Stealing Our Way Home Page 2

  Nibs’ footsteps sound on the dock behind me. She’s changed out of her bathrobe and slippers into her denim overalls and heavy work boots. Her usual strand of pearls dangles around her neck, small and delicate in the pale light, and the morning newspaper is tucked under one arm. Nibs is a serious newspaper reader. Sometimes in the morning she’ll just sit here and read while I watch for Mr. Thurber.

  “Here you are,” she says, handing me one of the mugs. “I added extra foam at the top, the way you like it.” She sits down heavily next to me, the dock groaning under her weight. Nibs told me once that she was built like a man, with big shoulders and legs, but I think she looks very much like a lady.

  I smile my thanks and take a sip. The chai is perfect: creamy, sweet, and best of all, warm.

  “Sleep well?” Nibs asks, crossing her legs in a vague sort of pretzel shape. I nod, although it’s not the truth. I woke up sweating after another nightmare about Mom. This one had water and a big black box in it. “Good. Me too.” Nibs sighs deeply. “There is nothing in the whole wide world as lovely as a good night’s sleep. It can change your whole outlook on life, you know that?”

  I stare out at the water. Blink a few times.

  “You didn’t sleep well, did you?” Nibs asks softly.

  My eyes fill with tears, which I don’t understand. Is it because of the nightmare, or because sometimes, like right now, Nibs’ way of knowing something about me without me having to say anything reminds me so much of Mom that it makes me want to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction? I shrug, wiping at my eyes with the back of Mom’s sweater sleeve.

  “Bad dream?” Nibs asks.

  I nod.

  She puts an arm around my shoulder. For a few minutes, we just sit there, not saying anything. But she doesn’t have to. Her arm, which is the perfect weight, is enough.

  Behind us, a car trundles by on the dirt road beyond our house. Gravel crunches beneath the tires, and the headlights are long and yellow. After another minute, they fade away. The crack of pink light on the other side of the lake is getting bigger. Wider. Pretty soon, it will burst open, and the color will slip from cantaloupe to watermelon.

  “Any sign of Mr. Thurber?” Nibs asks.

  I shake my head and stir the top of my chai foam with the tip of my finger. It feels like a cloud.

  “I bet he got himself a girlfriend,” Nibs says. “That’s what I think. He went and found himself a pretty little girl heron with fantastic legs.”

  I smile a little.

  Nibs shrugs. “It happens, you know? Even with great white herons. They meet, fall in love, start spending time at each other’s places. He’s probably over at her pad right now, sprucing everything up. Then, when he’s finished, he’ll want to bring her here. I bet we’ll see both of them any day now.” She points to the willow tree. “Right up there, just like always.”

  My smile gets bigger. I hope she’s right.

  Nibs takes a big gulp of her chai, cupping the mug with her broad hands. “You know what I like best about living on the lake?”

  I look up at her, waiting. Nibs is a whole lot older than Mom was, but she doesn’t have very many wrinkles. Mom used to rub a rose-scented cream all over her face every night before she went to bed. I wonder if Nibs does the same thing.

  “How much it surprises you.” She nods, as if agreeing with herself. “Every day. When you least expect it.”

  I remember the first time Mom told me about Nibs. How much it surprised me when she said Nibs was an art teacher at the high school in Poultney. She didn’t look like any schoolteacher I’d ever known. She looked like a farmer. Or a truck driver. With pearls.

  “You looking forward to going back to school?” Nibs asks.

  I shake my head. I’ll be starting fourth grade, and I’m dreading it.

  “Me either,” Nibs says. “Lucky for you, the elementary school doesn’t start until Wednesday. High school starts on Monday.” She sighs. “It always comes around too soon, doesn’t it? I never feel ready to go back. Like I haven’t wrung everything out of summer quite yet.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “You’ll have some new teachers,” Nibs says carefully. “They’ll probably want you to talk every once in a while.”

  I bite my bottom lip, swing my legs under the dock. I haven’t talked in a long time. Not since Mom died.

