The Good Thief

by Hannah Tinti

  “Get off,” said one of the farmers. “I mean it, Charlie.”

  “He started it,” the boy in the overalls said.

  “I don’t give a damn who did.” The children backed away, and the man took Ren by the coat and pulled him to his feet. He brushed some dirt from the boy’s jacket, then hesitated. “Jesus Christ.”

  Ren pulled his scarred wrist back inside his sleeve. The other children hushed. He glared at them all, his face red.

  “He lost his hand in a thresher,” Tom said, stepping forward. “Ever since, he’s always starting fights.”

  “Well, he got this one finished for him, all right,” said the farmer.

  “I’m sorry for the trouble.” Tom took Ren roughly by the arm. “I just can’t make him behave.”

  “All that boy needs is some tonic.” Benjamin appeared, slipping out of the crowd, swinging the wooden case, and smiling. He set the case down, unbuckled the straps, and pulled out a bottle. “And I just happen to have some with me today. Mother Jones’s Elixir for Misbehaving Children.”

  “If it’ll stop my boy from getting into trouble, I’ll pay you five dollars for it,” said Tom.

  “That’s kind of you, friend,” said Benjamin. “But it’s only a dollar a bottle.”

  “One dollar,” said Tom. “That’s a bargain.”

  “It is,” said Benjamin.

  Tom handed him a wrinkled dollar bill, and the tonic was passed over.

  Ren’s lip was split and his ribs ached. “I’m not going to drink it.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll tan your hide.”

  The bottle was opened and put in his mouth, and Ren drank all of it, the thick liquid sliding down and nearly gagging him, sweet and sour. When he couldn’t take any more, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, walked over to the boy he had punched in the neck, fell to his knees, and asked forgiveness.

  “It’s a miracle!” said Tom.

  The farmers were not convinced. It was only when Ren started praying with a face of genuine gratitude, because the opium had lifted the pain from his ribs, that a few of the farmers’ wives approached.

  “Satisfaction guaranteed,” said Benjamin. Those seemed to be the magic words, for as soon as they came out of his mouth the first bottle sold, to the mother of the towheaded boy.

  Once the medicine was administered, the children stopped fighting and chasing each other and climbing trees. They stopped roughhousing and spitting and stealing bits of food from the table. In fact, they stopped doing much of anything at all. They sat down in the grass, and stared off into space, and were silent.

  “It’s amazing,” said one of the mothers. She sniffed the bottle.

  “Natural ingredients,” said Benjamin. He’d sold almost the entire case. The crowd had left the shearers and surrounded him instead.

  Ren felt his eyes opening and closing against his will. His mouth was full of saliva, and it ran down the corners of his lips. He turned his head. Over to the side, near the edge of the field, there was a man. For a moment Ren thought it was Father John, and then he was sure of it, and then he thought he must be dreaming, because the man was smoking and Father John had never smoked. The man was watching Benjamin closely, and before he had finished his cigar he put it out on his boot and cut purposefully through the crowd. “What do they call you?”

  “Johnson,” said Benjamin. He held out his hand, but the man didn’t take it.

  “I’ve seen you before, but that wasn’t the name.”

  “It must have been someone else.”

  The man spit on the ground. “You calling me a liar?”

  “Not at all.” Benjamin turned to the people gathered, to show his good intentions, but it was clear that this fellow was known to them and Benjamin was not.

  “Where’d you see him, Jasper?” someone asked.

  “On a poster in Galesburg,” said the man. “He’s wanted for armed robbery. I’m sure of it.”

  One of the mothers screamed. The women elbowed past and rushed to their children, shaking and slapping the girls and boys and crying their names. Several men lunged forward. Benjamin threw the wooden case, knocking them down, then hopped the fence, fell to his hands and knees, and disappeared among the herd. The farmers called the rest of the men away from the shearing, and they started off in different directions with their shotguns, the sheep bleating in fear as they rushed past.

  Tom took hold of Ren’s hand and led him off at a strong pace, back to the wagon. “Don’t stop,” he said. “Keep moving.”

  Ren held on to his stomach. He pretended to be sick from the tonic. But in fact he was feeling wonderful. Better than he’d ever felt before. The grass was so green underneath their feet, it was as if he could fall into it and keep on falling forever.

