Then she took my spoon and tucked it in my pocket.
“Leave that till later.”
While Momma and Daddy chased out the rats and unloaded old farm equipment from the trailer, Janie pulled the spoon from my
pocket.
“Feel how heavy.” She placed it in my hand. “That’s real silver, Angel. Daddy can sell that easy at any pawnshop. We just
gotta buff out them marks there.” Neither one of us could read the marks. But years later, I remembered that spoon. It said
Swarm
.
“These people are richer than they know,” she said. “You keep your eyes open. You keep fillin’ your pockets. And when Momma
starts bearin’ down on you like she does, you hand her that spoon with your best smile.”
“How do I know what to take?” I asked.
“Whatever glitters,” she said. “And don’t take it all. That’s what people expect a thief to do. Leave somethin’ behind, and
they’ll think they just misplaced the rest of it.”
“Are we thieves, Janie?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “We sure ain’t Swarms.”
More than dancing, even more than drinking, thieving came easy to me. Maybe it was because the small TV we had worked only
when it stormed, and even then only picked up two channels. Or that our radio played fuzzy country music, but only if we held
it high over our heads. Maybe it was because whenever I handed my gifts to Momma, her face would melt into something soft,
even gentle, as she held the treasure in her palm. But my eyes were drawn to anything that glittered. Like the pocket change
a farmhand left sitting on a fencepost. Like the silver thimble Mrs. Swarm left on the front-porch railing.
Or like Mr. Swarm’s gun, that day he left it outside the old barn. Farmhands complained a copperhead nest was inside. Mr.
Swarm killed the snakes and proudly carried the bodies through the fields to show the farmhands. I stayed behind in my hiding
spot in the bacca. My eyes feasted on the bit of sun that flashed off the metal. Off the handle, the color of maple leaves
in the fall.
I carried it home tucked in my waistband, my T-shirt pulled over it. Momma swore when I handed it to her. Then she giggled
and kissed me.
She wouldn’t let Daddy pawn it. Even when he lost a week’s wages in a round of farmhand poker. We lived on stale crackers
and flat coke the whole week and he promised he could get a hundred dollars for it, but she wouldn’t let go of that gun. She kept it next to her ashtray, on an overturned bucket that she used as a nightstand.
Just the sight of it made me close my eyes and hold my breath. It pulled me toward it, like metal to a magnet. It promised
something strange. Something like
peace.
Sometimes I couldn’t fall asleep for thinking about it, there in the next room. Its outline a darker shade than the black
of night. But behind the promise of peace, I sensed something else. I didn’t know what to call it, except fear. That the gun
lied just like the rest of us did and there wasn’t any peace. Or maybe it was hope. That something even better waited. That
couldn’t be stolen. Or pawned. Or lay by a dirty ashtray on an overturned bucket.
Momma came to depend on my gifts. Just as Daddy handed her part of his wages every Sunday, I was expected to deliver a prize
to her. That was what she called the change, the thimble, the broken radio I returned home with. They were her prizes, and
I was her thief.
I never left her empty-handed. Sometimes she’d forget the days and run out of whiskey. Then she’d demand her prize early.
First she’d threaten me with a switch or a smack. Then she’d cry and beg. Ask why I wouldn’t help her like a good baby should.
Janie would bring me something then. She was always trading kisses for cigarettes with the boys at school. And trading cigarettes
for lipstick and perfume with the girls. She’d sneak up behind me and put a shiny tube of lip gloss in my hands.
“Look here, Momma,” I’d whisper. “I was walkin’ in them fields today and look what I found out in that bacca. Who would’ve
ever thought somethin’ so pretty would be stuck there in that dirt?” She’d step forward and smile, hold that tube of gloss
up to the sun, and watch it shimmer.
After Janie left me, I learned to set rules. Once a week. On paydays only. That was when I’d give Momma her prizes. Anything
else, anything left over, went to a stockpile for the low weeks. A little brown bag tucked inside the front cinder block and
filled with bits of stolen treasure.
Even with my nice stockpile, I never stopped taking from the Swarms whenever I had a chance. Not even after I heard Mr. Swarm
fire a farmhand over that missing gun. Or after I heard Mrs. Swarm sobbing about the silver picture frame she had carried
out to the porch to polish. She turned her back for a quick phone chat, and it vanished. Not even after Mr. Swarm slumped
by his tractor and died.
