The Little Thief Boy

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. I was struggling to stay conscious. Waves of nausea tossed my stomach back and forth. The pain in my head pulsed between bearable and excruciating. The last words he spoke to me echoed in my mind like a concussive explosion, “There’s no rest for the wicked.” I knew that I was wicked, and I knew why. My father had told me I needed to get him money, but I couldn’t get it. I tried, but I failed, and I was rightfully punished. 

“You’re not the half the pick-pocket I was at your age, but you best get better quick if you want to eat tomorrow,” he said to me. I get caught more times than not. The marks, as my dad calls them, get angry when they catch me, and they curse and yell at me. But it’s nothing compared to how he treats me when I return empty-handed. This last time I thought he was going to kill me. The pain lit up my body like a burning inferno. I feel like I’m in hell. I can’t go back to him with nothing again.

So I do what I must. Zipping up a jacket that doesn’t keep me warm, and wrapping a shabby scarf around my neck, I start walking. The city square will be bustling this time of the evening. Shoppers and patrons of the boutiques and restaurants will make decent marks for me to choose from. I’ve got to pick the most distracted ones with the easiest wallets and purses to steal from. The fuzz in my brain makes it hard to concentrate, but I tune it out as best I can. 

Finally I arrived at my destination. The crowd was not what I had hoped, but maybe I’ll make a big score or two. Carefully, and from behind the corner of a building, I scoped out my prey. Blurriness came in and out my vision, but I couldn’t let my lack of clear sight stop me. Eventually my eyes settled on a tall woman carrying several shopping bags and a purse. A purse partially opened. A perfect target if ever I saw one. I’ll just stealthily walk up behind her, reach into her purse, snatch her wallet, and disappear into the sparse masses.

I began toward her with my intention set. Stumbling after a few steps didn’t deter me. My ability to walk in a straight line was normally far better, but my head just wouldn’t stop throbbing. Balancing as I stepped from foot to foot came at great difficulty, but I managed well enough to reach the mark. She hadn’t even noticed me come up behind her. Without hesitation I grabbed the easily visible wallet from her purse. I turned to bolt, but was betrayed by my own feet and promptly tripped over them, failing on my face. Before I could get up myself, the woman was helping me. When she got me back on my feet she immediately saw her wallet in my hand.

At first I saw disappointment on her face. Not like the disappointed face my father made. His was full of rage and anger, but hers was soft and sad. Without missing a beat she grabbed me with one hand, and showed me her police officer’s badge with the other. Quickly, and without a word she led me down the sidewalk and into a nearby alley. “Now I can’t imagine what a child as young as you would need my wallet for,” she said in a succinct, disapproving tone. 

I tried to think of something to say, some way to talk my way out of it, but I couldn’t think. The nausea had taken over, and all I could do was vomit. As I leaned against the wall throwing up my scant dinner, the woman cop touched the back of my head. “My God, you’re bleeding,” she gasped. I hadn’t even noticed, nor did I even have time to care, especially now that I was busy painting the ground with my stomach contents. “How did this happen, who did this to you,” she asked. Her tone had switched from accusatory to worried in an instant. 

Instinctively I thought of the excuses my father always told me to say; I fell, I ran into something, just a fight with another kid. But I said none of them. This cop, this woman was concerned about me. I had never experienced this, not for one second. I felt no need to lie to her, I didn’t want to lie to her. Any feelings of needing to protect my monster of a father disappeared. With the surge of nausea having passed, I answered her, “It was my father.”

“You poor child,” the woman replied. I can hear the genuine distress in her voice. “Was he the one who told you to steal from me?”

“Yes ma’am,” I answered. Before talking to this woman, this angel in disguise, I had never told the truth to a stranger in my life. I felt unburdened, free from the chains my father had shackled me with. 

“Do you have a mother,” she asked after a short, thoughtful silence. 

“No ma’am. It’s me and my pops,” I responded suddenly realizing how alone I felt in this world.

Taking a cloth from her purse she began cleaning the blood off my head. “We should get you to a hospital, I think you have a concussion,” she said. Then after a few moments of thought she had an idea. “We should do something else first though. Do you wish to be free from your father?”

I wondered what it would be like often. If I didn’t have someone always yelling at me, always belittling me, always beating me. It didn’t seem like a reality I would ever live in, but I swallowed the debilitating doubt. “Yes ma’am. I would like that very much.”

“If you tell me where he is, I’ll make sure he never hurts you again,” she promised to me. Her words rang in my ears like the sound of Heaven. I told the woman where my father was waiting for me. She took me by the hand, and led me to her car. “When we get there, all you have to do is give him my wallet, and I’ll take care of the rest.” I nodded in agreement, and we got into her car. 

On the drive the woman used her radio to talk to someone. I couldn’t decipher the codes they used, but I heard her say the address I gave her. We arrived shortly, parking a short distance away. She got me out of the car, and gave me a few instructions, “I want you to go to your father. Give him my wallet. Some other officers are waiting close by. They will arrest him immediately. Then you just come back to me, and I’ll take care of you.”

I trusted her completely, and nodded in agreement. I was afraid, but not nearly half as frightened as I normally would be returning to my father. In our dark alley, he was there, waiting for me. Saying nothing I gave him the wallet. “There better be a lot of money in here,” he scornfully said to me as he grabbed it out of my hands. Checking the contents a familiar anger washed across his face. “This money is fake!” He raised his hand to strike me, but froze in mid-air. 

“Freeze, don’t move,” commanded an officer as he and another policeman entered the alley. My father reached both hands into the air in surrender. I gave him one last look. No longer did I see a monster, but instead I saw the scared man he always was. I turned and ran away. I didn’t stop until I was in the arms of the woman. My eyes burst open, and I cried like I never cried before. But I wasn’t sad. I was the happiest I had ever been in my whole life.