  “I told him,” said Tom. “Didn’t I tell him?”

  Ren nodded, though he had no idea what Tom was saying. The wagon was right where they’d left it, between two trees. When the mare raised her head from grazing, Ren was certain he saw a look of disappointment in her eyes.

  He was sorry for taking her away from the farmer, who had loved her so well and who had kissed her nose. And suddenly the boy thought, I will kiss her nose, and he tried to take hold of her bridle. Tom cursed him and told him to get in the cart. But Ren was determined to kiss the horse, just as she was determined not to be kissed by him. She swung her head from side to side and pointed her nose out of his reach. Ren got hold of the harness and pulled hard, leaning his weight, trying to bring the animal down to him. Tom was out of the wagon now, he was hitting the boy about the legs with the whip, but still Ren wouldn’t let go, and the horse bucked, her hooves beating against the wood, until a shape rose from inside the wagon.

  “Are you trying to get us killed?” Benjamin whispered. He was crouched behind the driver’s seat, a fleece pulled over his head and shoulders. He looked so strange that Ren let go of the horse. Tom dragged the boy across the grass and threw him into the back of the cart.

  “I have to kiss her,” Ren explained.

  “Don’t worry,” said Benjamin. “You can kiss me instead.”

  Tom pulled the wagon onto the road. He kept the horse going at a slow trot. The voices of the mothers began to fall away behind them. Occasionally there was a gunshot across the fields. When they were half a mile away, Tom made the horse pick up the pace. Ren watched the clouds pass over their heads, the shapes drifting in and out. As soon as he thought he’d recognized one, it changed.

  “I think we’re clear,” Tom said.

  Benjamin crawled out from under the blankets. “Thank God that’s over.”

  “Thank God they didn’t catch us,” said Tom.

  Benjamin took the fleece from his shoulders and threw it aside. He gave a worried glance at Ren, who was flat on his back, seeing all kinds of things in the sky.

  Tom shook his head. “He’s high as a kite.”

  Benjamin began to search the pockets of his coachman’s coat. He took the money and shook it under Tom’s nose. Then he pulled out three oranges. The fruit was slightly bruised, the peel thick and heavy, but the color was perfect—cheerful and bright as the sun. Benjamin passed one over to Tom. “You were right. But it was worth it.”

  “I’m always right,” said Tom.

  “Here.” Benjamin tossed an orange into the back of the wagon. It hit the boy in the head.

  “Ouch,” said Ren. But he didn’t move.

  “Come on,” said Benjamin. “Open your eyes.”

  Ren thought they were open. He ran his fingers across his eyelids.

  “Open your mouth.”

  He did, and Benjamin fed him a slice of orange. The smell of citrus bloomed like a flower underneath Ren’s nose. His tongue swelled as he brought his teeth together and the juice slid down his throat. He felt something hard, and bit down. A seed, Ren thought. It must have been a seed. Benjamin continued feeding him, separating the pieces, until the sky turned the same glorious color as the fruit and Ren’s jaw ached with ha
ppiness.

  TWELVE

  By the time they crossed the bridge into North Umbrage it was dark. The houses rose up from behind a hill, the road narrowing between them. There was nothing of the chaos of the docks here. The streets were nearly deserted, and those people out were gathered on the corners, smoking and eyeing the wagon as they passed. Ren saw a pack of thin dogs fighting, and a man and a woman pushing against each other in an alley. The gutters smelled of rotting garbage. Tom took out a pistol and set it on the seat beside him.

  It was the same gun that Benjamin had showed Ren on their way to Granston. Benjamin had seemed happy and relaxed in those days, but now he was pressed to the edge of his seat. He pulled the buttons on his collar and kept turning his head when they passed a window, as if he expected to find someone he knew behind the curtains.

  The wagon jostled back and forth along the cobblestones. Up ahead, a large shadow covered the road. It went along the length of the street and shed a wall of blackness across the roofs and homes of North Umbrage. As the horse entered the air around them turned cold, and Ren lifted his head, expecting to see a giant towering over them. But instead he saw a factory, a building built like a fortress, straight up into the sky.

