The Good Thief Page 4

  On his way back down the stairs Ren ran his hand along the old wooden banister. This is the last time I will touch this, he thought, and just as he did a splinter jammed its way into his palm. Ren went outside and crossed the yard, sucking at his skin, trying to pull the piece of wood out with his teeth, feeling the edge of it with his tongue. In the sunlight he examined the sliver nestled under the surface, a tiny piece of Saint Anthony’s determined to come with him.

  He turned around and looked at the winery, then the chapel, then the orphanage. It was hard to believe that he was no longer going to work or pray or sleep on these grounds. All he’d ever wanted was to leave, but now as he was about to, he felt uneasy. He walked over to the high brick wall surrounding the buildings and pressed his wet palm against it. The masonry felt as thick and substantial as ever.

  “Good-bye,” he said. But it didn’t seem like enough. So he kicked the wall, as hard as he could. The impact made the bones in his leg shake. He stood there panting for a moment, then limped away, his toe throbbing inside his boot.

  At the well Brom and Ichy were waiting for him.

  “Are you really leaving?”

  Ren nodded. The twins stuffed their hands into their pockets. Ren knew they were trying to be glad for him. Brom frowned, and Ichy dug his shoe into the dirt. Everything the boys had shared seemed captured in the line Ichy made on the ground between them. The twins had eaten every meal with Ren, played with him at every first snow, watched with him from the window every time the soldiers came and took another boy away. Since their arrival, they had stretched beside him every night of his life and opened their eyes next to him every morning.

  The three boys stood together awkwardly in silence, until Ichy reached down and pulled a stone from the mark he’d made at their feet. He cleaned it with the tail of his shirt, then handed it to Ren. The rock was warm from the sun, its surface black and craggy, with bits of red garnet that sparkled. Ren admired the stone for a moment, then closed his fingers around it, feeling the splinter still in his palm.

  “Where’s he taking you?” Brom asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Ren. And he was filled with a kind of regret—a nostalgia for everything he was about to lose: the smell of fish, the oatmeal for breakfast, the thin blankets, the cold stone walls that echoed. But he knew what it felt like to be left behind, and for the first time in his life he wasn’t the one watching with an aching stomach from the gate as someone else was taken home. He knew then to say what they all said—I’ll come back to visit—and, like them, he knew he never would.

  FIVE

  It wasn’t until the latch was closed on the gate that Ren thought to be afraid. Afternoon prayers were about to begin. Father John would be leading the first decade of the rosary, and Ren would not be there. Instead he was outside, following a stranger down the road. The sun and the grass and the trees seemed to know this; even the air felt charged as they walked through it. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he tried to match Benjamin Nab’s stride.

  They’d walked for only half a mile when they reached the end of the blueberry bushes. This was the farthest Ren had ever been from the orphanage. The boys were sent to pick the blueberries in the middle of the summer. It was always a thrill to be outside the brick wall, and Ren connected the feeling with the taste of the berries, the stain of the juice, the thin blue skin so easily damaged. Now it was fall, and the bushes looked completely different, the leaves turned orange and red.

  Ren and Benjamin Nab continued along the road. They passed several fields and came over a hill, breathing heavily as they reached the top. Ren could see a far distance, out to the edges of the mountains and down into the valley. The trees covered every inch, the fall foliage in full color, catching the light of the afternoon sun—yellow, red, and orange, but also ocher, vermilion, magenta, and gold—a brilliant, shimmering view.

  Benjamin Nab put his hands on his hips and surveyed the land as if it all belonged to him. Then he turned back to the boy. “Let’s have another look at you.”

  Ren stood perfectly still as the man walked around him. Benjamin Nab crouched down, then lifted the boy’s arm and examined the end of the wrist where the skin was sewn over. Ren watched for the usual signs of discomfort or shock. But Benjamin Nab’s face held none of these things. He raised his eyebrows.

  “Well,” he said, “you have another one, don’t you?”

