to Uncle Renie,” his mother was saying, so inured to Astrid’s monologues that she hadn’t bothered to apologize. “Tell him if it’s not one thing wrong, it’s another, and I’m sick of it!”
Astrid glanced their way. “Yah! And that goes ditto for me, too!”
“Remind him this is the eighth time in two years that washing machine’s broken down on me!”
“Yah! And don’t take any crap from him, either, kid!” Astrid grinned.
“Astrid!” his mother said, her voice tight. “Would you please shut up!”
He cringed, afraid his mother would start screaming the way she did at home.
“I was tryna help!” Astrid said. “That’s all….”
“Well I wouldn’t do this to you if you were in the middle of a conversation,” his mother said.
“Well I wouldn’t care if you did,” Astrid said, pouting. “I wouldn’t get all worked up!” Her voice grew whiny and small. “I wouldn’t say anything to hurt your feelings. You think you’re the only one with problems. Well you’re not!” She stood up so suddenly that her chair flew back. “Other people have problems too, you know!” she shouted, slamming the door behind her. The cubicle’s walls shook.
His mother had been staring down at the desk. She took a deep breath, then looked up, her eyes as flat as her voice. For a moment he had a sense that, like him, she had another life and this other life was a terrible burden sometimes. “You tell Uncle Renie he either fixes the timer or gives me a new washing machine, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, knowing he could never say any of it.
“Benjy!” she called when he was at the door.
“Yah?” He started back. His toes curled in his shoes. Was it the lost glove?
“Oh, nothing,” she said, gesturing him off. “Just…just…if Mr. Duvall comes to the house, would you call me?” she said thinly, breathlessly, hopefully. “I want to be sure I have food…if he comes, that is. I asked him, but he never really said.”
He hurried through the warehouse to avoid Astrid, who must have run into the bathroom. The toilet kept flushing. He squinted now as he entered the store, blindingly bright with its fluorescent lights and shelves of colored 46 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS
boxes and glass cases of hunting knives and pistols. In the middle of the store, dangling by nylon wires from the ceiling, was an orange rubber life raft. As he passed underneath, it rocked gently as if on invisible waves. At the baseball display he stopped. There, heaped on the counter, were baseball gloves of every size and shape, and right on the very edge was a soft lustrous catcher’s mitt exactly like Norm’s. Opening his bookbag he tapped the glove into it, then ran to the front of the store. He grinned as his hand closed on the cold brass handle.
“Hold it!” a voice boomed from above, from everywhere. “Hold it! Hold it right there!”
He turned. Overhead a mirror slid open. Mr. Briscoe leaned out from the waist and pointed down at him. “You wait right there, young man! Don’t you dare move!”
It took Mr. Briscoe a few minutes to get down into the store. He was a portly man, red-faced and always panting. By the time Mr. Briscoe reached him, Benjy realized he should have put the glove back on the counter, but now it was too late. Mr. Briscoe had just retrieved it from his bag. He held it up and rocked back on his heels.
“You didn’t have to do this, son. No boy ever has to steal from Briscoe’s.
Especially you, Benjy. Why’d you do this?”
His eyes fixed in terror on the door into the warehouse. He expected to see his mother charge through it, her face white, eyes wide, her fists swinging.
“You want this glove?” Mr. Briscoe asked, holding it out to him.
He shook his head no. He could not speak. He could barely breathe.
“Take it,” Mr. Briscoe said, jabbing the glove into his chest. “It’s yours.
You can have it!”
He shook his head, his hands heavy at his sides.
“Here!” Mr. Briscoe
Astrid glanced their way. “Yah! And that goes ditto for me, too!”
“Remind him this is the eighth time in two years that washing machine’s broken down on me!”
“Yah! And don’t take any crap from him, either, kid!” Astrid grinned.
“Astrid!” his mother said, her voice tight. “Would you please shut up!”
He cringed, afraid his mother would start screaming the way she did at home.
“I was tryna help!” Astrid said. “That’s all….”
“Well I wouldn’t do this to you if you were in the middle of a conversation,” his mother said.
“Well I wouldn’t care if you did,” Astrid said, pouting. “I wouldn’t get all worked up!” Her voice grew whiny and small. “I wouldn’t say anything to hurt your feelings. You think you’re the only one with problems. Well you’re not!” She stood up so suddenly that her chair flew back. “Other people have problems too, you know!” she shouted, slamming the door behind her. The cubicle’s walls shook.
His mother had been staring down at the desk. She took a deep breath, then looked up, her eyes as flat as her voice. For a moment he had a sense that, like him, she had another life and this other life was a terrible burden sometimes. “You tell Uncle Renie he either fixes the timer or gives me a new washing machine, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, knowing he could never say any of it.
“Benjy!” she called when he was at the door.
“Yah?” He started back. His toes curled in his shoes. Was it the lost glove?
“Oh, nothing,” she said, gesturing him off. “Just…just…if Mr. Duvall comes to the house, would you call me?” she said thinly, breathlessly, hopefully. “I want to be sure I have food…if he comes, that is. I asked him, but he never really said.”
He hurried through the warehouse to avoid Astrid, who must have run into the bathroom. The toilet kept flushing. He squinted now as he entered the store, blindingly bright with its fluorescent lights and shelves of colored 46 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS
boxes and glass cases of hunting knives and pistols. In the middle of the store, dangling by nylon wires from the ceiling, was an orange rubber life raft. As he passed underneath, it rocked gently as if on invisible waves. At the baseball display he stopped. There, heaped on the counter, were baseball gloves of every size and shape, and right on the very edge was a soft lustrous catcher’s mitt exactly like Norm’s. Opening his bookbag he tapped the glove into it, then ran to the front of the store. He grinned as his hand closed on the cold brass handle.
“Hold it!” a voice boomed from above, from everywhere. “Hold it! Hold it right there!”
He turned. Overhead a mirror slid open. Mr. Briscoe leaned out from the waist and pointed down at him. “You wait right there, young man! Don’t you dare move!”
It took Mr. Briscoe a few minutes to get down into the store. He was a portly man, red-faced and always panting. By the time Mr. Briscoe reached him, Benjy realized he should have put the glove back on the counter, but now it was too late. Mr. Briscoe had just retrieved it from his bag. He held it up and rocked back on his heels.
“You didn’t have to do this, son. No boy ever has to steal from Briscoe’s.
Especially you, Benjy. Why’d you do this?”
His eyes fixed in terror on the door into the warehouse. He expected to see his mother charge through it, her face white, eyes wide, her fists swinging.
“You want this glove?” Mr. Briscoe asked, holding it out to him.
He shook his head no. He could not speak. He could barely breathe.
“Take it,” Mr. Briscoe said, jabbing the glove into his chest. “It’s yours.
You can have it!”
He shook his head, his hands heavy at his sides.
“Here!” Mr. Briscoe
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