The Good Thief

by Hannah Tinti

  “THAT’S WHAT THE SISTER TOLD ME. AND SHE TOLD ME ALL THE REST. ABOUT MY BOY THAT NO ONE WANTED. AND WHAT HE DONE FOR ME. AND I COULD THINK OF NO ONE ELSE WHO’D DO THE SAME. NO ONE ELSE WHO CARED. AND NOW WE’VE FOUND EACH OTHER, HAVEN’T WE? WE’VE FOUND EACH OTHER FOR ALL TIMES.”

  She brought her skirt to her nose again as she cried. Ren led her into the kitchen and brought her to the fire, and then realized that there was no place left for her to sit down.

  Mrs. Sands lowered her skirt and looked around the room. She eyed the shredded sofa, the ruined rugs, the smashed mirrors. The torn books, broken vases, and dismembered pillows. She saw the busted windowpanes, the blood and soot strewn across the floor, the pile of busted furniture. She put her hand against the wall, and it came away smeared with dirt. She kicked aside a pile of potato peelings. She lifted the needlepoint sampler of the Lord’s Prayer, and put a finger through the cloth where it had been sliced in two.

  “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HOUSE?” She broke away from Ren, suddenly full of force, and ran around the kitchen, tripping over pots and pans and spoiled food, pushing aside the remains of chairs and tables, and stood before the open, empty pantry door. She screamed. And then the broom came out, the one article still in the same place she had left it, hanging on a nail by a small, worn piece of rawhide, and she began to hit them all—Tom and Brom and Ichy and Ren. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HOUSE?” They scattered in every direction, but she managed to thrash each and every one of them, until Ren got down on his knees, the bristles battering his shoulders, and promised to stay and make everything right again.

  EPILOGUE

  The funeral took place in the oldest part of the cemetery, where markers were made of slate and trees had taken root, some growing straight out of the graves. Ren stared at one ancient elm tree, its trunk settled in the middle of a plot and the bark grown up thickly around the headstone. It was only a matter of time before the tree consumed the grave completely.

  Ren reached for Mrs. Sands’s elbow. She had dressed in her finest—the pale gray silk with a cameo fastened at her throat. “OUR FAMILY’S GOT ALL THIS CORNER,” she said. “I’LL BE THERE.” She pointed to an untouched piece of land between a holly bush and a maple tree. “AND MY BROTHER WILL BE THERE, AND YOU’LL JOIN US WHEN YOU’RE READY.”

  The boy thought of the paper he’d signed for Doctor Milton. Mrs. Sands had burned it in the fireplace, after marching to the hospital with Ren and paying off the doctor with the money from the backyard. He had seemed disappointed as he returned the envelope, but Sister Agnes had closed the hospital gates behind them with a tiny smile hidden underneath her habit.

  The minister cleared his throat and opened his book. He was young. Very young. Fresh and full of spirit and ready to do good in the world. When he read the Lord’s Prayer, everyone began to recite it too. Ren and Brom and Ichy stopped at Deliver us from evil, while the rest, not being Catholics, went on: For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.

  Tom removed his hat. In the past few days he had surprised them all by organizing Ren’s legal papers, spending hours at the kitchen table with a pen and ink, then dragging his broken leg to the factory and going through McGinty’s business records. He talked with the foreman about getting the factory up and running again, and accounted for all that had been stolen by the hat boys—who had stripped what they could before leaving town. It was enough to earn Mrs. Sands’s forgiveness, as well as a room for Brom and Ichy, for he had promised not to return the twins to the orphanage. Once Tom had made the promise it seemed easier to live up to, and it was possible now, at times, when he was sober and working, to see in him the kind of man he must have once been.

  Behind Tom and the twins was the rest of the mousetrap factory—the Harelip, the girl with the gap in her teeth, and all the rest—a whole crowd of ugly girls in their church dresses, their bonnets pulled down over their faces against the sun, and several heavy baskets of food held between them. On the other side of the church wall Ren could hear the widows calling to each other and opening their stores for market.

  The minister finished his blessing and motioned for Ren to come forward. The boy glanced into the hole. It was a long way down. Dolly’s coffin was settled at the bottom, and Ren took a handful of dirt and threw it on top. Then he watched as the gravediggers filled in the rest. He thought about the men buried in the mine, who had died so many years before. Some of them could be under this very churchyard, only a few more feet beneath this grave.

  He was glad that Dolly might not be alone underneath the earth. He thought of the abandoned tunnels, the lost men huddled together in the darkness. The boy hoped these men would be comforted by his friend’s company. At the very least he hoped they would not be afraid of him.

  “WELL,” said Mrs. Sands. “THAT’S FINISHED.”

