The First Time, Episode 5: Stealing
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5. Stealing
The first time Ryan stole anything, he, Trey and Dawn had just spent their first Christmas in Chino, their first Christmas without Ryan's dad.
In many ways, it was the last holiday of Ryan's childhood.
Dawn had pinned all her hopes on the move to Chino, which was supposed to make any problems leftover from Fresno just disappear. Like magic, maybe, Ryan thought. But it didn't work.
Nothing worked.
Those first few weeks, when they knew no one and had nowhere to go, the house in Chino seemed to shrink and grow shabbier every day. The walls pressed in on them, pushing Trey and Ryan and Dawn together until they were all chafed raw from the contact, the collision of their constant and conflicting needs. They bruised each other, and the wounds wouldn't scab over, refused to heal. They began to fester, and Ryan felt it all creeping back—the fear and despair and anger that followed his father's arrest.
Then, around the end of September, Trey swaggered home wheeling a battered bicycle.
"Put on a new chain, tighten a few screws, and I am outta this shitass place, Ry," he announced, spinning a pedal around ferociously.
Ryan cringed a little, imagining Trey riding off without him. He scraped a spot of rust off the back fender, stopping abruptly when a hole opened under his nail. "Where'd you get it, Trey?" he asked, covering the spot with his thumb.
Trey's answer was vague. He just muttered something about "trading with some kid," but even though Ryan wondered, a little enviously, what Trey had owned that was valuable enough to barter for a bike, Dawn just shrugged.
"Good," she said flatly. "Maybe now you'll stay out of my way and stop your goddamn bitching."
"Hey," Trey snapped. "Anytime you stop, I will too. Mom."
It frightened Ryan, how much venom Trey could inject into one little word.
Amazingly, Dawn's mood mellowed shortly afterwards. She found a job working the register at the local grocery store, and the security of a steady paycheck made her giddy for weeks.
"And first dibs on all the specials, kids! Little employee bonus there!" Triumphantly Dawn flourished a precooked chicken and a bag of donuts on her first double coupon day. She unpinned her employee I.D. and tossed it to Ryan. "Whattya think, baby? I took a pretty great picture, didn't I?"
Ryan looked at Dawn's photo, all eager eyes and wide smile, her blonde hair ruffled around her face like an aureole. He blinked, his mouth trembling. "You're beautiful, Mom," he said, voice thick with the truth.
"You bet I am," Dawn agreed happily. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And you know what, Ry? You look just like me."
Something flashed across Trey's face, some flicker of hurt that made Ryan feel guilty and scared, but his brother said nothing. He just stuffed a donut into his mouth, taking the rest of the bag with him as he left.
Dawn's employment gave the family a brief reprieve. Inevitably, though, her euphoria dissolved. It couldn't last, not under the pressure of shrill five a.m. alarms, sticky uniforms, and customers who pointedly made her count their change twice. Still, Ryan got used to his mom being sober, relatively content; he liked knowing what to expect when he opened the door, not having to hold his breath and brace himself before stepping inside.
But then, around Halloween, the old Atwood luck, barely disguised at all, reappeared.
Trey's bike was stolen leaving him, as he grumbled bitterly, "fucking stuck here with you, Ry." A power failure one ninety-degree day spoiled everything in the refrigerator when Dawn left the door open after her last trip for beer. Ryan caught the mumps, but with no sick days of her own and no health insurance, Dawn sent him to school anyway. A social worker brought Ryan home, then waited to lecture his mom, using ominous phrases like "child neglect" and "foster care."
Worst of all, the day before Thanksgiving, when her register tally came up $86 short, Dawn lost her job.
By the time tinny carols began playing in supermarkets, Ryan knew not to expect any real celebration, but he still hoped they could observe the holiday somehow. After all, even though his mom had trashed most of their possessions when they moved, she hadn't thrown out the old decorations. They were stored on a shelf in the house's sole closet. Ryan made Trey drag down the tattered cardboard box, putting it just inside the front door as a wordless hint.
"Junk," Dawn pronounced in disgust when she saw it. She toed the lid off with her bare foot, staring down at the bedraggled wreath, the chipped ornaments. "Why the hell did I bother bringing that crap? Shit. I musta been drunk."