  There were marks beneath his cheekbones, signs of worried skin. His eyebrows were fair, but the outline of the glasses made up for this, bringing a sturdy look. “You’ll do just fine,” Benjamin said. Then he stood up, and they continued down the road and into the valley. The sun set behind them, and Saint Anthony’s went with it.

  Benjamin Nab was a fast walker, easily avoiding ruts in the earth and piles of manure with a quick turn of his boot—the war wound that he had complained of at Saint Anthony’s seemed to have disappeared. Ren struggled to keep pace. He hoped that Benjamin Nab would tell another story about their parents, but the man remained silent as the trees turned into shadows, then dark silhouettes, against the sky.

  “Where are we going?” Ren finally asked.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I have to use the privy.”

  Benjamin Nab stopped. He pulled his hair back and retied it, then gestured to the woods. “There’s your privy.”

  Ren stepped tentatively into the underbrush just beyond the road.

  “Not too far,” said Benjamin. “There’s things in the forest that might carry you off.”

  Ren listened to the sound of the trees as he unbuttoned his trousers. The breeze was stirring, the stars just starting to show themselves. The boy could hear the scraping of the branches overhead, the groan of a trunk as it swayed. Something scattered on his left, and he jumped to his feet, crashing into thorns that grabbed at his hair as he rushed back to the road.

  When he pushed through the leaves, Benjamin was waiting, his hands clasped behind him and his long coat swinging in the wind. He was looking at the tops of the trees. Ren followed his gaze and saw a farmhouse on a hill above, and a trail leading to a barn some distance from the road. No light came from the windows, but there was still a bit of smoke drifting from the chimney. A fire nearly out.

  Benjamin straightened Ren’s jacket. He looked the boy up and down.

  “Fix your trousers.”

  Ren buttoned up the fly and tied the bit of rope that held his pants together.

  “No talking,” said Benjamin. “You just keep quiet. And watch me. And learn.” With that he took hold of Ren’s hand and marched up the path to the farmhouse.

  It was a small building, with a vegetable garden and five or six acres behind it. The roof was made of slate and the chimney was set in the middle of the house. There was a rosebush by the door, a few tight buds still holding on in the chill. Benjamin knocked, and after a few minutes a candle appeared at one of the windows, and then the sash was up, and the barrel of a shotgun slid out and pointed at them.

  Benjamin nodded at the gun as if it were a person. “We’re traveling to Wenham, and we seem to have lost our way on the road. I was hoping that you’d let us spend the night in your barn.”

  “I don’t let strangers on to my property, day or night,” said a man’s voice. “Be off.”

  “I’d be glad to pay you for your trouble,” said Benjamin, and he made a show of searching his pockets. “It’s the boy I’m worried about. I’m afraid to take him any farther this way in the dark. We’ve been going all day, and he’s awful tired.”

  As he said this, Benjamin kicked Ren behind the knees. The boy stumbled to the ground in front of the window, the shotgun inches from his head.

  “Jim.” There was a woman’s voice. Ren looked up and saw her face in the candlelight. She had brown hair, plaited in braids, and a shawl pulled over her nightgown. Her forehead touched the glass as she peered at them. She whispered something into the darkness of the house. There was a low murmur in return. The shotgun
slid back inside the window.

  The door opened.

  “Please come in,” said the woman.

  Benjamin picked Ren up off the ground, dusted him off, took him by the elbow, and led him across the threshold. “We can’t thank you enough.”

  “Any Christian would do the same,” she said.

  The light from the candle was barely enough for them to see their way. Ren knocked into something that felt like a stool, and then something else that felt like the edge of a table. The woman put the candle down and lit another with the flame of the first. She lifted the second candle into a fixture that hung from the ceiling and covered it with a hurricane glass, sending a glow across the room, and it was then that Ren saw the farmer who had passed him over at Saint Anthony’s, standing by the fireplace in a nightshirt, the shotgun steady in his hand.

  When the farmer recognized the boy a look came over him, almost as if he was ashamed, and he lowered the shotgun, peering for a moment down the front of his nightshirt. When he raised his face again he said, “Seems you found someone to take you after all.”

