Brom: The Child Thief

It would happen again tonight: the really bad thing. The girl had no doubt. It had started a few months ago, around the time her breasts had begun to develop, and now, with her mother gone, there was no one to stop him.

From her bedroom she could hear him pacing the cluttered living room of the cramped apartment. He was in one of his fits, muttering to himself, cursing the television, his boss, the president, Jesus, but mostly cursing her mother for taking all those pills, cursing her to hell and back, over and over. But her mother was dead and would never have to suffer through another of his tirades, not ever again. The girl wished she were so lucky.

There came the sharp snap of a beer tab, then another, and another. Her hands began to tremble and she clutched them to her chest. She wished she could fall asleep, then she would at least be spared the waiting, the dread. But she knew there’d be no sleep for her tonight.

He was there. The flickering light from the television silhouetted him as he leaned against her door frame. She couldn’t see his eyes, but knew they were on her. She twisted the sheet tightly about her neck as though it were some magical talisman to ward away wickedness. Sometimes he stared at her like that for hours, muttering to himself in his two voices: the kind, soft voice, and the harsh, scary voice. Back and forth the voices went, like two men debating their religious convictions. Usually, the soft voice prevailed. But tonight, there was no sign of the soft voice, only a low rasp punctuated with sharp barks of profanity.

He moved into the room, setting his beer on the dresser next to her Betty Boop radio-alarm clock, the one that woke her up for school with its crackling rendition of “Boop Oop a Doop.” She’d missed a lot of school lately, partly because she was tired of the looks and whispers from the other students, from the teachers, all so careful around her, as though her mother’s suicide was somehow contagious. But mostly she wanted to avoid Mrs. Stewart—the guidance counselor—and all her prying questions. Somehow Mrs. Stewart seemed to know and was determined to get her to talk about it. This scared the girl. There was a two-inch scar on the side of her head where her hair would never grow back in. He’d made that mark with a dinner fork the one time she’d tried to tell her mother. The girl found herself thinking more and more about the pills her mother had swallowed, wondered if those pills could take her to her mother. She thought about that every time the bad thing happened.

His hand was on her—heavy, hot. She could feel his heat even through the sheet. He pulled the cover away then sat next to her, his weight sinking into the small box springs and causing her body to slide against him. He laid a calloused hand on her calf, slid it slowly up along her inner thigh and under her flannel nightgown, his thick fingers squeezing and prodding. His breathing became heavy. He stood. She heard his thick brass belt buckle hit the floor then he was on top of her, the small mattress protesting his bulk.

She clutched her pillow and struggled not to cry out, staring out the window and trying to take herself somewhere else. The stars were particularly bright tonight. She focused on their magical glow, wishing she could fly up among them, fly so far away that the man could never touch her again.

A shadow blocked the stars. Someone was at the window looking in. In the faint glow she could see it was a boy. The boy pulled the window up and slid into the room with a quick, fluid movement.

“What the fu—” the man started, but the boy bounded across the room and hit the man with both feet, knocking him backward and into the hall. The boy moved fast, faster than the girl had ever seen anyone move, and was at the man before he could regain his feet. Both the man and the boy crashed down the hall and out of view.

Someone hit the wall hard enough to shake the girl’s bed frame. The man let out a howl and something shattered. There came a single sharp cry from the man, followed by a low “Oh, God” that sounded more like an exhale than a heavy thud. The apartment fell silent.

The girl glanced at the open window and wondered if she should run, but before she could, the boy reappeared, his wiry frame silhouetted in her doorway.

He moved into the room and she drew back. This seemed to trouble the boy and he slipped over to the window, leaped up, and perched on the sill. He had a tangle of auburn, shoulder-length hair, a sprinkle of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and his ears were— pointy . He looked up at the stars as though drinking in their magic, then back at her. She noticed the color of his eyes: gold like a lynx.

He cocked his head, then smiled, and when he did, those golden eyes sparkled. There was something wild in them, something exciting and dangerous. He slid a leg out onto the fire escape and nodded for her to come along.

She started to follow, then stopped. What was she thinking? She couldn’t just follow this strange boy out into the night. She shook her head.

His smile fell. He glanced back up at the stars, then waved to her as though to say good-bye.

“Wait,” she called.

He waited.

And that was as far as she got, unsure what to do next. The only thing she was sure of was that she didn’t want this magical boy to leave her. A sparkling star caught her eye. The stars were all so brilliant she found herself wondering if she were in a dream, if maybe this boy had come down from the heavens to take her away.

She blinked, tried to clear her head, needing a minute to think. She wanted to go to the bathroom, but that would’ve meant going down the hall, and she didn’t want to do that, didn’t want to see what the golden-eyed boy had done to the man. And she didn’t want to let the boy out of her sight, afraid this might break the spell, that when she returned he’d be gone forever and she’d be alone. Her eyes fell on the man’s big brass belt buckle sitting atop his wadded-up pants and she began to twist the hem of her nightgown, tighter and tighter, until finally a sob escaped her throat. Tears overtook her and she slid off the bed onto her knees.

The boy came and knelt beside her. While she cried into her hands, he told her of an enchanted island where no grown-ups were allowed. Where there were other kids like her, who loved to laugh and play. Where there were great adventures to be had.

She wiped her eyes and managed to smile as she shook her head at his silly story, but when he invited her to come along, she found herself believing . And even though a voice deep within her warned her to stay away from this strange boy, she wanted nothing more at that moment than to follow along after him.

She glanced around the tiny room where the man had stolen so much from her. There was nothing left but painful memories. What else did she have to lose?

This time, when the boy stood to go, she dressed quickly, following him out onto the fire escape, down to the street, and into the night.

If the girl could only have spoken to the other boys and girls, the ones that had followed the golden-eyed boy before her, she would have known that there is always something left to lose.

In a small corner of Prospect Park, in the borough of Brooklyn, New York, a thief lay hidden in the trees. This thief wasn’t searching for an unattended purse, cell phone, or camera. This thief was looking for a child.