Trey rolled his eyes. "Jeez, Mom," he drawled. "Ya think?"
After that, Dawn just eyed the box balefully and shoved it into a corner where it sat, lopsided and water-stained, mocking Ryan with tiny, chiming sounds whenever someone bumped into it.
His mother bumped into it a lot. She had been drinking practically nonstop since losing her job. Ryan avoided looking into her eyes; they were empty and haunted and the ghosts inside them kept reaching for him.
He and Trey were watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" when Dawn arrived home from a one-day temp position. The boys heard a series of slams—the car, the kitchen door, the bathroom probably, the refrigerator. Finally Dawn emerged, swigging something from a coffee cup, and collapsed onto the couch, her ankle bracelet jingling as she crossed her legs.
Ryan, made bold by the cartoon miracle and the fact that his mother wasn't holding a bottle, scooted over to cuddle next to her. Before he even opened his mouth, he could see Trey shaking his head, but he had to ask anyway.
"Mom? Do you think maybe we could put up a tree?" When Dawn's eyes narrowed, Ryan added wistfully, "We had one last year. Remember?"
"Yeah? Well, this isn't last year. Besides, we don't have a tree, Ry. And what's the point anyway? It's not like you still believe in Santa or anything, right?"
Ryan ignored Trey who was muttering something in a low, caustic voice. "No, I know, but . . ."
"Look," Dawn snorted, "I'm sorry the old one got lost when we moved—fuck, baby, I'm sorry about a lot of things--but I ain't wastin' money on a damned tree. Look around, Ry. You see all the things we don't have?"
From his spot sprawled on the floor, Trey rolled his eyes significantly. "Yeah, right, mom, 'cause it's real easy to see things that aren't there. Now if you want Ry to hallucinate, why don't you just give him some of that badass 'coffee' you're drinking . . ."
Dawn sketched a threat in the air with her cigarette. "Don't be a smartmouth, Trey. And don't go givin' your little brother ideas." She sighed and held out a shaky hand to Ryan, pulling him until he was perched precariously, half on her knee, half straining to touch the ground. "Look, baby, I know you want a, whaddya call it? Tradgish . . . tradiss . . ." Her breath hissed against Ryan's cheek. He shrank from the stench and Dawn amended, enunciating carefully, "traditional Christmas, but I can't do it. I can't."
"It doesn't have to be big," Ryan suggested hopefully. "Just maybe a real, real little one?"
"What? You think the little ones are free? They still cost money, Ry. Shit, we got three chairs in the whole lousy house, no kitchen table, you boys keepin' your clothes in goddamn boxes on the floor. If your sonofabitch father . . ." Suddenly furious, Dawn shoved Ryan away. "Look, I just can't afford a damn tree, all right? I don't wanna hear another word about it."
"Sorry, Mom," Ryan whispered. He darted a glance up, desolate eyes glistening for a moment and then veiled under lowered lashes. "It was a stupid idea. I know there's, you know, important stuff. That we need."
"Damned right," Dawn agreed. She downed the rest of her drink and headed unsteadily into the bathroom.
"Merry fucking Christmas," Trey mumbled. "And a craptastic New Year."
His voice sounded fierce, but when Ryan looked down, Trey's mouth was crumpled, his expression hollow and lost.
Ryan dropped on the floor next to his brother, not touching him, but sitting as close as he dared. "It could still be good, Trey," he said softly. "She doesn't drink all the time . . ."
"Right," Trey scoffed. "Not when she's fucking asleep, she doesn't." He rolled over, propping his head up on a clenched fist, glaring at Ryan. "Give it up, kid. Mom's a lost cause. And so's this lameass holiday."
Ryan bit his lip. "But maybe you and I could . . ." he began weakly, and then stopped, unsure what he and Trey could do to save anything. He pulled his knees up, hugging them to his chest, rocking back and forth.
Trey watched him for a moment, and then put a hand on Ryan's back, halting the motion. "Quit it, Ry," he growled. "You're makin' me seasick."
