The Toy Thief

by DW Gillespie

  I don’t tend to believe people who give stories about really stressful moments. I say this, quite simply, because I’ve been in enough awful moments to know that no one really remembers the details, not when the mad scramble of panic sets in. That said, when Mary/Marie told me that her brother swears up and down on a stack of Bibles that he heard Patrick’s teeth shatter, I believe it to be a true story. The metal guard of the water fountain sliced through his lips and broke four of his teeth. Andy never yelled, never screamed, never promised future retaliation over the prone body of his torturer. Instead, he tucked the book under his arm and went to his next class as the crowd grew and Patrick’s wails echoed through the halls.

  That one, the worst of his offenses, got him suspended for a full week. I wish I could say it was his last, but that moment began a slow, spiraling landslide. In time, it even started to change me. Once I had seen that the world didn’t exactly end when you got in trouble, I started loosening up a bit myself.

  As for Patrick, I hear that his classmates started calling him Snag, short for Snaggletooth.

  * * *

  Memphis woke me up the next day, the same way he always did back in those days. He’d start by scooting up next to me, about six inches away from my face. Then he’d start purring. Depending on how late I’d pushed it with Cokes and movies the night before, this first salvo wouldn’t do much of anything, forcing him to move on to phase two. His next step usually consisted of gently tapping on my chin with his soft feet. Occasionally, just out of sheer annoyance, this would get the job done.

  But the night before had been brutal and mostly sleepless. Even with my fitful dreams, I still wasn’t ready to get up, especially now that the light was pouring through the windows and my bed seemed safe and real once more. So Memphis moved to his final solution. With a careful, quiet step, he crawled onto my chest and began slowly inching his way up to my face. I think he was solely responsible for my recurring dreams of being crushed to death in a dozen different ways, be it by car, train, or elevator. In slow, incremental steps, the fat cat inched closer until he was covering my face and my mouth was full of fur.

  “Get off me!”

  He mewed loudly, jumped to the edge of the bed, and watched me. I remember lying there – half under the covers, letting my eyes adjust to the dawn before casting them up at the ceiling. Had my room ever looked so alien, so not my own? I turned to the side, saw the picture from the night before lying on the edge of the bed, and hesitated to reach for it. What if I saw it, the eyes gleaming, the mouth hissing? In a weird way, I was glad for the past week of childish denial. Andy had truly done me a favor when he smashed that tape. I could have just gone back to pretending that it never happened at all.

  But that picture.

  If there was so much as a thread of evidence in that frame, I’d never sleep soundly again. With a shaking hand, I snatched it up and raised it to my eyes.

  Nothing.

  Just my room. Dark around the edges. The flash turning everything a washed-out white. I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as my heart stopped threatening to crack my ribs. Then Memphis mewed.

  “You saw it, didn’t you?”

  He mewed again.

  “I wish you could talk. Then maybe I’d know if I was crazy or not.”

  The light on the aquarium was out, but I could have been sleepwalking.

  “No,” I said aloud. “Just…no.”

  I reached back for my bear, who was still sitting on the pillow. Then I ventured into the kitchen to silence the hungry cat prowling after me.

  I didn’t see Andy leave that morning, but I do distinctly remember when he finally returned. There was a knock on the door, and Dad had to button his pants before answering it.

  “The hell is that?” he said as I met him in the hallway, watching from a distance. I couldn’t hear everything they said, but I saw enough to know within seconds just what was going on. Blue suit, black belt weighted down with a gun, cuffs, and all other sorts of toys. Nodding heads. My father bringing a hand to his brow in frustration. And all at once, I knew. Without hearing a single word, I knew.

  I darted down the hall, into my room, and straight for the window, which faced the road. There it was, a patrol car parked on the curb. It was hard to tell in the warm, early morning sun, but I could see there was someone in the back, someone who looked, even through the glare, to be young. The cop escorted my dad down the yard before opening the door to let my brother out.

  Andy.

  Arrested.

  Jesus.

  All the shine had been rubbed away from my brother years before, but this. This was entering the big time. Thirteen years old and already being picked up by the cops. Even at nine, I knew where this was headed.

  There was an exchange between the three of them, not heated or angry, just resigned. My dad’s posture, firm but tired, exasperated, and embarrassed. The cop, good-natured, understanding, and clearly certain that this wouldn’t be the last time. And then Andy, sallow, sullen, and absolutely uncaring. Dad shook the cop’s hand and motioned for Andy to do the same, which he did with as little effort as possible. Then, with a giant hand across Andy’s bony shoulder, Dad guided him back inside. I met them there, my eyes as big as teacups, watching every moment, but not daring to say a word. Dad gently closed the door behind Andy and locked it. He never locked it.

  “Anything you want to say?” he asked, turning back to Andy.

  My brother shrugged.

  “Go to your room. Get all the cords for your games, your stereo, your cable box. Bring them to me.”

  “Fine.”

  “We’ll be talking about this later. Now…” He paused, probably thinking about exactly what he wanted to say. “You don’t want me to talk about it now. Think about what you want to say. I expect some kind of explanation.”

