D Gillespie - The Toy Thief

“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.