  It was four stories, with a large, thick chimney spewing black smoke. The brick walls gave way on the second floor to enormous windows with bars across them. Carved over the main entrance, into the keystone of the arch, was a sign: MCGINTY MOUSETRAP FACTORY AND DISTRIBUTION co.

  “This is a cheery place,” said Tom.

  “It used to be a mining town,” said Benjamin.

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Benjamin. “There was an accident, and it nearly closed the place. A container of charges went off near the entrance, and all the men were buried. They never found the bodies, and the company sealed the tunnels and left. When I passed through here a while back, there were still women on their knees in the middle of the marketplace, with their ears to the ground, listening for their husbands.”

  The wagon bumped the edge of the sidewalk and Ren thought of the men trapped in the earth along with all the other things people had thrown away over the years—rusted pots and pans and old boots and horseshoes and bits of broken china. The cart passed an ancient chestnut tree, and Ren imagined its roots reaching underneath the ground, sifting through everything there, just like the fingers of the miners’ widows, going at the soil that held their men, with shovels and pickaxes, with others’ wives and children, and with the farmers from the hills. The scene began to form in Ren’s mind, the details coming one after another, until he could see the whole town digging, afraid of losing time—and then a whistle going out, and everyone stopping, listening. And after a few minutes one of the women crying: What are you waiting for? And another saying: No! Just there now—there—did you hear that? There—there!

  Tom drove the cart down a street of boarded-up and abandoned houses. On the next the buildings were raucous, with lights blazing, and the sound of smashing glass, and music pouring from the open windows. The wagon turned another corner, where everything was silent and dark, and then another, and then another and another. None of these homes had lights on. Then one of them did. There was a small wooden sign affixed to the gate out front, painted by hand: ROOMS TO LET.

  “This is it,” said Benjamin. “Stop here.”

  “You sure?” Tom asked.

  “Stay with the horse.” Benjamin climbed out of the back and Ren followed.

  They knocked for some time before a woman came to answer. She was taller than Benjamin by at least a head and had broad shoulders, thick arms, and a very long, thin neck. Her face was middle-aged, with bright, quick eyes and a nose with one nostril larger than the other. Her hair was tucked away into a cap and she wore a coarse apron covering a brown dress. A ring of keys was tied to a thick leather belt around her waist.

  “WHAT ARE YOU KNOCKING FOR?” she shouted.

  “We’re looking for a room,” said Benjamin.

  “I DON’T OPEN THE PLACE TO STRANGERS.”

  “My name is Benjamin Nab.” He held out his hand, using his smile. “There, you see, I’m no longer a stranger.”

  “MISTER NAB, I’M A HARDWORKING WOMAN WITH A HARD LIFE, AND I DON’T NEED THINGS ANY HARDER.” She showed the shotgun at her side. “NOW MOVE ALONG.”

  Ren knew this was his cue to look pitiful, and he did, to the best of his ability, crouching a bit so he’d look smaller and rapidly blinking his eyes.

  “I would,” said Benjamin, “if it wasn’t for my poor crippled nephew, who’s just lost both his parents and traveled for miles to get here.”

  Ren lifted his arm and waved the scar before the landlady’s face, as if he were saying hello.

  “His mother was tending a sick neighbor,” said Benjamin. “Then she fell ill herself. Her husband watched over her night and day. He left his fields to rot. He sold everything they had for doctors. People said my sister’s skin turned yellow—and her teeth went green. Then the boy’s father became sick with it too, ranting and raving and licking the walls. I got word and hired my friend Tom here to drive me to their village, but they were already put in the earth when I arrived, leaving this poor orphan boy behind.” Benjamin removed his hat as he said this and held it over his heart.

  Out of nowhere the landlady’s teeth appeared. A long, thin set, with significant gaps, as crooked as any farmer’s. “AH,” she said, and sucked her lower lip, considering what she’d heard. Then she set aside the gun, scooped Ren into her arms, and shook him from side to side, as if she were attempting to finish him off. She was a tough creature, with a few proportionate soft spots, into which she now pushed Ren’s face. She smelled like the yeast of rising bread—earthy and sour—and Ren was so confused that his body went limp. He gave himself over until he began to feel suffocated, and the landlady placed him on his feet again.

