out of him. Show him the scar."

I lifted the hair off my forehead.

Rody nodded like he was impressed. "Do any new drawings lately?"

I said I had and wanted him to ask me to draw something for him. Maybe he'd trade me a bag of chips this time or a pickle. When he didn't ask, I offered.

"Buddy, give him the comics," Rody said. He tore a sheet from the order pad next to the phone by the register. "Use this," he said, pulling a pen from his pocket.

"You got a pencil?" I said.

"Sure. Let me hunt one up."

"Use the pen," my father said.

"I know there's a pencil around here somewhere." Rody put a Beer Nuts carton on the bar and started pulling out old menus and greasy aprons.

My father peeled the comic page from the paper. "Why don't you go sit in a booth," he said, and then told Rody not to trouble himself; I could draw with the pen.

Rody shrugged, scooped everything into the box, and shoved it under the bar.

There were six booths in back. I picked the one next to the jukebox. At the other end was a bowling machine that didn't work. I studied the paper for a character I could draw without a lot of mistakes. Woodstock would be a cinch, but I didn't know if Rody liked birds.

Rody brought my father another beer and asked about Ma. My father said the old lady was on his case, complaining that beggars can't be choosers. Rody stuck a toothpick between his front teeth and nodded like he understood what my father was going through. My father said it hadn't been that long—he'd get a call sooner or later. Besides, it wasn't like we were starving.

Andy Capp was arguing with Flo. She was in curlers and a bathrobe, threatening Andy with a rolling pin. His eyes were two X's with punctuation marks circling his head. He would be easy to draw, and I thought Rody would like it, maybe even hang him next to King Guz. As I drew, I listened to my father complain about his horse and order another shot. I didn't think I could do a good job with Andy's hat so I gave him hair instead. He looked like Woodstock at first, until I gave him a part and some sideburns.
While I was deciding what to put in the background, three men in work pants came in. My father took his quarters off the bar and dropped them in his shirt pocket like they were change from a bill. One of the men had a skull and crossbones tattooed on his arm like a pirate. He pumped my father's hand and asked if he was working.

All three men ordered beers. I guess they knew my father was out of work because the Pirate ordered one for him, too. My father refused, raising his hands like it was a stick up, but the Pirate insisted.

"Get him one of these," the Pirate said, holding his beer up for everybody to see. "What are you drinking that piss for, Buddy?"

My father laughed, but it wasn't his real laugh. It was the one he used when Ma caught him rifling through her jewelry box or when my grandmother dropped by and found me in bed in the middle of the day.

"How long you guys been on the job?" my father said.

The guy on his right, the one scraping salt off his pretzels, said a couple of weeks. My father nodded and made a sound like a leaky balloon.

"I thought you'd gotten something better," the Pirate said. "I wondered why Russ hadn't called you." I didn't like the Pirate. There was something about the way he asked questions that sounded like he knew the answers.

I was bored with Andy. It was hard to see back there, and I wanted to be at the bar with my father. My throat was killing me, and I didn't feel like drawing anymore, so I made a straight line under Andy's chin, added elbows and a glass of beer with bubbles. I put spirals and stars and more bubbles around his head and wrote MELROSE in the background, over Andy's shoulder, with rays beaming around the word so Rody would know it was neon. I wanted something to eat more than anything.

"Let me see what you've got," Rody said when I squeezed between my father and the Pirate, who smelled bad, like a cross between a wet dog and a sweaty baseball mitt. My father always said there's no reason for BO—soap's cheap; water's free.

I gave Rody the picture. He looked confused. "Who's this?" he said.

"It's Andy Capp. I didn't want you thinking I traced."

"Let's see." The Pirate took the drawing. "This your kid?"

My father nodded.

"He's pretty good," he said. "Looks just like you, Buddy." The Pirate laughed and leaned across my father to show the other guys. The one eating pretzels smiled, then studied his beer. The other guy rolled his eyes.

