Path of Thieves

by Sunniva Dee

“She lives here?”

  “No, no. My parents moved back to Rigita.” He sighs, mouth opening as if to continue, but then he shakes his head. “I’m not going to dip into our story. It’s for Paislee to tell if she wants to. Let me just say that it hasn’t been an easy journey for either of us to get where we’re at now.”

  “Where’s that?” I ask, and inadvertently I’ve made him chuckle.

  “Well, for now I’m in Tampa, and she’s still in Rigita. If all goes according to plan, that’ll change soon.”

  “Where are you going?” I suck in air, holding my breath, because what if she’s moving to Tampa? That’s only hours away from Newbark.

  My heart. It’s morphing into this big chunk of nerve endings.

  “We’re moving to Las Vegas. A few weeks ago, I had a fight for the EFC, and they took me on. I just signed a contract with them, and Paislee’ll come with.” His smile is white and genuine. “I plan to make the move worthwhile for her.”

  “How long since you met again?”

  “Not nearly long enough. Talk about lost time,” he says.

  I shrug, because... I shrug again.

  “Anyway, Paislee’s coming here in a week.”

  What?

  “To where?” I ask lamely.

  “To Tampa. She works for a small, artisan mirror factory, and they’re installing a custom-made hall of mirrors in a house there. Paislee, her boss, and your mom are all flying down for the last inspection. The owner is footing the flights.”

  My lips part, but there’s no sound slipping over them. My thoughts are at a standstill too, no comeback or clever question within reach. I just can’t speak.

  “Cugs. Are you okay?” Keyon frowns, peering.

  “That’s very nice of the owner,” I finally manage.

  “Oh yeah, Markeston’s something else. He’s an entrepreneur. Everything he does breeds money, and he loves to spend doll hairs on mirror rooms and MMA fighting.”

  “Doll hairs?”

  “Dollars. He’s cool. Likes to make peeps happy.”

  “So… Paislee and Mom will both be in town in a week?”

  “Yeah. Next Saturday.” His gaze lightens. “And since you haven’t been in contact with Paislee yet, I wanted to see if you were up for being the surprise.”

  I press my spine against the backrest of the booth, as far away as possible. I wish it was an escape route. “I don’t understand.”

  He leans after me, elbows sliding forward on the table top. “Isn’t it time you meet up?”

  My head moves from side to side, and it’s not even my doing. “They don’t need me. If they did, they would have looked for me.”

  “Oh they tried. Trust me. But your father did a bang-up job disappearing.”

  All these fragments in my head, gloomy stories from a past written by my father. Told on drunken nights, they’re full of neglect and indifference, the opposite of Paislee’s stories, which speak of love and brightness on ice-cold Rigita days.

  I’m an overcharged battery.

  “You’re kind of punishing them, you know. Don’t you want to see that your mother is okay?”

  My reply detonates before I can think. “Don’t pressure me! I don’t know what I want, Keyon. I have no direction. I have no future. Even if I was okay with meeting them again, I’d never want them to learn what my life is like.”

  I draw a harsh breath all the way down to my stomach. Finally, I’ve left Keyon shocked. The neighbor tables too. It’s as if the entire restaurant has gone into a comatose pocket while they wait for me to continue.

  I stand. Fumble for a twenty-dollar bill, illegal gains paid out by Toeffel and Oliver. “Hold on.” I blink so I don’t have to look at the still man in front of me while I work.

  “Are you trying to pay or something?”

  “Yeah. I need to go.”

  He tosses a card on the table. “I’ll text you so you have my number. And never mind the burger. My treat.”

  I cringe at how I can’t say no. “Thanks.”

  Though I want to, I don’t storm out of the restaurant. I walk in long strides, needing to find the wreck so it can take me back to Newbark ASAP. It sputters when I try to start it. Rust has burned through the hood, reminding me that I can’t even keep a car in good shape. The wreck can fall apart at any moment, and that moment could be right now when I’m trying to escape.