  Benjamin signaled to Tom, who stepped down from the wagon and led the horse to a small stable behind the house. “We’re so grateful to you. I don’t know how much farther we could have gone along this road. And I’m just a young man on his own, and don’t know much about taking care of children.”

  “SURE YOU DON’T!” said the landlady. And she let them into the house. “IT’S THREE DOLLARS A NIGHT FOR THE ROOM. A DOLLAR EACH FOR FOOD.”

  “Very reasonable,” Benjamin said. But he made no move to pay.

  The landlady took his coat and hung it in the closet. Benjamin thanked her and asked her name, which she gave as Mrs. Sands.

  “And your husband, does he run this establishment?”

  “MY HUSBAND’S DEAD AND BURIED IN THE MINE.”

  “My dear, dear Mrs. Sands.” Benjamin dropped to one knee, took the landlady’s hand, and held it between both of his. Mrs. Sands stood perfectly still as he did this. Then Tom came through the door, his beard in tangles. As he shut the latch he dropped the revolver, then quickly snatched it up and shoved it down the front of his pants. The woman gave a snort and pulled away.

  “SOME FRIENDS YOU’VE GOT, MISTER NAB.”

  It was not long before they realized that Mrs. Sands always shouted. There’d been an accident with a gun when she was a girl, and afterward she could read what people were saying from their lips, but she couldn’t hear herself talking back. She sent Benjamin and Tom to the washbasin upstairs. “THERE’S A ROOM THERE YOU CAN USE FOR THE NIGHT. GO INTO THE CLOSET. THERE’LL BE SOME CLOTHES THAT SHOULD FIT THE BOY WELL. I’VE GOT A FRIEND WHO USED TO HAVE A SON THIS AGE. SHE THOUGHT I MIGHT HAVE A CHILD SOMEDAY, SO SHE SENT ME ALL HIS THINGS AFTER HE DROWNED IN THE RIVER. A DROWNED BOY! AND THIS ONE SEEMS DROWNED TOO, DON’T YOU?” She held on to the tail of Ren’s coat and pulled it up and down, then moved into the next room, dragging him behind.

  As he walked into the kitchen Ren could smell something delicious—a large roast, smothered in gravy. It must have been cooked recently, although there was no sign of it on the table or counter, which were scrubbed clean, the po
ts shining, the plates all put away in the glass cupboard in the corner.

  The room was mostly a fireplace—the largest Ren had ever seen. It went one length of the wall, and then, as if for good measure, rounded the corner and continued halfway down the next, an overlaying of bricks and shelves. Over the hearth hung a framed needlepoint of the Lord’s Prayer, and underneath was a complex network of fire irons running back and forth with such a number of arms and kettles and pans that it seemed capable of stretching its claws, stepping out of the masonry, and taking a walk. At the center was a roaring fire made of half a dozen well-split logs.

  From this mass of ironwork Mrs. Sands dragged out a cauldron that was the size and shape of a fattened pig. “I WAS HEATING THIS WATER FOR MYSELF,” she said, “BUT IT WILL DO FOR YOU.”

  Ren had never seen a pot so large, and before he knew it he was sitting inside, Mrs. Sands having stripped him down, smacking his bottom when he hesitated stepping in. Now she pulled up a bench, settled herself, and took a knife to an enormous basket of potatoes. Ren could still smell the roast in the air and his stomach growled.

  She said, “WE NEED TO FATTEN YOU.”

  Ren kept his stump tucked underneath his armpit, his legs crossed, and his knees pulled in tight. He knocked his elbow and the pot echoed with a bong. The inside of the cauldron was rough, the water only slightly warm.

  Mrs. Sands squinted at Ren, then reached into the pot and took hold of his left arm and examined the scar again. “WHAT’S YOUR MUM’S NAME?”

  Ren looked down into the water and pretended not to hear her.

  “WHO’S YOUR FATHER?”

  Ren shrugged his shoulders.

  “DON’T ROLL YOUR ELBOWS AT ME.” Mrs. Sands slapped at the water. “AND DON’T PRETEND NOT TO KNOW THE THINGS THAT YOU DO.”

  Ren sank halfway down into the pot.

  “NOW,” she said, putting down her slick, half-peeled potato and leaning over until Ren could feel her breath on his cheek. “IS THIS MISTER NAB YOUR UNCLE FOR SURE?”