Ryan stopped obediently, leaning his weight back into Trey's palm. "Seasick? How do you know?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "Have you ever been on a boat, Trey?"
"No, I've never been-on-a-boat-Trey. Don't be a smartass, Ryan. So maybe you're not makin' me seasick. You're still makin' me regular sick." Trey snatched his hand away and Ryan, suddenly without support, toppled over backwards. His head smacked the floor, and a cry of pain escaped before he could choke it back.
The bathroom door jerked open and Dawn's angry, ashen face peered through the crack. "What the hell happened now?" she demanded. "You kids break somethin' out here?"
"No," Ryan answered immediately. He sat up, swallowing tears, attempting a half-smile that his mother didn't notice. "Nothing's wrong, Mom. We didn't break anything."
"'Course not. What do we got left to break anyway?" Dawn scoffed. She rubbed her sleeve across her nose and shuffled back into the bathroom.
Trey waited until his mother closed the door and then curled an arm around Ryan, carding through strands of baby-fine hair to probe the back of his head.
"No blood," he reported, his voice rough with mingled relief and remorse. "But you're gonna have a bump there, Ry. Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just messin' around."
"I know," Ryan whispered. "It's okay."
Trey ducked his head to meet Ryan's downcast eyes. For once, his own face was honest, unguarded. "Nothin's okay, little brother. Shit, I know that . . . You want me to get you some ice?" He scrambled to his feet and started toward the kitchenette before stopping abruptly. "Right, ice. Like we'd fucking have any left after Mom's been on a bender like this . . . I don't know, maybe some frozen peas or something?" He opened the freezer, peered inside, slammed the door shut. Ryan winced at the sound.
"Big surprise. Nothin' there," Trey announced.
Ryan hunched his shoulders. "It doesn't matter, Trey. Honest, it doesn't even hurt anymore."
"Yeah, right. You're such a bad liar, Ry." Trey pushed against the wall, sliding down until he was huddled on the floor. "Fuck, I'm really sorry, kid."
Ryan crept over, put a tentative hand on his brother's foot. "It's okay," he insisted, parroting Trey's own excuse. "You didn't mean to hurt me. You were just messing around . . . Trey? About Christmas?"
Trey sighed. "What about it?"
"You want it too, right Trey?" Ryan's voice was small and worried. "I mean a tree, and . . . you know? Just . . . what other people have." His eyes locked on his brother's, pleading, and he held his breath.
If Trey abandoned the idea of a Christmas, there was no hope.
"Shit, Ry, it doesn't matter what we want," Trey said heavily. "When are you gonna learn that? We've got to deal with what we fucking have . . . And that's pretty much nothing."
Ryan exhaled, defeated. "I guess . . . So, we should probably put away the decorations then, huh?"
Trey closed his eyes, slumping further into himself. "I suppose. Look, I just . . . you do it, Ry, okay?"
Ryan's fingers plucked at the frayed ends of Trey's shoelaces. "Okay," he agreed slowly, flushing with embarrassment. "Except . . . I can't reach the top of the closet to put it back, Trey. But maybe if I stand on a chair . . ."
Trey's hand grabbed Ryan's wrist as he started to get up, almost jerking him off his feet. "You stand on a chair holdin' that box, you'll fall and kill yourself. You wanna fucking kill yourself, Ry?"
"No." Ryan shook his head, confused. "But you said . . ."
"I know what I said, okay?" Trey burst out. "Shit, Ry, gimme a break. If you hadn't begged me to get the damn box down in the first place . . ."
"I just thought if Mom saw the decorations . . ." Ryan explained. Then he frowned and added firmly, "And anyway, I didn't beg. I never beg, Trey."
Trey groaned and released Ryan's wrist. "Not with words. But your eyes do, Ry. Just . . . don't look at me anymore, all right? I'll put the damn box away later."
Ryan nodded, furtively rubbing his wrist, knowing that "later" could mean any time from that afternoon until never.
The box remained where it was, a constant target for Dawn's feet and frustration. It was still sitting there on Christmas night.