  Nibs pulls something out of the front pocket of her overalls. “Of course, you might have a real nice teacher this year who’ll let you write your answers instead of speaking them.” She places a palm-sized notebook into my lap. It’s pink, which is my favorite color, and sprinkled with tiny white polka dots. “You could use that for a while if you want. Write out your answers, maybe?” She puts a hand on the back of my head, smoothing my hair down with her palm. “I have a few friends over at the elementary school, Pippa. I hope it’s okay that I went in and talked to them about what’s been going on with you. Filled them in a little.”

  I lean into her, hoping she can feel how grateful I am. She smells like milk and cinnamon and pipe smoke. I close my eyes as a slight breeze caresses my face. Pretend, just for a moment, that it is Mom, whispering good morning.

  Even though I know better.

  I’m trying to get the TV to work the next morning when Dad comes out of the bathroom dressed in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. A big gob of shaving cream is smeared along his neck, and he’s rubbing the back of his hair with a towel. I rattle the clicker again and start taking out the batteries.

  “Don’t bother,” Dad says, sinking down next to me on the couch. “Electric’s out.”

  “What do you mean, it’s out?”

  “I mean it’s out.” There’s an edge to his voice as he leans forward and rubs his head again. “I got a notice in the mail yesterday. They turned it off this morning. It’s out.”

  “Why’d they turn it off?”

  “Why do you think they turned it off, Jack?” He turns on me angrily, his face a map of lines. “Because I’m behind on the bill, okay? That’s what happens in this country when you miss a few payments. They penalize you. Take things away. I’ll get it fixed, all right? I’m on it.”

  I bite my lower lip, stare at the gray screen in front of us. The inside of my nose is tingling. I reach up and pinch it hard. It seems like anything these days can bring these idiot feelings up, but there’s no way I’m going to cry. No freaking way. Not in front of Dad. And not about something as stupid as the electric bill. I stand up instead and stride across the room.

  “Jack.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t go, okay? Please.” He hangs his head for a moment and then lifts it again. “I’m sorry.”

  I turn back around, flick my eyes over him. He looks so tired. His hair has gotten even grayer around the ears, and the circles under his eyes, which appeared like pale little crescent moons right after we first heard the news about Mom, look even deeper. Darker. “You didn’t have to yell at me.” My voice is softer. “I just didn’t know.”

  “I know.” Dad pats the empty spot on the couch. “It’s not your fault. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. Come on, sit back down a minute. Tell me how things are going.”

  I plop back down, cross my arms over my chest. “I didn’t even hear you come in last night.”

  “I got caught up with some things at the office again. It was pretty late.”

  I stare straight ahead, watching the wall blur in front of me. Ever since Mom got sick, Dad’s been completely obsessed with “some things at the office.” Most nights, he doesn’t even get home from the car dealership until nine o’clock. I can’t remember the last time the three of us had dinner together. Or the last time it wasn’t hot dogs.

  “So, what’s been going on around here?” he asks amiably. “What’d you do yesterday?”

  I shrug. Push down a thought about Ben. “Not a lot.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Worked on the tree house. Cut the grass. Went fishing with Ben.”


  “You went fishing?” Dad sticks one end of the towel inside his ear and starts rubbing again. “Did you take Pippa with you?”

  “She was hanging out with Nibs.”

  “Oh yeah? What were they doing?”

  “Working in the garden. Like always.”

  Dad smiles faintly and looks at something across the room. “Good ol’ Nibs,” he says softly.

  I can hear the gratitude in his voice. I know he feels good that someone like Nibs lives next door. Especially now. Not only is she a responsible adult, but Nibs has always been good to Pippa, right from the beginning. Her real name is Mrs. Nivens, but Pippa, who couldn’t pronounce it when she was little, started calling her Nibs and it stuck. Now we all call her Nibs, even Dad. She’s a nice enough lady, I guess, but honestly, I think she’s a little weird. And not just because she’s old and is constantly digging in the dirt. She smokes a pipe, too. And two of her teeth are yellow, right in the front. Plus, I’ve never in my whole life seen her without the same string of pearls around her neck. Even when she’s wearing overalls and work boots. I don’t know what it is, really, but there’s something about her that’s just a little bit … off.