Daddy ran home to Black Snake trailer after he found Mr. Swarm dead. It was the only time I ever saw him cry. I was seventeen
years old, but I could still feel baby prayers sitting inside my mouth.
Bless you, Daddy
. He sat on the hood of his car and sobbed until his body shook. Mumbled how Mr. Swarm’s lips turned purple.
Momma turned and looked at the trailer.
“They gonna kick us out quick now,” she said. “His boys ain’t liked us being here anyways. And they ain’t plannin’ to farm.”
“He was closest thing to a daddy. Taught me everything he could in these fields.”
“He wouldn’t let you in his home for a drink of water on a hundred-degree day,” Momma snapped. “And now we’re gonna be kicked
off this farm in a week, I guarantee. What about this week’s work? You been paid yet?”
Daddy shook his head. “It’s just Tuesday. Only worked two days since last pay.”
“Well, he owes you then. You git back there ’fore they find him. Git his wallet. Take what’s there.”
“I can’t,” Daddy sobbed.
“We ain’t got enough for gas money. That’s assumin’ that car will even start. You gotta go back.”
“Can’t see him like that. Woman, his lips are turned purple!”
“Angel? Git over here.” Momma pointed to the rows of bacca. “Walk straight until you find ol’ Swarm. Git his wallet and take
the money. An’ if you see anybody, don’t say nothin’ ’bout him being killed over. Let his own kin find him.”
I took a step back toward the trailer. “But he’s dead, Momma. Can’t rob him now he’s dead.”
“If we don’t got food to eat, the State’ll come for you. That’s why they took Janie. Now go git us some money.”
“I already paid you for the week.”
“But these are emergency times, Angel,” Momma begged. “I’ll give you back that charm bracelet you brought home last week.
You gotta go right now, find that dead man, and bring me money. And any other prizes you find, too.”
I found him slumped by his tractor. His hands loose around a wrench. His lips were purple, just as Daddy said. His eyes open
but staring down, like he had watched himself fall. I felt inside his pockets and pulled out his wallet.
Sixty dollars were inside, along with receipts from old auctions and calling cards for wholesale buyers. I tucked the bills
inside my bra. Slipped off his wristwatch. And as I put his wallet back, I found something else. A silver pocket watch.
Swarm
engraved across it. Inside there was a picture of Mrs. Swarm when she was young.
To my groom
printed in tiny square letters across the bottom.
It was one of the few things I wouldn’t let burn in the fire, but kept inside my right pocket. It was one of the things I
hoped could make you see Janie. Could make you see how much she must have loved me to have given me the gift of thieving.
When I tucked it in my pocket, I imagined holding it up for you, to let sunlight catch it. I imagined how our eyes, drawn
to anything that sparkles, would enjoy the show. I thought of the right words. Ones that would finally tell you my story.
They went like this:
Robbed a dead man once. His money was Momma’s prize. But I kept this. I kept the love
.
I imagined your story, too. Your very own right words, as you repeated my lip-gloss lie.
I was walkin’ in your fields today and found you out in that bacca. Who would have ever thought somethin’ so pretty would
be stuck there in that dirt?
Daddy didn’t say good-bye when he left, soon after Mr. Swarm died. He spent days tuning up his car for one last getaway. I
watched him and knew exactly what he planned. Knew exactly where he was hiding the whiskey money he slipped off Momma as she
slept.
He started his car one morning and drove away. I walked out into the bacca, dug a hole, and buried the money I’d just stolen
out of his glove box.
Two weeks passed and Momma cried when she realized he wasn’t coming back for her. I knew then it was time, finally time, to
run from Black Snake trailer. For good. I dug out the bag of stockpiled treasure from inside the front cinder block. I emptied
it before her as she lay sobbing on the couch. I would never need to steal for her again. Never need to space out her prizes.
“Look here, Momma,” I whispered. “More prizes than you ever imagined.”
She sat up and fingered through it. Pulled out the change, an empty Zippo lighter, and some eye shadow. She tossed a Mars
bar back at me.
“That ain’t treasure. Money’s what I need. How come you can steal candy and makeup but not money? Your sister could.”