Ryan looked around the living room at the remnants of their celebration: Dawn slumped on the couch, one hand dangling to the floor, the holiday polish—striped red and green—already peeling from her fingernails; Trey by the open window, one knee pulled up, smoking; three piles of presents. Trey's was messy, a scramble of items from the church charity drive—sensible things like sweaters and socks, identical except in size to the ones Ryan received. Buried underneath was Trey's gift from Dawn. She had bought him a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure, discounted because it wasn't popular anymore, although it had been three years ago, about the same time that Trey actually wanted one.
Moments after opening the box, Trey snapped off one of the arms, using it to poke holes in the wrapping paper.
Ryan had stacked his own gifts, largest to smallest, shaping the boxes into a kind of tree. On top was Dawn's gift, a small Lego set that would build a bulldozer.
"Thanks, Mom," he said softly when he opened it. His arms lifted from his sides tentatively, ready to offer his mother a hug, but she waved him away.
"Why don't you go ahead and say it, Ry? Like your brother did. It's a lousy present, right?"
Ryan shook his head, but his mother's eyes, red-rimmed, barely open, were fixed on Trey.
"I never said my present was lousy," Trey growled.
"Yeah, that's right," Dawn conceded. "You never said anything. You just fucking broke it, that's all!"
"Because it's for a baby! I'm not a baby, Mom!"
"No? You're all grown up, huh? Too goddamn grown-up to even be grateful. You know, Trey, I tried . . . Well, who needs you anyway? I still got Ryan." Dawn reached over blindly and twisted her fingers into his hair. "You'll always be my good boy, right, baby? You'll always love me."
Ryan's breath quickened and he felt his muscles tense. "We both love you, Mom. Trey and me . . . we both do."
He willed his brother to agree, but Trey just shrugged, and the house filled with the echo of words no one quite believed.
Dawn's own tiny pile held just two presents—a small vial of cheap perfume that Trey had shoplifted, confiding to Ryan that the big bottle he wanted wouldn't fit in his pocket, and a picture frame Ryan had made from painted Popsicle sticks. He had tried to find a picture to put inside—maybe even one with his Dad—but he couldn't unearth any photos at all, even though he looked everywhere except in his mother's underwear drawer.
Maybe the family pictures had been lost along with their Christmas tree when the Atwoods left Fresno.
The frame looked lonely to Ryan, holding nothing at all. At the last minute, desperate, he cut out a picture from a magazine--Harrison Ford, his mom's favorite actor--and glued it inside. "Real sweet, Ry. Thanks," Dawn had murmured when she opened the box, but her tone was perfunctory, drifting into a sigh. She had tossed the gift aside almost instantly, and she had never smiled. Not even once.
Miracles and Christmas magic, Ryan decided, even the littlest ones—they only happened in stories. Not in real life.
Picking up his Lego set, Ryan started for bed. He made a cautious circle around the abandoned ornament box, wondering if Trey might finally put it away, wishing he were tall enough to do it himself, berating himself for ever wanting it down.
The carton was still sitting there in the morning when, before six a.m., Dawn yanked Ryan out of bed and onto his feet. He blinked, dazed, at Trey who stood bleary-eyed and rumpled behind her, covers from his bed twisted around his feet.
"Okay, kids, let's go. Get dressed." An edge of agitation cut through Dawn's voice, and one hand thrummed restlessly against her thigh. She licked the palm of the other and used it to slick down Ryan's hair. "Come on, come on, come on. Move it, you two."
"Mom," Trey groaned. "The fuck? It's like the middle of the night."
"Yeah? Well, blame your brother. Ry wants a Christmas tree? Fine, Ry gets a goddamn Christmas tree."
Ryan's eyes, frightened, darted to his brother.
"Shit, Ry," Trey said, shrugging helplessly. "I don't know."
Dawn threw a t-shirt at Ryan who automatically peeled off his pajama top and put it on. "We're gonna hit the after-Christmas sales," she explained. "I bet . . . I bet we can get one of those really good trees, you know, the ones that even smell like . . . well, whatever the hell that tree smell is. The tall ones with the real full branches."
"But Mom," Ryan objected. His voice was small and careful. "Christmas is over."