My father took the drawing. His hand was shaking. "Is this supposed to be me?" he said. His eyebrows shot up, but his eyes were slits.

"No," I said. Andy Capp's hair looked like my father's, but only because he hadn't had it cut in a while. It wasn't him. It wasn't anybody. It could have been Rody's hair or the man eating pretzels. Had the Pirate come in earlier, I could have drawn his hair—he had a DA. If I'd been thinking, I could've drawn Jesus' hair. He looked like a hippie.

"Sure looks like me." My father put his hand on the back of my neck.

"It doesn't look like you," I said, wishing I'd just drawn the stupid cap.

"Get the little Rembrandt a soda," the Pirate ordered Rody. "What are you drinking?"

I tried to look at the Pirate, but my father tightened his grip. "Water," I said.

"If a man wants to buy you a drink, you don't refuse," my father said.

"I just want water," I said, but Rody was already digging in the cooler.

"What's your problem?" my father said. "You've been pestering me for a Coke all morning. Rody, get him a Coke."

"It's not supposed to be you," I said.

"Too bad. I think it's pretty funny."

"Me, too," the Pirate said. He elbowed me, then reached for the wallet attached to his belt loop with a chain. "Get Buddy another beer," he told Rody.

"None for me," my father said. "I'm good."

"You want another round?" Rody asked the other guys.

The pretzel-eater checked his watch. "We've got to get back."

"Buddy'll have another," the Pirate said.

My father held his beer up to the light. "I haven't finished the one I've got."

"You'll be here a while," the Pirate said. "Set him up."

My father's face shrank. I could see his jaws working. "I've got to head out," he said.

I moved back.

"You're not going anywhere." The Pirate used the heel of his boot to spin his stool around. He was laughing and shrugging his eyebrows, winking at me like we were pals or something. He hadn't noticed my father's face. "Bet you all those quarters you're still here when I get off work," he said, backhanding my father's pocket.

"Don't be an ass, Mike," Rody said.

My father tossed a handful of change on the bar.

"Hey, Richie," the Pirate said. He picked up the drawing and put it next to my father for comparison. "You can tell me—this is your old man, right?"

I shrugged and looked at my father standing there with his stomach hanging out. He had red hammocks under his eyes and was staring into space. He looked small to me, smaller than the Pirate, even though he towered over him. He didn't look like my father anymore. He looked sad and old.

"You're a damn fine artist," the Pirate said. "I'll buy this from you."

I didn't want the drawing and Rody hadn't offered to hang it on the register. I took the quarter. It was a mistake.

"You're a betting man, Mike?" my father said. He looked down at me, then looked at the quarter and sucked his teeth. I wanted my father to fight him, to do to him what he'd done to Big Tony, or worse. "Five bucks says I can his cut his fingers off and he won't cry." My father snatched my hand, yanking my arm over my head. The quarter hit the floor and rolled under the bowling machine. My father had a crazy smile on his face. He looked mean and dangerous. He looked like himself.

"Buddy," Rody said, "that's enough. Go on home before I toss you out." He began clearing the bottles from the bar, pouring what was left into a stainless steel sink.

"Come on, Mike. A dollar for every finger."

The Pirate hopped off his stool. "See you around, Buddy." He shook his head in a way that made me want something bad to happen to him.

"You're scaring the kid," Rody said. He balled up the picture with the wet napkins and tossed them in the trash. My father gripped my wrist tighter. In the mirror behind the bar, we looked like a fighter and his coach—but I wasn't sure who was who. We both looked tired and beaten, like whatever we'd won wasn't worth winning. My father held on after the Pirate was gone, until my hand started to go numb, but I didn't want him to let go, didn't want to walk back home in the heat. My fever was coming back and my head felt like I'd been doing handstands. My father would carry me.

"Nothing scares Richie," he said and winked.

He was right.

© 2005, Barbara Stewart