  “What about you guys?” Dad asks. “You catch any fish?”

  “Nah. We were only there a half hour.”

  “Not biting, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “Been pretty hot,” Dad says. “Even early in the morning.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You and Ben come back here, then?”

  “No, he left. I went up to the tree house. Got to listen to Nibs talk Pippa’s ear off all afternoon.”

  Dad chuckles. “What was she talking about this time?”

  “Her plants. The weather. Oh, and something about Mr. Thurber.”

  “Mr. Thurber?” Dad repeats. “Why? Did something happen to him?”

  “No, they just haven’t seen him in a few days, I guess. I doubt it’s anything. He’s probably just hanging around some other part of the lake.”

  Mr. Thurber, who is a great white heron, is practically part of the family. Mom found him on the side of the road on her way to work one day even before Pippa or I were born. He’d been hit by a car and was almost dead, but Mom brought him back to the house and nursed him back to health. Ever since then, except in the winter when he flies down south, Mr. Thurber comes to the edge of the dock every morning and stands there until one of us waves hello. I swear he thinks he knows us. Or at least that we know him.

  Dad rubs the inside of his other ear and then sighs. “Pippa didn’t say anything, did she?”

  “Nope.” I stare at the gray television screen again, feel something inside close like a door. Dad asks me the same question every day, but Pippa hasn’t talked in over four months, not since the last day at the hospital. I know Dad blames me. We had a fight that day, Pippa and me, right outside Mom’s hospital room, and I told her to shut up. Actually, I told her that she’d been talking so much and asking so many dumb questions that she’d probably worn Mom out, which was why the nurse asked us finally to leave the room and let her rest. That was when I told her that if she didn’t learn to shut up for once in her life, she was going to wear me out, too.

  A half hour later, Mom was dead.

  Pippa hasn’t said a word since.

  “Listen,” Dad says, “I have some really important meetings today, so I’m going to need you to take Pippa downtown to get some new school clothes. For you too, obviously. Neither of you can start school next week in your old summer stuff.”

  “Wait, you want me to take her?”

  “Yeah, if you would. I can’t do it right now. I told you, I have these meetings.”

  “Dad, I don’t know what kind of clothes to get her. I don’t even know what size she is! Can’t you just take her this weekend?”

  “More meetings,” Dad says. “Saturday and Sunday. I’m sorry, Jack. I know I’m dropping the ball right now, but I’ve got a few things lined up that are looking good.” He looks straight at me. “Really good.”

  Having things “lined up” is another thing I’ve learned not to press too hard about. Last month, it was some wacky get-rich-quick scheme that Dad fell for, buying five thousand boxes of blue vitamins that a guy from San Diego convinced him to invest in and then sell. Apparently, it could cure everything, from headaches to cancer. Yeah, right. The only thing it “cured” was Dad’s lopsided bed after he shoved a few of the vitamin boxes under it to level it out.

  “Okay, whatever.” I hope Dad can hear the aggravation in my voice. “But I’m telling you, I have no idea what kind of clothes she likes. Especially nice ones for school.”

  “Let her pick out whatever she wants,” Dad says practically. “Within reason, of course. No belly shirts or anything. Nothing with heels. How about you? What do you need?”

  What do I need? Is he kidding? I need him to come home before nine o’clock every night. I need Ben to show up on his bike and ask me to go fishing again. I need Mom to walk into the living room right now wearing her light purple robe and holding her favorite coffee cup, with the chip on the handle, that Pippa made her in kindergarten. “Some new jeans,” I say instead. “A few shirts.”

  “Good, good. Get some shoes, too. Boots, sneakers, whatever. And underwear.” He takes out his wallet from his back pocket and pulls out a credit card. “Just give them this.”