"Well, kiddo, it's not like it won't come next year! And we'll be ready for it then, right? So let's move it! Come on. If we don't get there early, the only stuff left will be picked-over crap."
Dawn shoved Trey onto a chair, thrusting his battered hightops into his hands. "No shoes, no shirt, no service, Trey. I told you, get dressed."
Trey held the shoes, not moving. "How about this idea, Mom? You get dressed and go shopping or, shit, whatever, and Ry and I will go back to bed."
"And leave you two here alone?" Dawn laughed, a coarse, cheerless sound, and shook her head. "What the hell kind of a mother leaves her kids alone? Anyway, this will be fun! We'll shop, we'll go to Mickey D's for breakfast . . . Don't give me that look, Trey. You either, Ryan. I'm warning you . . . Shit, I try to do something nice for my kids and . . ."
"No, we're coming, Mom. Right, Trey?" Ryan's eyes flashed to his brother, then fell, remembering what Trey said about begging. "I mean, I'm coming," he amended.
"Fuck it," Trey groaned, shoving bare feet into his shoes. "I'm coming too."
When they arrived at the discount store, a mob of people was already pushing against the murky glass doors. Dawn elbowed her way into the center, and, lost in the crush, Ryan instinctively pressed closer to her, his shoulder brushing her thigh. Despite himself—because he knew no nine-year-old boy should cling to his mother—Ryan pinched a fold of her slacks between his fingers. The fabric was slick, and it slipped through his fingers as Dawn charged through the opened doors.
Ryan had to let go.
Dawn never noticed.
"Trey!" she yelled over her shoulder. "Grab me a cart. Jeez, Ry, would you hurry up? Oh hell, just meet me by the Christmas tree section."
Ryan watched as the store swallowed his mother, waited paralyzed until he heard the rattle of a shopping cart braking next to him.
"Get on," Trey ordered fiercely.
Ryan scrambled onto the front, hooking his feet onto the bottom shelf and facing his brother's scowl. "Fucking great," Trey mumbled, maneuvering heedlessly through the crowd, so that Ryan had to tighten his hold and offer silent apologies to the people they clipped along the way. "This is all your fault, Ry. Gotta have a goddamn Christmas. Gotta have a lameass tree. You gave Mom the shitass idea of dragging us out here with your whining . . ."
Trey swung blindly around a corner, ramming Ryan's side into a display of plastic reindeer.
"I didn't whine," Ryan argued. He gritted his teeth against the pain and hopped off the cart. "I don't. And I don't need to ride, Trey. I can walk."
"Suit yourself, little brother," Trey shrugged. "But if you get lost, don't fucking expect me to come find you."
Ryan glared at his brother's back as Trey pushed his way down the aisle. "I won't get lost," he muttered, trying to match his strides to Trey's. For a minute or two, he kept up, but the store was packed, and soon people blocked his view.
He couldn't see around them, couldn't see through them.
He couldn't see Trey at all anymore.
Ryan's steps faltered, then stopped altogether. Dawn had mentioned the Christmas tree section, he knew that, but everywhere he looked he saw the same holiday debris, garlands, lawn ornaments, wreaths, porch decorations, Santas and Rudolphs and snowmen, a jumble of cheap plastic and metal that made Ryan dizzy and a little bit sick.
He stood still, breathing hard, his eyes moving frantically around the store, searching for something familiar, something he could use to find his way.
And then Ryan saw it. On the shelf just over his head the last few figures from a ceramic Nativity set were arranged around an empty crèche: a camel, a shepherd, and the one he recognized, a diminutive, perfect porcelain angel.
Distantly, Ryan heard Trey calling for him, but he couldn't make himself move or answer as his brother approached.
"Shit, Ry!" Trey exclaimed impatiently. "You couldn't say something when you heard me yell? Mom picked out a tree. She sent me to find you, Mr. I-won't-get-lost. Jeez, you're more trouble than you're worth sometimes, you know that?"
"Uh-huh."
"The fuck?" Trey snapped his fingers in front of Ryan's rapt face, but Ryan's gaze never wavered. "Whaddya lookin' at, Ry?"
Careful not to touch, Ryan pointed a grubby finger at the fragile china figure. His eyes were wide, awestruck. "It looks like Mom," he breathed.
