The Tenderness of Thieves

by Donna Freitas

  “Your friends don’t like me much, anyway,” Handel went on, making his case.

  “No, I’m not like that,” I said before I could change my mind, deciding I already had enough secrets. “They’re not going to say anything to your friends about you and me. It’s not like your friends and my friends hang out.”

  “Fair enough,” Handel said.

  And that was that—no more talk about the uneven pact we were making, the secret Handel was turning me into among the people in his life. We moved on to other topics of conversation on this beautiful evening, high up in the lighthouse, and the mood lightened as the sky darkened, my skin alive with Handel’s nearness, my body as yearning as the moonlight. It was so easy, how this was all happening.

  There was nowhere for me to go but forward, straight into Handel’s arms.

  There was something about him that drew me in and laid me bare, exposing my thoughts, my dreams, my vulnerabilities, my wishes. My desires, too, surfaced and sang out to Handel, calling him to me, making it clear I was already his. But it was more than this. It was like we had some invisible connection, one that I couldn’t quite pinpoint, but I searched for it. It kept tugging at me, this tether between us, and I wondered what it would look like when it appeared. Even though Handel and I were different, maybe in ways that weren’t easy to reconcile, we were also the same. I could feel it. He was better than he gave himself credit for and than everyone else did, too. There was a goodness in him, mixed in with all the bad. The bad was there, this I knew, but it was the good that I chose to trust more. I couldn’t help it. It was written all over him, and I wouldn’t turn away from it.

  TWELVE

  “JANE?” MY MOTHER CALLED to me. Her tone was urgent. Hopeful.

  I could barely hear her on this bright summer morning. My eyes, all my attention, were caught by something else, one of the objects I feared most, something that simultaneously shattered my heart and reminded me of all the terrible things that had woven themselves into who I was and changed me.

  A headstone.

  It was small, rectangular, and a dark, dark gray.

  It read: JOHN CALVETTI, DEVOTED FATHER, SON, AND POLICE with the dates of his birth and death. Those dates I couldn’t bear to look at, especially the second one, from this past February. A little sapling grew next to the grave. I felt the urge to go to it, run my fingers over its soft green leaves, so full of life even in this heat, but I couldn’t bring myself to move even an inch. I stood on a gentle incline a few yards away, close enough to see the words on the stone clearly, but far enough that I wasn’t really there yet. Big, blooming white lilies were pressed against my chest, both arms gripping them, their scent strong and their stems long and thick and green. My mother had already laid hers on the sparse grass in front of the headstone, the lines from the newly dug grave still visible even as the earth tried to knit itself back together. She kneeled down a moment, her mouth moving in whispers, reaching out to run her hand over my father’s name. Then she got up and turned to me.

  “Jane,” she called out again. “Come here.”

  But I shook my head. I couldn’t even respond. There were no tears in my eyes or sobs in my throat. There was just a sense that everything in me was frozen, struck still with fear—of going any closer, of finding out that what I saw before me was indeed real. Here lay my father, gone forever from this life, from my life. Because of me.

  He was gone because of me.

  I suddenly wished for Handel, wished for his presence, the way he could distract me from the difficult things in life. Feel the deliciousness of having a secret.

  “Jane,” my mother called again. When I didn’t reply and didn’t move, she made her way to where I stood. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, and touched one of my hands, trying to unpeel it from my side. But I couldn’t budge—nothing about me would. She slid the lilies out of my arms and pulled them close to take in their scent. “These are beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “Hmm,” I managed, trying to remember to blink. My eyes had gone dry, unable to stop staring at the words on the stone, at my father’s name. I breathed deep, in and out, then once more. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay. I’m going to go put the flowers over there.”

  My mother held them out to me. “All right, honey. Do you want me to hold your hand?”

  “No,” I whispered, taking back the lilies.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded, the smell from the flowers so powerful it almost made me dizzy. I began to walk, tiny steps, all of them forward, first down the gentle slope of the hill and next along the side of the grave to the spot where my mother had been standing. I stopped there, staring at the ground, staring at the dirt in front of the carved stone, the way it was peppered with young blades of grass, all of them tender with the newness of life. The soil was that rich brown it always is when you are trying to grow something. It’s strange to think how, right above the dead, we plant trees and flowers and grass. Or maybe it’s not that strange at all. I couldn’t decide. The one thing I knew for sure was that no amount of trees and flowers and new blades of grass was going to change the fact that my father was lying underneath this plot in a wood coffin that my mother picked out herself.

  My father.

  I didn’t know what to do, what one was supposed to do when visiting a grave. I didn’t want to talk, didn’t feel like it, didn’t know what to say and was afraid of what I might say. I didn’t want to allow myself to cry, either, because if I started I might never stop, might never be able to leave this spot. I didn’t touch the stone like my mother had. I didn’t dare, because the cold rough slate under my hands was an unthinkable substitute for the real living body of my father, the arms that used to hug me and pick me up until I was too big and too old for him to carry me. I just stood there, still, unmoving, my eyes dry again from forgetting to blink, until finally, awkwardly, I bent just a little, enough to place the flowers alongside my mother’s, careful not to touch anything. Not the grass or the sapling or the gravestone.

