D Gillespie - The Toy Thief

We talked through our story, how Andy had been picked on by some older kids around the neighborhood the day before. We never said who, not specifically, but if pressed, I’m sure we would have said the same name. He’d left the house the night before, intending to get some payback by vandalizing the bully’s house. The only problem was, Andy got caught in the act and had to run. He evaded them, but by then, he was miles away from home. He hunkered down in an alley and waited for morning, dozing off for a few hours.

It wasn’t a good story, but we both knew it didn’t really matter. He was home, and that would be enough. Once all the questions were asked, it would have to be enough. Satisfied and ready for dry clothes, we left the woods behind and made our way toward our house. There was no one in sight. No one ran out and scooped us up. No cops appeared, lights ablaze, to escort us home. It was just two kids with questionable decision-making skills taking a stroll in the rain.

I stopped Andy next to the backyard and pulled him over to the shed, out of sight of any windows. “You good?”

He nodded, seeming to barely hear a word I said as he scanned the path we walked up on.

“Knock that off,” I said sharply.

“What?”

“That. Staring. Looking around like a bird or something. Dad won’t buy a word of it if you keep acting like that.”

He was breathing hard all of a sudden, and I realized he was swinging again, his mood shifting from one pole to the other like a human pendulum.

“Fuck you,” he said abruptly. “Quit acting like you’re my mom. You always do that. You’re not. So fuck you.”

I tried not to show how deep his words had bitten into me, and I choked back my natural reaction to slap him.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” I said slowly, “but I’m the only reason you’re out of there. You said so yourself.”

His eyes darted left, right, left again, all in the span of less than a second. “Right. Good. Fine. It’s fine.”

I didn’t dare press him any further.

“Then let’s get this over with.”

As we walked those last few feet up to the house, I felt as if I were walking next to a bear or a mountain lion. He was my brother, and I loved him, but all at once, I didn’t trust him. He felt like a walking, talking, loaded gun, the sort of thing that had to be respected, handled carefully, but never truly trusted. I could see it as clear as the rain clouds overhead, but the question that pounded away inside my head was whether or not Dad would see it as well.

We opened the sliding glass door, and I stepped in first. Only silence. The house breathing. The rain falling. Thunder crashing in the distance. For a moment, I feared the worst, feared that somehow the Thief had found his way here, had already taken something much more precious than any toy. Then I heard the footsteps, heavy, leaden, the unmistakable trundle of my dad.

“Jack,” he said from down the hallway, and I stuck out my hand to hold Andy in place for a moment. I felt him push at me, trying to swat my hand away, but I didn’t back down.

“I’m here,” I said as I pushed my brother further back into the rain.

“Where the hell did you go?” he asked, storming into the kitchen. “I told you not to leave the—”

“Dad,” I said in a quiet tone, forcing him to drop his voice and listen.

“You’re all wet. What have you been into?”

“I found Andy,” I said as I stepped aside and let him in. I’m not sure why I did it that way, but I wanted to be the one to let him back in, to be the one between the two of them if things went bad. Andy stepped in, his clothes and face dripping onto the linoleum floor. I never looked back at my brother, because I was too busy staring at Dad, watching him, figuring out what he would do.

“Andy,” he whispered, and I knew it was all going to be fine. He crossed the room in two long strides and wrapped his son up in a bear hug, squeezing the water out of him as he clutched Andy’s head onto his massive shoulder.

“Oh God, Andy,” he pleaded as his voice died down to a near whisper. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

“I’m okay, Dad,” Andy said when he had finally had enough. “I’m fine.”

Something in his voice snapped Dad back to reality, and he took a step back, grabbing the collar of Andy’s shirt. “Where the hell were you!?” he demanded. “I called the cops. I was worried to death. Why the fuck did you do that?”

I could see it in Andy’s eyes – that wildness creeping back in, brought on by having another person scream in his face. For a moment, he reminded me of a soda can being shaken up, and I just knew he was about to burst. Then he blinked, and the other part, the real part of himself, took control.

“I… I just walked off. I was… having trouble at school…”

It sounded fake, sounded like a lie, and I jumped in and took the wheel.

“There were some bullies at school,” I said. “Older guys fucking with him, he said.”

“Watch your mouth,” Dad said, never even glancing at me. “Is that true?” he asked Andy, loosening the grip on his shirt.

He began to blink quickly, but he nodded as well, and the two gestures together made him look more like an embarrassed teen than a lying one. That was good.

“But where did you go?”

“I left last night. I was… going to get them back. Maybe egg the guy’s house or something.”

For me, it would have sounded fake, a half-baked lie that wasn’t ready for primetime. But for Andy, it sounded genuine. Dad knew, just as well as I did, how little he thought things through when he was mad.

“So,” Dad said, urging him on, “what happened?”

“They came out. I don’t think anyone saw who I was, but… they were yelling.” He looked down at his soaked shoes, and inspiration seemed to strike. “I think one of them had a gun.”

“Jesus, Andy,” Dad said, shaking his head. “You could’ve gotten killed. What happened next?”

“I just ran. I ended up in town,” he said nervously. “I was just wandering. I… I got lost. I ended up sleeping next to a dumpster off the square.”

“God,” Dad moaned. “How did you get home?”

“I walked,” he said, his voice suddenly breaking. “I… I tried to get home… I tried, I really did. I just… it was so dark…”

At first, I thought he was just finding the thread of the lie, taking it and running, the way I always did. Lying was like breathing to me, a second language I was born with, but Andy never was a good liar, and I realized he was telling the truth. He was back there now, back in that nightmarish cave, hidden in some dark corner of the earth as a creature that had no right to exist fed on the best parts of him.

“Hush,” Dad said as the first tear rolled down his cheek. “You’re home. That’s the only thing that matters.” Dad turned and looked at me with tired, watery eyes.

“What was your part in all this?”

I was as quick as ever. “I was down by the creek, just messing around. I saw him coming, so I ran up and helped.”

It wasn’t much of an explanation, but I knew it would work well enough. Dad was too beaten to dig much deeper. He led Andy back to the bathroom himself and began to help him out of the wet clothes.

“No,” Andy said, pushing him away. “I… I got it. I need to take a shower first.”

Dad didn’t fight him, but he did wait patiently outside the door. I had a sudden image then, of a man, a father, tapping his toe nervously outside the maternity ward as his wife was giving birth to their second. I imagined his face when they told him the news, and before I had a chance to change out of my own clothes, I rushed over and gave Dad a hug.