  Ren didn’t know what to say. Then he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to say anything, and felt relieved.

  “William’s asleep,” said the farmer. “But I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you in the morning.” He turned to Benjamin and extended his hand. “We’ve also got a boy from Saint Anthony’s.”

  “Ah,” Benjamin replied, as if he didn’t quite understand. Then he said it again—“Ah!”—and began to pump the farmer’s hand enthusiastically.

  They took their seats around the table and the farmer’s wife quickly got the fire going, made some coffee, and served out the remains of a cold meat pie. Ren shoveled the food in his mouth. It was just as he’d imagined. The beef was soft and flavorful, the vegetables slippery with gravy, the crust crimped in a perfect pattern that left the taste of fresh butter on his lips. The men watched Ren eat and discussed the best roads to Wenham. When they had cleaned their plates, the farmer offered Benjamin some tobacco and the men pulled their chairs to the hearth.

  The farmer’s wife took down a jar from a high shelf and opened it. She removed something twisted and black. She handed it to Ren and the boy stared at it, unsure of what to do.

  “It’s licorice,” she said. And when he continued to stare she said, “You eat it.”

  Ren held the piece of candy to his nose. The scent was strange but not entirely unappealing. The farmer’s wife stood by, her face amused. The boy carefully put the licorice inside his mouth. The consistency was soft, the flavor more of a scent than a taste. There was something in it that turned his stomach. He looked up at the woman and tried to smile.

  “We’re going to my uncle’s farm,” said Benjamin. “I haven’t been there in years.”

  “You’ve been traveling,” said the farmer.

  Benjamin nodded. “I served as a cook on a merchant ship. We put into Boston three weeks ago.”

  Ren stopped chewing his licorice.

  The farmer lowered his pipe. “And what countries have you seen?”

  “I’ve been to China. And to India, once.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Hot.” Benjamin pulled on his pipe, released a stream of smoke, and leaned forward. “Like summer all year round. The food is too spicy to eat, and the jungles are full of giant snakes that can swallow men whole.”

  “It sounds frightening,” said the farmer’s wife.

  “It made me appreciate New England,” said Benjamin. “I longed for snow.”

  “See if you can find some extra blankets, Mary,” said the farmer.

  The woman drew away from the table. She climbed a ladder that leaned against the chimney and disappeared into a crawl space over their heads. The men continued smoking and watching the fire.

  “You have a wife?”

  Benjamin hesitated for only a moment. “Not yet.”

  “So the boy goes to your relatives?”

  “To my aunt and uncle. They’ve no children of their own.”

  The farmer glanced at Ren, then turned back to the fire and lowered his voice. “Did you not notice?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s damaged.”

  “That’s why I chose him.”

  “But you said that they were farmers. He’ll be no use to them.”

  “They wanted a companion, not a laborer,” said Benjamin, “and the boy has other qualities.”

  The farmer and Benjamin Nab turned in their seats together and looked at Ren, who was in the process of spitting what was left of the licorice into his hand.

  “Tell the man what you can do,” Benjamin said.

  They all waited, the fire popping.

  “I can whistle,” Ren ventured.

  “Well, that’s something at least,” said the farmer. “Can you give us a song, boy?”

  Ren slipped the remains of the licorice into his pocket. The inside of his mouth felt like paste. He wet his lips. He thought of the chants the brothers sang in chapel and he gave one now, his breath following the notes. When he was nearly finished, he noticed the farmer’s wife, standing on the ladder halfway down, listening, a bundle of blankets under her arm.

  She was how he’d dreamed his own mother would be. Beautiful, and half-lit by shadows. He did not want to stop, but the hymn was over, and she turned her face away, and put her hands back onto the ladder and climbed down.

  The farmer stood and clapped Ren on the back. “Come,” he said, taking the blankets from his wife. “I’ll show you the way to the barn.”

  They stepped out into the night, the farmer leading with a lantern. The trees were swaying and clacking against one another in the wind. A swarm of leaves blew across the field. The farmer unlatched the door to the barn and held it open as Benjamin and Ren walked in.