“Momma, you got somebody you can call. Don’t you?” I asked. Momma was married to Daddy, but she had her own escape plans that
she liked to toy with from time to time. Other men, new sideways lines, one after the other.
She nodded her head, but wouldn’t look at me. “You think I should leave with him?” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
“You’re right. You’d be better off.”
When she said that, her face broke up, her cheekbones sliced through the darkness and cut my heart. I wished that I could
say, “Take me with you,” like a good daughter should. Or maybe just beg, “Don’t go.” But no matter how nice it would have
been to whisper those words, I couldn’t make myself. That night, lies didn’t flow easy and warm like they were supposed to.
And so I did the only good thing I could think of. I reached back in the bag of treasure. Pulled out a turquoise and silver
ring she had overlooked and dropped it in her palm.
Her eyes grew wide and warm. Her face softened and became nearly happy. “You’ve always been a good daughter.”
The next morning, I stood in the middle of Black Snake trailer as she stuffed her trinkets and clothes into a tiny suitcase.
She looked up and tried to comfort me.
“Don’t worry, baby. We livin’ in America. The State won’t let you git hungry.”
“What do you mean?” I whispered, feeling a spark of old panic.
“When they hear you’re livin’ in this rathole trailer by yourself, they’ll come for you. They’ll git you a real place to stay.
Some food and nice clothes.”
“I ain’t gonna let them take me.”
“No point in fightin’ ’em. It took two big policemen to pull baby Janie out of my arms. But in the end they walked right out
the door with her, easy as pie.”
She walked over to the fridge and opened it. “If you try, you can make this last a week. The Swarm boys are gonna be clearin’
this trailer out soon anyway. They’ll call the law for you when they see you’ve been left behind.”
Momma’s boyfriend pulled up on a motorcycle. I stepped outside and watched her climb up behind him. She turned to me and shrugged
her shoulders.
“Well, bye, baby.”
“Bye,Momma.”
The motorcycle pulled away and I saw she forgot her cigarettes. The box still flipped open, laying on top of the cinder-block
tower. Next to them was the only good gift she ever gave me. A brand new pack of matches.
I picked them up. Paced the trailer to find the most rotten spot. A place where the sun had burnt and warped the fake wood
and tin until it was ready to burn up quicker than a matchbox.
I wanted to be certain, though. And so I stepped into the bacca. Pulled out the gas can I stole from Daddy’s trunk. Emptied
it over the walls. Over the door. Lit that first match before remembering you, and all the things I wanted to show you.
I went inside and filled my pockets. And afterward, as I lit that second match, I thought about last words. About whether
I should say good-bye to the tin rectangle that I had spent so many nights running from.
I thought about flipping it the bird, the way Janie always did as she walked away from it on her way to catch the bus. I thought
about screaming a curse, the way Momma always did before she threw a dish. But then I remembered Grandma’s grave. And as I
threw that match and watched the flame spread quickly, I knew that I was burning more than sorrow. More than the years of
dead things that had framed my life. I was burning down trouble.
“
Bless you
,” I whispered.
Then I walked deep into the bacca, where I kept watch over the smoke that hovered low. I saw the little bits of fire that
shot up into the dark sky. Working so hard to escape the dead things below. I thought of you, and the journey before me. “Carolina,”
I whispered to the tall bacca. “Holy Roller,” I cried to the Tennessee moon. And after one more long drink from my whiskey
bottle, I closed my eyes and let my mouth whisper, with numb lips, “Five thousand dollars.”
The sound of screaming sirens woke me. I saw red and blue lights bounce off flat bacca leaves. Somewhere men were yelling
orders to each other. The smell of hot tar swarmed over me and I knew. The bacca was burning.
I held my sleeve over my mouth to breathe and crept as close as I could to the flashing lights. Policemen, firemen, and the
Swarm boys were all working madly. Hell was behind them. Acres and acres of blazing red fire.
When dawn came, I saw the ash on the ground. The firemen were right. Nothing burns as quickly, or completely, as a rusted-out
trailer. There was nothing left. Not a dirty ashtray or a broken dish. Not a pass-out couch for drunks. Not my sister’s letter,
the one she wrote before she ran away.