  Keyon has time to pay and walk out of the restaurant at a leisurely pace. He’s got his hands in his pockets and watches as I make the ignition howl and die, howl and die.

  “I have jumper cables,” he tells me once he’s closer.

  My scalp burns with mortification. I swallow my pride and bob my head in a thank you. With Keyon’s assistance, the wreck starts instantly, purring like a cat as it responds to his ministrations.

  I’m about to drive off when he leans in my window and says, “Think about it. I’m damn sure it’s not Paislee or your mother’s fault that you haven’t been in contact, because all I heard after you left was ‘Cugs, Cugs, Cugs,’ and all I’ve heard since Paislee and I got together is ‘Cugs, Cugs, Cugs.’”

  He lets a crooked smile slide over his face and vanish. “I came on too strongly today. I’m sorry about that, but it’s like with fighting—I give it all, and sometimes that backfires.”

  “No shit,” I mumble. “I didn’t look forward to this lunch in the first place, but it’s been way worse than I imagined.”

  “Sorry.” He closes his eyes. Shakes his head with regret. “It’s just… I’d do anything to see Paislee happy. You’ll get it someday when you’ve got a girl you love so much her happiness outweighs your exertions.

  “I was with Paislee when she went to your high school, by the way. She doesn’t blame you for scramming. She knows she must have shocked the hell out of you. But she fell apart in the car afterward, and it was the saddest thing I’ve ever had to deal with.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, she got it though. You were just protecting your own feelings.”

  Sucker-punched.

  I’ve done nothing but think of Rigita lately. Keyon texted me, and I added his number to my contacts. I even added a photo from his fan page so I’ll catch it easily if he calls again.

  “Have you heard from Keyon?” Nadine asks. It’s been two days since Orlando. She and I have talked twice and texted even more. Not once have I brought up our lunch. Because how could I avoid a fight?

  “Yes. Does that surprise you?” I ask, hostile-sounding.

  She’s quiet for a beat, but then she breathes into the phone, making me think of how she feels along the side of my body. “When he called to get your number, he and I talked. We only want the best for you guys, and it’s pretty obvious that you love your sister and you need to get back in touch.”

  “Clearly, that’s what Keyon thinks too,” I remark dryly. “Though he does this to make her happy, not me.”

  “Isn’t it logical? If I had to choose between making you happy and your sister happy, I’d choose you every time. Luckily, I don’t have to choose, because it’s the same thing.”

  “Are you being impatient with me? Because it sure sounds like it.”

  “Then you heard correctly.” She’s not sitting still anymore, wherever she is. She’s moving stuff around. Loudly.

  “Don’t break that.” I try for a joke though my stomach is hurting.

  “Just go see them when they arrive in Florida, okay?”

  “He told you that too, huh?”

  “Yes. You always complain about not being able to straighten things out and move forward. Well, here’s one giant step in the right direction for you. A few hours driving, and you’ll meet two women you’ve loved since you were born, idiot.”

  “You’re calling me names now?”

  “Yes, because you are an idiot, idiot! I
can tell by your voice, you know. You’re not planning on going. But remember one thing: not only are you making yourself miserable. You’re making them miserable too by being so stubborn.”

  For the first time since I met Nadine, I hang up on her, and when she calls back, I don’t pick up.

  It’s Wednesday, and I’ve avoided my father as much as I can since Sunday. Step-Cynth has arranged a sit-down dinner tonight though. They waited until I came home, and now I have no way out of planting my ass at that table. My only out is to cloak up in silence.

  “What do you think?” Dad tips his chin for me to give his wife praise for the meatballs. They’re not bad. I can tell they’re made from scratch because they’re unevenly shaped.

  “Very good, Cynthia,” I say, glancing up so my lack of eye contact doesn’t scream obvious. If it does, I’ll lose my facade, and there’s nothing in my head these days that Dad would be happy about.