  It was a small building with a hayloft overhead, which filled the air with a sweet smell and nearly covered the scent of manure. Ren could hear animals moving in their stalls, stirred by the light of the lantern. To the side was the cart the farmer had brought to Saint Anthony’s.

  “Just some chickens and a cow,” said the farmer, “and the horse. There’s bats, too, in the rafters, but they shouldn’t bother you any.” He handed Benjamin the blankets.

  “We can’t thank you enough.”

  “My wife will be in early for the milking.” The farmer hesitated. He looked at Ren as if he wanted to say something, but instead he walked over to his horse. The brown mare lifted her head and nuzzled the side of the farmer’s neck. He stroked the animal’s forehead and gave her another kiss on the nose. “I’ll leave you the light.” It could have been directed to them or the horse. But with those words he put the lantern on the ground and closed the door.

  Benjamin threw the blankets on some straw in the corner, then sat and removed his boots. He turned them upside down, knocking out a number of pebbles, then put them back on. Ren rubbed his arms against the cold and thought of all the places his brother had traveled to and seen, all the adventures he’d experienced. The boy had so many questions to ask he didn’t know where to begin.

  “Have you ever seen an elephant?”

  “A what?”

  “An elephant. In India. I saw a picture of one once, in a book.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Benjamin. “I’ve never been to India.” He bunched one of the blankets behind his head. “You better get some rest. We’ve got to be up in an hour or two.”

  The boy took a step back. “But you said—” he began.

  “I know what I said. Didn’t you listen? What did I tell you before we went inside?”

  “You told me not to say anything.”

  “And what else?”

  “To learn.”

  “We needed a place to sleep. And now we have it. I told them what they wanted to hear so they’d give it to us. It’s as simple as that.”

  Ren watched Benjamin Nab settle in for the night with a growing sense of alarm. The man gathered a bu
nch of dry straw with one arm and covered it with a blanket. He took some more straw and stuffed it inside of his coat and down into his boots. Then he took the collar of his coachman’s coat and turned it up around his face, wrapped another blanket around his shoulders, and curled into a ball on the bed he’d made. It was as if he slept outside every day of his life.

  “I’d like to see them again,” said Ren.

  “Who?”

  “Our parents.”

  Benjamin reached into his coat pocket. “Here,” he said, “you can have them.” He threw the leather pouch onto the ground.

  Ren opened the drawstring. He pulled both scalps out and examined them by the lantern light. The brown piece was small and stiff. It looked like boar’s hair, the follicles thick and shiny and flat against the skin. The blond piece was softer, but the strands were dry as flax. Ren could see where the curls had been glued to the leather.

  “They’re not bad if you don’t look at them closely. I think we had that Father fooled at least. He gave you up quickly enough, didn’t he?”

  Ren put the scalps back into the pouch and settled onto a pile of straw. He could hear the chickens rustling in the coop, their tiny claws scratching. A breeze threaded through the slats of the barn. “What really happened to our parents?”

  Benjamin rolled over onto his back and stared up into the rafters. A long time passed, so long Ren believed he was not going to answer. But just then Benjamin said, “They were murdered. They were killed by a terrible man.”

  A moth fluttered against the lamp, its shadow spread across the wall. Ren pulled the collar of his jacket close. “Why did you lie to me?”

  “Because you wouldn’t want to hear what really happened.” Benjamin sat up, looking irritated and angry. He pushed the blankets off, marched toward the barn door, and opened it. For a moment he stood there on the threshold as if he was going to leave, his shoulders hunched against the cold night air. Then he closed the door and sat down next to Ren.

  “Our father was a soldier. Our mother a woman of station and wealth. They met one day in the woods. She was out picking mushrooms, and he—I’m not sure what he was doing. Maybe he’d spent so much time fighting that he’d lost what it was like to be quiet, and surrounded by trees, without worrying that someone was about to come from behind and try to kill him. Maybe he was just standing there, looking up at the way the branches swayed against the sky, when she came and stood beside him, in a dress as green as the moss under their feet, and said nothing, and looked up as well.