  Especially not the gravestone.

  Then quickly, very quickly, I turned around and began to walk away. I went up the gentle slope, past my mother, not looking at her, trusting that she would know to follow me, and she did. I could hear her footsteps. I may not have said anything out loud during those moments, but just before I left my father’s grave, the words “Daddy” and “I’m so sorry” flashed through my mind.

  I think it was okay that I didn’t say them out loud.

  I chose to believe it was, at least.

  • • •

  When we got home, my mind was a whirl. The name “Patrick McCallen” drifted in and out of it, stirring up guilt—guilt and a new sense of responsibility. I’d thought about him so much lately. Tried to decide what his involvement was that night, if any. Tried to decide if the boots I saw were his, or if they were common, if maybe they belonged to someone else who shopped at the same store he did.

  I wasn’t sure what I wanted the outcome of all this wondering to be. If I was hoping I’d find a reason to exonerate Patrick or if I was hoping to confirm he was involved.

  But after this morning, I realized so clearly that his guilt wasn’t up to me to decide. That I was the guilty one for not telling Officer Connolly all that I knew. For mentioning the detail about the boots but omitting the detail about Patrick McCallen. This wasn’t a game. Not some cop show on television where they had to solve a random murder. This was about my father, who was lying dead at the bottom of a grave when he should be out and about in town, joking around with people on the wharf. Hounding me about going to mini-golf some night this summer.

  I pulled open the top drawer of my bureau and started to dig around among the socks and underwear and bathing suits. At the bottom of it, underneath an old aqua-colored two-piece I wore the summer when I was twelve, I found the business card with Offic
er Connolly’s direct number on it. Then I went to the living room and picked up the phone, the landline I’d come to associate with news about the break-in.

  I started to dial.

  I waited, nervous, listening to it ring.

  Officer Connolly didn’t pick up. I got his voice mail instead.

  It was just as well, I decided. Easier to leave a message. I waited for the beep, the whole time tempted to hang up and try again later. I didn’t, though—I knew I wouldn’t try again later.

  “Officer Connolly,” I began. Then I stopped for a breath. “It’s Jane Calvetti. I’m calling because I think I remembered something else important.” Breathe, Jane. “The night of the break-in, those metal-toed boots I told you about?” Breathe. Come on, Jane. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Patrick McCallen wearing the same exact ones. That’s all.”

  I put the phone down.

  Listened to the soft click of the call cutting off.

  I stared at the ancient thing. Those big fat numbers that I used to beg my mother to let me press with my little fingers so we could call Daddy. I was still staring at the phone, remembering dialing up my father, when it started to ring. The loud, piercing sound and the fact that I was hovering directly over it made me jump. I didn’t answer. I waited until the call went through to the machine.

  “Jane, it’s Officer Connolly here, Michaela’s dad,” he said onto the recording, like I had more than one Officer Connolly in my life. His voice filled our house. “I just listened to your message, and I wanted to thank you for it. I’m gonna look into what you just told me right away, see where it leads. You just sit tight, and if you think of anything else, you call me, you hear? All right. Regards to your mother. Bye now.”

  There was a click as the call cut off.

  I stared at the phone, like it might ring again. When it didn’t, I started grabbing the stuff I needed for the day. To meet the girls in town and then head off to the beach. I moved around so easily, so quickly, at first I thought I must be numb from what I’d just done. But when I went out into the sunshine at nearly a run, I realized there was a lightness in me that hadn’t been there before. I hadn’t realized how heavy it was, carrying around my suspicions about Patrick all on my own. Now that I’d handed them off to someone else, to the people whose job it was to take on those suspicions and look into them, a great burden had been lifted.

  Well—no. Not lifted altogether.

  But I didn’t have to carry it alone anymore. I’d take the relief, even if it was incomplete. A little bit was better than none.

  THIRTEEN

  THE GIRLS AND I were sitting in our booth at Slovenska’s. Iced coffee and air-conditioning and, this time, a piece of lemon pie with four forks between us. I hadn’t taken a single bite. I’d planned on telling them about my night with Handel, but the words that found their way out of my mouth were about my dad.

  “I went to visit my father today,” I said. My eyes flickered guiltily at Michaela across the table, knowing I should probably tell her I’d called her dad. But I wasn’t ready to talk about that. Discussing my father felt like enough. “My mother brought me. You know. To the grave,” I added, doing my best to be brave.

  The girls were silent at first. Tammy, finishing her latest bite of pie. Bridget, already in the middle of scooping up another. Michaela let her fork clink onto the table. She put her arm around me in the booth. “Jane,” she said softly. “How was it?”

  “Weird,” I said, thinking that was the only word I had in me for a response. But then came the others. “Horrible. Awful. Shocking. Sad. Tragic.” This one nearly made me choke.

  Bridget immediately shot up her hand and flagged down the waitress. “We’d like a piece of the chocolate cake.” She smiled sweetly at her. “The biggest one you’ve got, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Sure, hon,” said the waitress, the name GINA flashing on her badge. She headed off for the cake.