  Andy didn’t have much to say about that. As I watched from around the corner, he gathered up the cords in question and laid them in the hallway like a coil of poisonous snakes. I waited until Andy’s door was tightly closed before I dared to walk out and survey the scene.

  I know I’m a pill. I mean, I always have been. I’ll bet my mom was too, even if my father was never able to truly admit it. But it’s moments like that one that show a part of me I’m not entirely proud to admit exists. Me, hiding, watching from afar, tiptoeing around the situation like a scared little mouse. I guess what I’m trying to say is this: I talk a good game, and I can even walk a pretty good one. I want people to think I’m tough, and I’ll show them if they make me.

  But Andy.

  Andy was cut from something altogether different. He was part stone, something cold and hard and nearly impossible to break. I could see it in his eyes then. To me, the cops were figures of almost mythic proportion, the very sight of which made me weak in the knees. To Andy, they weren’t shit. They couldn’t hurt him, not really, and so he shrugged them off. As clear as I can tell, that attitude came from my dad – a man who had the benefit of two parents, each of them picking up the slack for the other. As an adult, that coldness had melted into something mellow, a healthy dose of ‘fuck it’ that made him likable, fun to be around. But for Andy, raised by a single, somewhat bumbling father, it coalesced, hardened. I’m not saying that my dad was necessarily to blame for Andy’s fall from grace, but he played a part to be sure. So did I. He didn’t kill our mother after all. That was all me.

  Anyway, when the coast was clear, I sneaked into the living room, where Dad had already flopped back into his chair. He had a beer in hand – early for a Saturday, but I think even back then that I understood it. The talk with Andy, whenever it happened, was going to be rough, and he needed to prepare. I sat down on the couch without a word and kicked my feet. Nothing to see. Bored girl, watching baseball with her dad. I sighed. When that wasn’t enough, I sighed louder.

  “You okay?” he said finally, looking
over at me.

  “Ye-ah. I guess,” I said in a worried tone.

  “Go ahead,” he said, taking a sip.

  “What?”

  “Just get it over with. I know you saw everything. What do you want to know?”

  I considered playing coy a bit longer, but there wasn’t much point. Dad knew me too well to pretend.

  “I saw the cop,” I said, leaning forward. “What happened?”

  This time he sighed, a sound as tired as any I’d ever heard. Another big swig of beer was followed by, “Your brother…” He trailed off. “Andy’s…he’s just kinda lost. Has been for a while now.”

  I nodded empathetically. “What did he do?”

  “Got busted stealing cigarettes.” He looked down at his beer. “Down at Dean’s. The clerk snatched him up by the arm and dragged him into the fucking back room.”

  He glanced at me and shook his head. “Don’t cuss,” he added, like he was performing a public service announcement.

  “Never do,” I replied. “So then what?”

  “What do you think? Clerk called the cops, and Andy got to take a little ride. Jesus, he didn’t used to be like this.”

  I sensed something at the edges of the conversation, something Dad would have liked to say but didn’t dare. I could only imagine exactly what that might be, but I had a strong suspicion it had to do with Mom. We were always stuck, Dad and me, when it came to her. All I ever wanted was more: more details, more pictures, more of her clothes, her makeup. How had she talked? What had she laughed at? How many friends did she have? For him, it was the opposite. Every mention made him squirm, but I don’t think it was because he missed her. I’m sure he did, but he squirmed and avoided the subject to save me the heartache of being the one who took her away.

  So I let the moment die and drifted back to my room sometime later to stare at the ceiling and ponder every crazy thing that had happened in the past week. After an hour or so I heard Andy’s door open as Dad slipped inside. Even through the walls, I could hear Dad’s voice – firm, deep, booming – as he laid down the law as gently as he could. For the life of me, I can’t ever remember him yelling, but things got heated all the same. I’m not sure what Andy said to get it going. Whatever it was, Dad wasn’t having it. About a quarter of an hour later, Dad stopped, half in and half out of Andy’s door, and for the first time, I could hear him clearly.

  “I expect better from you, Andy,” he said. “I expect better because you can do better. I’ve seen better.”

  There was no answer, and I heard him take a step away, pulling the door closed as he did so. Then Dad opened the door once more.

  “I love you.”

  No answer.

  I sat in my room for the next hour or so, headphones in, sketching out pictures of the Toy Thief on a notepad. None of it was easy. Being a dad, especially alone. Being a son. Being a daughter. I thought of Sallie, of their perfect home, perfect family. Perfect teeth even. Her mother, miserable, determined to make them all just like her.

  None of it was easy.

  I thought of how hard it must have been for Dad to swallow however mad he was, to open that door even after he had closed it, all to let his son, his first and last son, know that he loved him. And what did he get for his trouble?

  Silence.

  Bitterness.

  Casual hatred.