  “They’ll let me use it?” I hold the card between my thumb and index finger, studying the long series of inverted numbers along the front. “Without you there?”

  “Oh, please.” Dad waves off my concern. “Money is money. Stores will take anything from anybody as long as it’s legit.” And then, noticing the hesitation on my face, he says, “Just call me if there’s a problem. I’ll talk to them and make sure they know the card is mine.”

  “Okay.” I slide the card into my pocket. “If you say so.”

  “I say so.” Dad stands up again, holding both ends of the wet towel. “And don’t worry so much all the time, okay, buddy?” He reaches out and ruffles my hair with his fingers. “Everything’s fine. It really is.”

  I stare at the TV screen for a long time after he leaves the room. The truth is I don’t even care that it doesn’t work. I’d rather be outside reinforcing the floor on my tree house than sitting in front of the TV anyway. But I do care why it doesn’t work. For some reason, Dad has money to buy us new school clothes right now, but not to pay the electric company. When she was alive, Mom was the one who took care of all the financial stuff. She used to have a piece of paper taped to the inside of the cereal cupboard in the kitchen that listed all the bills and when they had to be paid. Every time she paid one, she would put a check mark next to it. By the time the month had ended, the sheet was filled with check marks, and we’d all do something fun, like go to the movies or out to dinner with the money she had left over. It wasn’t like we were ever rich—not even close—but the way Mom did things, and with her close attention to detail, we never had to worry either. Which, when I think about it now, was like being rich in a whole other way.

  Now that she’s gone though, the whole money situation has been turned upside down. Dad’s not the type to tape a list to the inside of the cereal cupboard; he’s more the kind of guy who throws the bills into a drawer and then starts panicking when he can’t find them again. And I can’t remember when—or if—there’s ever been any extra money at the end of the month.

  You wouldn’t think I’d know about the money part, being only twelve and all. Maybe I wouldn’t if Dad didn’t feel the need to tell me everything now. Which he does. Especially late at night, after a few beers. That’s how I know that the blue vitamin project was just a scam. And that he lost every last penny in his savings account because of it. And that the bank is breathing down his neck about payments on the house because he hasn’t sold a car in over six months.

  That’s how I know that things have gone from bad to worse.

  And that if I don’t figur
e out a way to help him out pretty soon, it might get even worse than that.

  The sun is all the way out now, big and round in the sky, and the view across the lake is so clear I can see individual trees along the tops of the mountains. The water shimmers like wet silver, the surface of it smooth and gray. Nibs went back inside at least an hour ago, taking her mugs with her, but I haven’t moved. She left the paper for me, the way she always does, so that I can read the funny pages, but I haven’t looked at it yet. I’m hoping that if I sit very, very still and breathe very, very quietly, Mr. Thurber will come out from wherever he is hiding. Because he must be hiding. Maybe he’s trying to play a trick on us. Or he thinks he’s being funny. Except that everyone knows jokes stop being funny when they last this long.

  “Pippa?” Dad calls from the back door suddenly. “Honey, I’m heading out to work!”

  I get up quickly and run to him. Dad catches me in a bear hug, squeezing tight, and then lets go, stepping back a little so that he can see my face.

  “I’m so sorry I missed dinner again last night.” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “I had to work late.”

  I nod, fiddling with the small white button on the cuff of his shirt.

  “Jack said he made hot dogs. Any good?”

  I shrug, inserting the button back in its hole.

  “Any sign of Mr. Thurber yet?”

  I shake my head, tracing the thin leather band of his watch. I want to tell him about the conversation I just had with Nibs. Especially the part about the little pink notebook. And her going to talk to my teacher. How I feel a little bit better because of it, that maybe things won’t be so awful when I have to go back to school after all. I want to tell him that wearing Mom’s sweater makes me feel warm and sad all at the same time. And I want to tell him that Jack’s hot dogs were the worst thing I’ve ever eaten in my life—shriveled, rubbery, and cold in the middle. But I can’t do it yet. I just can’t.