Trey squinted and then, as Ryan hovered protectively, his fist closed over the tiny ornament, bringing it close to his face. "Nah," he said, unconvinced. "Shit, Ry. Just because the thing's got blonde hair and blue eyes . . ." Trey studied the angel's gentle smile, the graceful curve of its inclined head, and his voice grew reedy and thin. "Mom never looked like that."
"Yes, she did," Ryan insisted. He chewed his lip, eyes growing dim with memory.
A morning in the park, when he was maybe four.
His mom, sunny hair bouncing soft and loose on her shoulders, one hand clasping Trey's, the other holding Ryan's. All of them laughing, a sound like bells in the air, Dawn swinging their joined arms as their steps turned into skips, turned into an ecstatic run.
Ryan's own short legs stumbling, lifting off the ground, until all three of them tumbled breathless onto the still dewy grass.
Dawn gathering Trey and Ryan close, rubbing her face into their necks, crooning "You are the best boys. I have the best, bestest boys in the whole, entire world from here to always."
The light behind Dawn making her glow, golden hair, golden skin, radiant smile, her eyes a forever blue, alive with love when Ryan looked up.
It wasn't possible that Trey could have forgotten.
"Remember, Trey?" Ryan pleaded, plucking at his brother's jacket. "She used to take us to the park and . . . and she'd laugh and run with us. She looked like this. Come on, Trey, you remember."
Trey snatched his arm out of Ryan's reach. "No," he said flatly. "I don't remember. And if you're smart as everybody says, Ry, you won't remember either."
"But--" Ryan began.
"Trey! Ryan! Get the hell over here! I don't got all day to wait for you guys. I'm ready to go. Now!"
Dawn stood at the end of the aisle, rocking the unsteady shopping cart. Her eyes were red-rimmed and the elastic had fallen out of her hair, which hung in limp strings around her face.
Trey turned to Ryan, shaking his head. He seemed about to say something else, but then he just jerked his thumb in Dawn's direction. "Let's go, Ry. Or shit, you know her. She'll probably just leave us here."
Ryan hesitated. His hand skimmed over the ornament one last time, memorizing its shape. Reluctantly, he started to follow Trey and his mother, his fingers trailing behind, unwilling to lose contact, when--it was as if the angel flew; Ryan was sure he did not pick it up, but there it was, light and delicate, lying on his palm. His small fist closed over it tenderly, the sharp points of the wings piercing his flesh deep enough to draw blood.
Ryan gasped, stunned by the enormity of what he'd done. He glanced around anxiously, but nobody was looking, nobody seemed to care at all.
And surely nobody would miss it, that one tiny angel abandoned on a shelf.
Trey was slouching against a display stand, idly gnawing his right thumb, and Dawn was picking through Christmas candles jumbled in a bin at the end of the check-out line. Ryan thought about asking if they could buy the ornament, but he already knew the answer, and he couldn't bear to hear his mother say no.
Maybe, he thought, he could take the angel now, and then come back and pay for it later. He could get the money somehow. It wouldn't take too long. But if he left it, Ryan was afraid something would happen: the figure was so fragile—someone would break it; or someone would buy it, and then just toss it aside; or maybe the worst thing of all: it would just disappear.
Shrinking behind a pillar Ryan shrugged off his jacket, dropping it over his arm. There was no way the angel would fit in his pocket, but if he could just cover it, he could walk out of the store the way he'd seen Trey do, relaxed and unhurried, with an expression that said he had no secrets to hide.
"Ryan!" Dawn flung the word over her shoulder impatiently. "C'mon, kiddo. We're about ready to leave here."
Ryan nodded and started toward her when a hand clamped tightly over his wrist and spun him around. Someone was holding him, pushing at his jacket, a large, unknown body blocking the light, and Ryan shrank into himself, his eyes panic-stricken, a sudden chill freezing him in place.
"All right, little boy," Ryan heard a voice order from somewhere above him. "Let go of whatever it is you're trying to steal."
"No. I mean, I . . ." Ryan gasped.