  “My treat,” Bridget said to me.

  “Our treat,” Tammy corrected.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  Bridget smiled, but her eyes were sad. “Of course we do. You’ve had a hard day, and it’s not even two o’clock.”

  “Besides,” Michaela said, “chocolate cake is your favorite, so maybe you’ll eat some of it. You haven’t taken a single bite of the lemon.”

  “Lemon just seems”—I searched for the right word—“kind of bitter.”

  Michaela laughed. “I think that’s the point. Well, that it’s bittersweet.”

  “So.” Tammy looked at me expectantly. She wasn’t going to let me get off that easily. “And?”

  “And,” I started, but I wasn’t sure what to say next. I did my best to stay in control, monitor my breathing, my blinking. Describe this experience like I would any other. “I don’t know. It was just . . . unthinkable, to realize that this grave was my father’s. That he was gone. Is gone.” The cake arrived. A giant piece. I couldn’t bring myself to dig into it. “I guess I’m glad I went. Actually, maybe that’s a lie. My mother thought it was a good idea, but I’m not sure.”

  “I think your mother is right.” Bridget’s fork hovered over the cake. Hesitant. Guilty. She wanted some, too, but wanted me to go first. “You need to start dealing with the stuff that’s happened,” she added, equally guiltily.

  “Go ahead and have some,” I told her, and when she didn’t, I plunged my own fork into the part with the chocolate frosting and handed it to her. “Take it. Really.” I knew I’d started this conversation by talking about my father, but now I didn’t want to follow Bridget where she was going. “Um, B?” I asked, when she still hadn’t eaten the bite I’d forced on her.

  Bridget ignored me. “Are you ever going to talk to us about that night?”

  “I already have,” I said in a small voice.

  “Not really,” Tammy said, for once siding with Bridget. “It’s good to talk about things, J. Especially the hard stuff. We’re your friends.”

  “I tell you things,” I protested, even though this was no longer true. I still hadn’t told them about my night with Handel, but I would, of course. Soon. Just not now.

  “Sometimes I worry . . .” Michaela started. She looked from Tammy to Bridget, then back to me, before continuing. “I worry that maybe you’re still in danger,” she finished in a rush.

  “What? Why?” I stuttered. “How could I be?” I asked, like I didn’t really know, when somewhere deep I did—of course I did. Whoever was responsible for what happened was still walking around somewhere, and they had an unfair advantage. They knew who I was. “It’s all over now,” I went on. “And here I am, safe with my girls.”

  The lids of Michaela’s eyes lowered. “People are starting to talk.”

  “About?” I prompted.

  Michaela opened her mouth. Closed it again.

  “Tell me.”

  It was Tammy who finally spoke. “They’re saying how, now that the break-ins have stopped, that the police might never find out who did it.”

  Bridget glanced at me. “Unless something else . . . happens, and they’re caught.”

  I stared at the still-uneaten slice of chocolate cake. None of them mentioned how the “something else” that might happen, might happen to me. My friends kept on talking, debating the situation, and, slowly at first, I took one bite, then another, until all of the cake was gone. I’m not sure I even tasted it. Everything felt numb. Eventually they realized I’d stopped speaking and quieted down.

  “I know you guys are worried because you care about me, but I’m fine,” I told them. “I need you to believe me.” I needed to believe myself, too. “I’m watching out for myself.” They looked at me with skepticism written all over their faces. “I am.” I scraped the fork along the plate, digging for the last remaining sign of chocolate frosting, and the metal shrieked in protest against the glass.
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  “Maybe that’s enough for today,” Tammy said, being her bossy self and putting an end to this thread of conversation. “Let’s change the subject.” She eyed me, then the others. “We still haven’t had the Handel report, but I think we should give Jane a break. For now,” she added.

  I let out a long breath. “Thank you.” I licked the dot of frosting I’d managed to salvage from the tine. “Why don’t you update me on your lives? Please?”—then I stared hard at Tammy—“I know,” I said all too loudly and eagerly. “Let’s talk about Seamus and ice cream the other night and going running. I feel like I’m so out of the loop.”

  “I give you a pass and this is how you repay me?” Tammy turned red. She was blushing—I hadn’t thought it was possible, but she was. “It was just ice cream, and it was just a run.”

  “Oh, it’s never just ice cream,” Michaela said, and we all laughed as Tammy’s blush deepened.

  “It must be serious, Tam, if you’re being evasive,” Bridget said. “You love to tell us all the gory details about your boys.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tammy said.

  The three of us took it as a challenge to see how far we could take Tammy’s unusual shyness, and we played at this for a while, until a gust of hot air puffed our way from someone coming in the door of Slovenska’s.

  I was the one who turned first. Even someone showing up at Slovenska’s for a strawberry shake was gossip enough to bother. You never knew what cute boy from town might walk in. I was surprised by who it was, though. “Look over there,” I said, and everyone joined me in looking. The boy from the beach, the one I’d run into at Christie’s—Miles—was standing at the register. He was alone. “I guess he’s slumming it again.”

  “Jane,” Bridget said with a giggle. “You promised to introduce me, remember?”