  “The gravy’s the best part,” Step-Cynth chirps excitedly. “It’s an old recipe from my great-grandmother on my mother’s side. She put a tiny bit of mustard in it, of the spicy type, and then she added red currant jelly. Not much!” She lifts a hand in warning, palm flat against Dad and me as if we’re seconds from plopping a jar of imaginary red currant into her gravy. “It’s got to be soo little. You have to think of it as a spice, not an actual jelly.”

  “Noted.”

  “Cugs,” Dad cautions, registering my sarcasm.

  Step-Cynth does not. Instead she straightens her tiny apron, miniskirt riding inches above the apron, and swivels on her toes to get the dessert. “It’s flaan.” She emphasizes the correct pronunciation, the long aah, in case we’re unaware. “It’s made with lots of eggs and sugar. I think you’ll love it.”

  “Oh darling, you spoil us,” my father moans out. I guess if you’re a husband and get great food, you’re okay with working extra hard to pay for random boxes being shipped to your house from Amazon.

  The flan is freakishly good though. I peer at Cynthia sideways, resenting her for doing something well. I also resent that she’s hot. If my father were to have a new wife, he should have someone in their forties, like him, one who stood up to him and told him to get his act together and get a job.

  After dinner, I stand, prepared to lock myself into my room. I want to lose myself in the internet and then go to bed so I can be at work before six tomorrow. Al has given me the opportunity to do extra work for a few dollars. Honest money sounds amazing even when it’s only two hours on minimum wage.

  “You take a break, now, darling,” my father says, voice syrupy. “Cugs and I will clean the kitchen for you. Right, son?”

  I feel my arms slump along my sides; if I say no, I’ll be opening for more dialog than if I say yes, so I bob out a “Sure,” and swing back, taking up my position by the sink.

  Once we’re alone, with Step-Cynth going through the latest stash of Amazon boxes in their bedroom, I bet, Dad says, “I haven’t seen you much lately. What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Still upset over not getting any football scholarships?” Another uncomfortable convo, two in four days: first Keyon, now Dad.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’ve known since the fall though. Shouldn’t you be over it by now?”

  “I don’t know, Dad, should I?”

  Nothing good will come of this, and I exhale a sigh. “Yes, I’m still disappointed. If it weren’t for what happened at the warehouse break-in, I might have had a chance.”

  “It’s all right. Don’t beat yourself up over it,” he says, not considering his own guilt. If he ever felt guilty.

  “Remember that they always send out way more offers than they have spots for on the team. Even if you had signed with someone, they could’ve withdrawn it before the season started. All those coaches hope for the stars to sign up, but if their first choices go to other teams that’s when they accept the likes of you.”

  This isn’t news. It’s common knowledge and does nothing to soothe my regrets.

  “Bear, for instance, might end up right back in Newbark. I’ve heard of kids who’ve gotten on planes in the fall, and upon landing, their scholarship offers have been withdrawn.”

  My fists barge into the sink, water splashing around them, the foam hitting my face and Dad’s shirt.

  “What the hell, Cugs?”

  “Bear has a chance, a big old chance at football becoming his future, because Bear doesn’t have a father who makes him jump from two-story buildings and crush his spine mid-season of his senior year! No, that’s me, Dad. I do. Thanks so much.”

  “Watch your tongue, Cugs.” His voice is low and menacing, a tone I recognize from moments before a spanking when I was little. “Everything I’ve done I’ve done for you.”

  “Then stop, because I don’t want any of it.”

  “No? You don’t want clothes on your body? Food in your stomach? You didn’t appreciate your first football cleats? Who do you think could have done a better job than me raising you? Margaret?” He lets out a derisive huff.

  It’s alarming that he pulls Mom into the conversation. Dad detests Facebook though, so I’m not sure how he’d find out about my friendship with Paislee.

  “Why not?” I blurt.

  “Because she never treated you like you were hers.”

  A story dawns on me, something he told me a long time ago.