Instantly, Dawn came charging down the aisle. "What the hell do you think you're doin'?" she screamed. "Get your filthy fucking hands off my kid now!" Her fingers hooked into the hood of Ryan's jacket and she snatched him back, pulling the fabric up until the zipper cut into Ryan's neck.
The salesclerk pursed his lips as he took in Dawn's disheveled appearance, the grimy bra strap sliding down one shoulder, the makeup smeared around her eyes and mouth. He looked down at Ryan with something like pity, but his grasp didn't loosen. "Your boy was stealing, ma'am. This." He pried the angel out of Ryan's reluctant fingers.
"You fuckin' liar! He was just holdin' it, that's all. Ry doesn't steal. Do you, baby?"
"I . . ." Ryan whispered. "I didn't mean to, exactly."
He heard Dawn's breath hiss.
"You did take it? Ryan Atwood, you answer me right now. Were you trying to steal that damn angel?"
Ryan set his shoulders, and the man holding his hand let him go. "I'm sorry," he said. His eyes slid to the floor, but the words were direct. "It was wrong."
There had been music in the store before, and crying babies, and voices calling, and occasional laughter.
Now all Ryan could hear was his mother's voice.
"You knew? That's all you got to say? You knew it was wrong?" Dawn shoved the shopping cart viciously, sending it crashing into the shelf. "Wrong like your brother . . . wrong like your sonofabitch father--"
Her palm flashed out, landing hard on Ryan's cheek once, twice, before the salesclerk caught her hand in midair, and Trey, racing from the front of the store, yanked Ryan against his side, locking his arms around his trembling brother.
"Shit, Mom! Stop it! What are you doin'? He's just a little kid, for fuck's sake."
Dawn whirled around, panting. She seemed to deflate visibly, her rage punctured by sharp, judgmental stares, the condemning silence, the violent red staining Ryan's face.
His breath was hoarse and uneven, but he wasn't crying.
Ryan wouldn't cry.
"We're getting' the hell out of here," Dawn muttered.
Obediently, noiselessly, Trey and Ryan followed her to the car.
As soon as they got home Dawn shoved Ryan into his bedroom. She stood for a moment in the doorway, the muscles in her jaw moving.
"Not you, Ryan," she gritted. "Not ever again. You understand me?"
Ryan nodded, and Dawn slammed his door shut. Huddled on his bed, he listened to the noises, all of them clues—raised voices, his mother sobbing, one door after another closing, and, from somewhere outside the house, a lonely voice singing some false Christmas promise that faded until Ryan heard nothing at all.
"Ry? Hey, Ry. Wake up. Jeez, how can you sleep sitting up like that?"
Trey's hand jiggled Ryan's elbow and he forced his eyes open unwillingly.
"Here. It's yours," Trey said roughly, thrusting the angel at his startled brother. "I got it for you. Fuck if I know why. But Ry, you gotta know—This isn't Mom. She's not like this."
Ryan looked down at the shimmering ornament, then up at his brother, an ineffable hope lighting his face. "But she could be. Don't you think? . . . I mean, she could be, Trey."
"Nah, kid. She couldn't." Ryan flinched slightly as Trey touched his cheek. "Shit, Ry. You gotta stop lookin' for things you'll never find. You know?"
Ryan nodded absently. He pulled off his pillowcase, using it to swaddle the angel, but as he wrapped fabric around the wings he stopped suddenly. The figure had been flawless in the store—he was sure of that—but now Ryan could see a thin separation in the seam along the statue's back, a sure sign that it would fall apart soon.
Had he done that—destroyed its fragile beauty with his greed and his clutching hands?
"So?" Trey asked. "Whattya gonna do with it now, Ry? I mean, hell, Christmas is over."
Ryan ducked his head. "I don't know," he whispered, his voice filled with grief. "I guess just . . . put it away."
Quietly he padded out to the living room and tucked the angel among the old ornaments, pausing for a moment before he replaced the lid.
Ryan had never noticed before how many of the bright stars and bells and holiday shapes were tarnished, how many were chipped or dingy or stained.
Nothing looked the way he remembered.
Maybe Trey was right, and he shouldn't remember at all.