  The mousetrap girls spread out their blankets, and Mrs. Sands began distributing the food—roasted chicken and fresh bread and corn and potatoes and apple pies and cream. Tom leaned on his crutch, lined up a row of glasses, and poured out the cider. Ichy shyly offered the girls napkins. Brom walked among the crowd and spooned out the cream, a cloth over his arm.

  It was the first true summer day. The grass was green and there was a breeze coming off the river. The mousetrap girls finished all of the food, coming back for seconds and thirds until the sun was high and the headstones cast no shadows. The girls leaned against the markers as they ate, pressing their necks to the granite and cool white marble. Tom sat among them licking his fingers. When he finished, he released a soft belch and began to recite poetry—a talent that surprised everyone but interested only a few.

  Mrs. Sands busied herself making up a plate of leftovers for the dwarf. Ren knew he must be watching them from one of the roofs nearby. The first night he crawled out from the fireplace and saw Mrs. Sands, he hid his face, and would not let her come to him until he had composed himself. Then he began to complain loudly of all that had happened while she was gone—that he was starved, and abandoned, and that he was driven half mad by mousetrap girls and murderers crawling over his roof. Mrs. Sands shouted in return that he was a glutton and a sneak besides, and she was sure that if she took the ladder to the roof, she would find more than half her preserves hidden underneath his bed. The dwarf gave Ren a look of betrayal, and Mrs. Sands began to laugh until it turned into a cough, and she had to sit, and the boy and the dwarf stood by anxiously until she was well again.

  “YOU’LL MAKE YOUR OWN DINNER NOW,” she said. But as she grew stronger she began to cook for her brother again, setting aside part of their meal each night. In the months to come, the kitchen would slowly be set right and cleaned, the table rebuilt and the preserves restocked in the pantry. And if she made a cake, it would be divided, with pieces set aside for Tom and the twins, and the biggest slices going to Ren and the dwarf.

  When the group had finished their picnic, a game of tag was started among the graves. The girl with the gap in her teeth chased Brom up and down the rows. He easily outran her, dodging in and out and around the memorials and crosses. The other mousetrap girls began to join in, and then Ichy, and soon there was a chorus, shouting and shrieking as the boy continued to elude them.

  The Harelip had taken off her heavy shawl and draped it over a headstone. The grave was tilted and covered with moss, the name worn away by the weather. The person underneath had been forgotten and was no longer mourned by the world. But for a moment, Ren thought, the small black slate looked warmed, and grateful for being chosen. The Harelip stood nearby, her eyes scanning the edges of the graveyard. Ren watched her for a few moments before realizing that she was looking for Benjamin. Her face was animated and full of hope.

  He considered whether Benjamin was hiding there in the trees. But after a few moments other places seemed to hold more possibility—behind the wall, or around the corner of the church—until he realized that he would always be looking for him. Ren lifted his hand, blocking the sun. He could
see past the gates and over the common, all the way to the river. Even from this distance, he could feel the pull of the current. The promise of deep water.

  Brom was outrunning the mousetrap girls, dodging left and right and leaping over the graves. He ran past Ren, the wind coming off his back. Ichy rushed after him and the girls came next, one after the other, the colors of their dresses blurring. Ren fell in and joined the game. He was right behind them now. His fingers reaching out, closing in, then missing, missing, missing, missing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a novel takes all kinds of support. My agent, Nicole Aragi, has proven her stripes, again and again, as the hands-down best agent in publishing. My editor, Susan Kamil, inspired me with her enthusiasm and made edits that helped transform this novel from rough pages into a completely imagined world. My readers, Helen Ellis and Ann Napolitano, tirelessly went through early drafts, carried me when things were most difficult, and helped me figure out the structure I needed to make my story succeed. Noah Eaker, Theresa Zoro, Susan Corcoran, Elizabeth Hulsebosch, and everyone at Dial Press, as well as Lily Oei and Jim Hanks, took care of all the details and brought The Good Thief properly into the world. Blue Mountain Center and UCross offered me beautiful spaces and days of quiet to get the hard work done. Maribeth Batcha, Marie-Helene Bertino, and the staff of One Story picked up the slack whenever I needed to pull another all-nighter. The one hundred (and counting) authors I have had the privilege to edit for One Story taught me how to be a better writer. Dani Shapiro offered sage advice and then, along with Michael Maren and Antonio and Carla Sersale, brought me to Italy. My friends Yuka and Kareem Lawrence, Karin Schulze, Cynthia Medalie, and Francesco Vitelli fed me, bought me drinks, and listened. My dog, Canada, took me for long walks that refreshed my senses. But I owe the biggest debt to my family. Owen Tinti-Kane, Hester Tinti-Kane, and Honorah Tinti kept me laughing even when I wanted to cry; my father, William Tinti, gave me the courage to continue on; and my mother, Hester Tinti, lifted me with her faith and love. She also came up with the title for this book. Thanks, Mom.