David Hosp - Among Thieves

She sat up in bed. Finn was downstairs, and she was alone in the guest room. She stood up and walked over to her duffel, reached inside, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. There was a fire escape landing outside her window; she opened the screen and stepped out onto it. Sitting down, she pulled out a cigarette and struck a match. She took a drag as she thought about her predicament. Notwithstanding the kindness her father’s lawyer had shown her, she was still pretty sure she was fucked.

She’d had a glimmer of hope a year before, when her mother left her with Devon. She’d felt deserted, but she was old enough to recognize that her mother had sunk so low that she wasn’t able to function. Sally had been taking care of herself for a couple of years by then, and had already come to terms with the fact that her mother loved her drugs more than she loved her daughter.

When her mother announced that Sally was going to go to live with her father, Sally was shocked. Her mother had never mentioned her father before. Sally had grown up under the impression that her mother wasn’t entirely sure who her father was. That wouldn’t have surprised Sally; monogamy didn’t seem to be an instinct her mother possessed. Not even on a weekly basis. Sometimes, Sally feared, not on a nightly basis.

And so, when her mother announced that she was taking Sally to live with her father, Sally allowed herself to hope. For just a split second, she indulged in the fairy tale all unhappy children hold in their hearts. She let herself believe that she was a part of something greater. She let herself envision her father as a lost prince who would deliver her from her life of squalor and fear.

Devon hadn’t quite fulfilled her dreams.

It wasn’t his fault, she knew. Sally’s mother had never told Devon about her. They showed up that morning on Devon’s stoop, and Devon had come to the door warily. Sally wondered what had transpired between the two of them for her not to tell him he had a daughter, and for him to approach the door that day with such trepidation. They never told her, though.

The introductions were short. “She’s yours,” her mother said. “Her name’s Sally.”

Devon had just stood there, his mouth open, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He was wearing a dirty T-shirt and he hadn’t shaved in days. Neither one of them knew what to say. For a moment, Sally thought he was going to slam the door in their faces. She wouldn’t have blamed him, either. He didn’t, though. After a healthy pause, he said, “I’m Devon.”

To his credit, he never complained about taking her in. Most guys would have, Sally knew. Most guys would have at least asked for a paternity test. That was never an issue with Devon, though. He seemed to accept instinctively the fact that Sally was his daughter. In some ways, he even seemed excited about the prospect. He treated her with a sort of fearful awe. She supposed it was something approaching love, but she had little with which to compare it to verify her suspicion.

All the love in the world, though, couldn’t improve their living conditions. It was a step up from her mother’s situation, but then a step up from crack houses wasn’t exactly the Ritz. She gathered quickly from his schedule that Devon didn’t have any legal employment, and she deduced that he was a thief. She asked him about it once, and he didn’t even try to lie. That didn’t bother her; in her experience, theft seemed a minor sin. She just wished he was a better thief; he was barely making enough to feed them and pay the rent. Every once in a while she would catch him looking at her with what she could only describe as shame in his eyes. As if he was failing her. Maybe he was, a little, but she was safe and dry. She’d learned not to hope for more.

Recently, that look had begun to recede from his eyes. He’d seemed more confident; optimistic, even. Once again, she had allowed herself to believe that maybe-just maybe-better things were on the way. Now he was in jail. She vowed never to feel hope again. It was a promise she’d made before, but seemed unable to keep. Hope was crack to her; she couldn’t seem to give it up no matter how hard she tried.

She took another drag off her cigarette just as the silhouette of a head appeared in the window to her room, making her flinch. “You scared me,” she said.

Finn poked his head out the window. “I scared you? I came up to see if you needed anything and found the room empty; talk about scared. What are you doing?”

She considered lying, but decided against it. She held her cigarette up in view.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Finn said.

“You’re not my father,” she replied. It came out with a harsher edge than she intended. “ Devon lets me smoke,” she explained. “My mother was too fucked up to care one way or another.”

Finn climbed out onto the fire escape. It was an awkward fit out the window for a grown man. Once outside, he stood up and looked around. “I’ve never been out here,” he said. She looked around. The window was located on the back side of the building, and the fire escape looked sideways on the hill. Down below she could see the street and the upscale brownstones across the way.

“It’s not bad,” she said.

“There’s a roof deck upstairs. It’s got a better view. You can see both the water and the monument.”

“This is better than any view I’ve ever had.”

He looked down at her. “Fair enough.” He stood there for a moment, then took two steps down the fire escape and sat next to her. It was cramped, and she shimmied toward the building to give some room; she didn’t want their legs touching. He sat there for a minute. Then he turned and looked again at her cigarette.

“I swear, my father lets me smoke,” she said. She’d picked up smoking from her mother a couple of years before. She figured it beat suicide.

“I didn’t say anything,” Finn said. He was still looking at the butt. “It’s just…”

“What?”

“You got an extra?”

She reached into her pocket, pulled out the pack and tossed it to him. “You shouldn’t smoke,” she said.

“So I’ve heard.”

He lit the cigarette and took an ex-smoker’s drag. He held the poison in his lungs for a long time, milking its full effect, like a man lost in the desert drinking at an oasis. Finally he let the smoke out in a loud, long, satisfying exhale. Looking at the glowing ember of the cigarette, he asked her, “So, you doing okay with all of this?”

She shrugged. “Which part? My mom ditching? My dad being in jail? Having no place to live?”

“Your father being in jail and you having to stay here with me.”

“Par for the course in my life,” she said.

He took another long drag off the cigarette and held it for a shorter time. “It’s not always gonna be like this,” he said as he exhaled.

“No? What’s it gonna be like?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Is this the part where you share an inspirational story about how hard life was when you were growing up, and how you beat the odds?”

“No,” Finn said. “Not anymore.”

“Good. I’ve heard it before. It’s like every guidance counselor’s been given the same script. I’m in control of my own life; I can do whatever I want; if I just apply myself, all the doors in the world are open to me. Except it’s a load of shit. Worse, they know it’s a load of shit. They say the words, but they know what really happens.”

“So, what is it you want?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. A view as good as this, maybe.” There was a part of her that wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t let herself. What would be the point?

Finn sat smoking his cigarette for a while. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was back to looking out at the street. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I’m not your father. And I can’t tell you what to do. All I can do is try to get your father out of jail, and try to help you out in the meantime.”