  “What happened the day after my fourth birthday?” I lift my stare and find his eyes, so similar to mine. Confusion reigns in them for a few seconds until he settles into my subject change.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was late summer. We were at the beach. The water was cold, but I still went in because I loved to swim. Then what happened?” I prod, urging him on.

  “Oh! That time. Yes, that’s a good one.” A grim smirk appears on his face. “She forgot she’d brought you. Paislee’s mother was too busy being Paislee’s little friend, braiding her hair or building sandcastles—I don’t exactly remember. And you almost drowned.”

  I remember that trip. I remember almost drowning. “Where were you?”

  “You were thirsty, so I’d gone to get sodas.”

  “How did I survive?”

  “Oh some stranger saw you go under and pulled you out.” He shakes his head slowly, eyes darker than usual at the recollection. “I was on my way back and started running as soon as I saw what was happening. I dropped the sodas in my haste to get to you.”

  I don’t recall the stranger grabbing me, not my father running toward me. What I remember is Mom sobbing and pressing me against her. “Oh baby, baby, baby—I love you so much—I’m so, so, sorry. I’m so sorry. I could have lost you.”

  Mom’s face hot from the sun, wet from the tears, kissing my neck, my cheeks, my head. Rocking me, she sank to the sand with me. We sat there until Paislee said, “Mom, it’s okay. He’s okay! Stop smothering him.” Me squirming to get out of Mom’s arms. Mom letting go just enough for me to breathe.

  But most of all, I recall the wobbly smile that negated the grief in her eyes when she took my face in her hands.

  “Sir, thank you,” ten-year-old Paislee said behind us. Dissolved in tears, my mother turned to my rescuer.

  “I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” She tried to laugh as she stood with me. “I can’t even begin to thank you enough. Thank you, thank you.”

  I breathe out my memory. Look up at Dad. “And Mom?”

  “Well, you know. Of course she was shaken—she is human. I handed you a soda pop though, and you were fine.”

  “So you didn’t drop all the sodas then.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Hey.

  Hey, Keyon.

  You thought any more about this weekend?

  Yes.

  And?
/>   I’m at work, man.

  Check in later?

  K.

  I can’t think of much else. Lord knows I try. I want this weekend to be over, my one realistic chance at seeing Paislee and Mom to be over. I want to mosey on in my routine and hate on my stints with Dad. I want to take on the occasional paid hour or two in the morning counting inventory at Al’s.

  “All I heard after you left was ‘Cugs, Cugs, Cugs,’ and all I’ve heard since Paislee and I got together is ‘Cugs, Cugs, Cugs.’”

  I can’t get Keyon’s words out of my head. They keep churning. My brain’s become an expert on quotes.

  “You’re punishing them.

  “Don’t you want to see that your mother is okay?”

  Chicken.

  I’m ready to chuck my phone at the wall. Do you know that you’re obnoxious? I write.

  Cluck. Cluck.

  Really? One would think a professional MMA fighter would be above taunting people by text message. Ugh. If there’s something I detest it’s being called chicken.

  I’m at the hardware store when Bear appears unannounced.

  “You took your sweet time coming home, didn’t you?” I say.

  “Yeah.” He grins a gleaming smile, unhampered by worries and concerns. “They’ve got some cool fraternities there. I considered rushing, but then I decided against it.” His bright smile fades as he sniffs and stares to the ceiling.

  “Liza doesn’t want it.”

  “Nope,” he replies immediately. “She’s totally against it.”

  “Figures.” I grin, because—Liza. She isn’t going to accept competition, and there’d be plenty of that if her man lived up the frat life. “You moving in together then?”

  “Yup, we’ll do that.” He bobs his head.

  “You’ll have a clean house.”

  “Sure will.”

  We both laugh, and it’s damn freeing. I’m an old man, weighed down by decisions I’d rather not have to make. It’s nice to have my buddy back.

  “So your sister’s coming down, huh?” he asks out of nowhere. Is he rocking on the heels of his feet too? So leisurely. So just killing time.