  The longer I thought about the whole damn thing, the more I began to boil. None of us deserved what we had, that was true, but the simple fact was, Andy didn’t deserve our dad either, didn’t deserve a man who never hesitated to tell his family that he loved them. I don’t think I fully grasped the feelings I was processing back then, but I picked up on the basics. In the years since, I’ve seen families crumble, broken chains of broken people, linked together one after the other. At any moment, any of them could have changed the trajectory of their families forever, if only they’d known they were loved. It was everything, and we were lucky to have it. So when Andy finally worked up the nerve to exit his room, I met him in the kitchen, fuming.

  “So,” I said, instantly accusatory.

  “What?” he replied as he grabbed a bag of chips from the pantry.

  “I saw all…that.”

  “It’s not any of your business,” he retorted, scowling as he skulked back to his room.

  “It is when the cops come knocking,” I said, following him right into his room, even being so bold as to kick the door that he attempted to slam in my face. “What’s the matter with you?” I demanded.

  “It’s none of your fucking business,” he repeated, balling his hands into fists. He hadn’t ever hit me before, but I took a reflexive step back all the same.

  “What is it?” I asked, genuinely curious. “What do you have to be so pissy about?”

  “Don’t go there,” he replied.

  “Go where? What is it you hate so much?”

  “You,” he replied flatly. He might as well have hit me. In that moment, he saw the confused hurt on my face, but he didn’t let up. “You changed everything. You ruined everything. Life was so different before you, because she was here.”

  I’d never heard him mention my mother before, and the last thing I expected was for this moment to be the one where he decided to.

  “You don’t mean that…”

  “Yes, I do. Don’t try to tell me what I mean. You fucked up everything. All you’ve ever done is fuck things up.”

  My jaw was on the floor and embarrassing little tears were blooming on the sides of my eyes. I wished he had hit me, and he could read it all over me.

  “Now get out of my room.”

  Without another word, I did as I was told.

  * * *

  I’ve always wondered about having kids of my own. I mean, it’s hard to know for sure just exactly how kids will affect you. Will the best part of yourself come out, that little seed inside you blooming, changing you forever? Or will you take one look and run? I don’t think I’d be a runner, but I worry I could be something even worse. I’d be the type to stay, no matter how bad things got. No, that’s not quite right. No matter how bad I made things.

  I already told you that I was broken. It’s true. My family was broken, so what were the chances that I would be any different? It’s Andy that kills me, though. I would go see him at least once a month. More when I could bear it. Sometimes less. It was hard to get to know him as a grownup, especially through a layer of wired glass. It was especially tough in the beginning, the first few times I finally worked up the nerve to show my face there. Everyone I knew – coworkers, my therapist, the girl who cuts my hair – they all told me how brave I was, like I was risking my life just by sitting across from him.

  It kills me, because I always thought that Andy was one of the bloomers, that a kid would change everything for him. That shell, that wall of scar tissue built up around him, it was always hiding something. The shrinks, the cops, just about every person I met, they all thought they knew what was hiding there. After all, things played out the way they did for a reason. Andy showed exactly who he was – at least if you ask them.

  Those people were fucking idiots.

  I always figured that if anything ever cracked that shell, you’d find a flower growing inside. Dad, stuck with the two of us, used to try to explain how people worked. I think he was trying to smooth the edges between Andy and me, trying to give us something to work with for the inevitable moment when we were the only ones left. I’m sure he imagined the scenario: brother and sister, each hating the other as strongly as was humanly possible. I can’t speak from experience, but I can’t imagine a worse feeling of failure than having two kids that hate each other.

  The way Dad explained it, we were all born with gifts. You could call them strengths, talents, areas of expertise, or whatever, but the important thing in life was identifying them, honing them, using them
to get ahead. I think Dad, had he noticed his own gifts, might have been able to be an artist. Andy, if left to his own devices, could have been a writer himself. I’ve seen some of his work, and I’m stunned at how complete it is, stories as varied and lovely as any I can find on a bookshelf. For me, I could have been an athlete with a little more guidance. Every shred of physical prowess that seemed to skip Andy was drawn directly into me, but it wasn’t just the physical side. I was aggressive, more standoffish, unable to give an inch. Pitiful traits for a mother perhaps, but quite helpful on a field.

  The idea of gifts wasn’t anything revolutionary, but it has stuck with me to this day. Most important of all was finding out what gifts you weren’t born with. These were the things you had to get out there and earn, to find, to take for yourself. My aggression left me cold, so I had to learn how to care about other people. That’s why I never wanted to bring a kid into this world. Not for my sake, but for theirs.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I caught Andy walking out of the bathroom with his shirt off. He was pale, always so pale, but slimly built, wiry, and almost strong-looking despite his aversion to all things physical. He glared. I glared back. Then, as we passed in the hall, I caught a glimpse of a patch of red on his back.

  “What’s that?” I asked without a moment of hesitation, not because I was a caring, doting sister, but because I never respected his boundaries.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at my face.

  “Seriously, turn around for a second.”

  He turned toward me and pressed his back against the closed door. “Leave me alone,” he spat.

  For a moment, I thought of him and Dad going back and forth behind the closed door. Then I thought about how mad Dad was, a quiet, brewing sort of anger, remarkably like Andy’s. I’d never known my father to lay a hand on either of us, but the red, swollen patch of skin looked remarkably like a handprint.