Clyde

Nothing could ever top the year Etta showed up at our childhood home in a bright red Cadillac. She discovered it, allegedly, in the parking lot of the Harbinger Mall, prying the door open using nothing but a crowbar. Whoever owned it had likely popped into a department store to run a quick errand, reasoning that no one would be so cruel as to steal a car during the holiday season.

“The idiot left their keys in the ignition,” she told us all after her third glass of red wine. “This wasn’t just a golden opportunity—it was fate.”

Mom smiled as she peered through the blinds, gazing at the stolen vehicle in our driveway. When she turned back to the room again, her eyes gleamed with pride. She had taught her daughter well.

Eddie was jealous even if he didn’t show it. He had stolen a watch. It was a nice one—probably worth two or three grand—with a gold polish and dove-like creatures serving as the hands of the clock. Had it been any other Christmas, Mom and Etta would’ve been impressed. Unfortunately, he had conducted his most ambitious shoplift the same year his sister managed to steal a car. Suddenly, a crime once worthy of a heist movie suddenly seemed like child’s play in comparison to full-fledged, honest-to-god grand theft auto.

Mom hadn’t done bad either. She stuck with a classic—a perfume bottle she had slipped into her purse before pretending she left a baby in her car. Turns out that when everyone in the store thinks an infant’s life is on the line, they aren’t particularly concerned with the contents of a stranger’s purse.

“It doesn’t hurt, of course, that the closest Sephora has perpetually broken sensors.” She glanced at all three of our faces, segueing into a teaching moment. “But never take past mistakes for granted. Always shoplift something harmless first—worth five bucks or less—in order to test out the sensors. If they still work, the worst you’ll get is a slap on the wrist from security.”

Etta scoffed, shaking her head. “This is day one stuff.”

“Now she’s all cocky because she managed to steal one car.” Eddie fiddled at the watch around his wrist. “Big fucking deal. If I had gotten her luck, I would’ve done the same thing.”

“Sure you would’ve, asshole.”

“Are you really about to start a fight on Jesus’s birthday?”

“Depends—can you shut your mouth for two seconds?”

“The three of you are headed off to college next year,” Mom intervened, not wanting another Christmas night to end with bickering. “It never hurts to have a reminder of the basics before you leave the nest.”

“You don’t have to remind us of the basics.” Eddie glanced around the room, looking at the only person who had hardly spoken a word the entire night. “Remind him.”

They all turned to me, unsurprised to see that I was empty-handed.

I had been a senior at the time, and all throughout high school, I had fallen out of favor in the family. Somehow, I had managed to commit three Boyle family cardinal sins within the span of only four short years:

1) I joined the high school chess club which, according to Mom, was the “most tedious and pretentious game invented in the history of mankind”.

2) I said Ocean’s 11 was an overrated movie.

3) I hadn’t committed a crime since middle school. Not a single one.

That particular Christmas marked the point I officially became a disappointment. Between Mom’s perfume, Eddie’s watch, and Etta’s Cadillac, they had stolen tens of thousands of dollars in luxury items. I may as well have scribbled out my own face out of all the family photos.

“I really wish you would stop being so rebellious,” Mom said, frowning when I admitted I hadn’t stolen anything. “This is your family legacy. Your father died on the lam, your grandmother wore her stolen jewelry to her grave, and your grandfather had amassed a total of 134 rare breeds of parrots before he was pecked to death.”

“I… I just…” I struggled for the right words, not wanting to catch the wrath of my family. “This life isn’t for me. I don’t have the stomach for this.”

Etta popped a pecan praline into her mouth before laughing. “It’s stealing, not lactose intolerance. You just need practice. With time, you’ll get more comfortable.”

“I don’t want to be comfortable with this. My discomfort is what, in a way, gives me comfort.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Here we go again.”

“With all due respect, maybe I don’t want to end up with my eyes pecked out by my own stolen birds in a scene pulled straight from The Twilight Zone,” I said, unable to keep the years of pent-up anger out of my voice. “Maybe I don’t want to be buried with a bunch of reminders of my own guilt. Maybe I don’t want to drive a car off a cliffside after abducting a celebrity’s pet cat… that kind of life just doesn’t suit me.”

Mom bit her lip, clearly hurt but trying not to show it. “Do you know what your grandfather, grandmother, and father all have in common? They lived. Even if they met grisly ends, they died knowing they had made an impression on the world.”

“I don’t want to make an impression on the world.”

And with this statement, I had completed the formula for a classic Boyle Christmas: Etta and Eddie had initiated several displays of one-ups-man-ship, Mom had given us a brief teaching moment on all the nuances of criminal activity, and I had once again established myself as the wet blanket of the family.

“Unbelievable,” Eddie said, bewildered. “You know what he told me the other day? He said he wanted to be an accounting major. He wants to disgrace the Boyle family name by becoming the most boring person imaginable.”

“Accountants are paid well.”

“Accountants dream in 0’s and 1’s before getting clinical depression.”

“0’s and 1’s? Wouldn’t that be a computing major?”

“Same thing.”

“Not really, no.”

Etta sat back, watching the exchange whilst picking at the red polish on her nails. “I think you’re just afraid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The words spilled from her mouth nonchalantly, indicating this was something she had thought about beforehand. “You’re afraid because you refuse to take the time to actually learn some decent skills. Mom knows how to use people’s sympathy to her advantage, Eddie knows sleight-of-hand tricks, and I… let’s just say I know a thing or two about manipulation. That’s why you don’t ‘have the stomach for this’. You know, in your heart, you wouldn’t be able to accomplish half the shit we do.”

Eddie nodded vigorously as she finished her speech, probably just happy to not be at the bottom of the totem pole anymore. Mom, meanwhile, appeared conflicted. I could see it in her eyes—she was searching my face for proof that I had inherited some of my namesake’s abilities, but after a few moments of silence, it was clear she came up blank.

“This isn’t a matter of abilities,” I said. I should’ve just cut my losses and agreed with Etta, allowing us to have some semblance of a normal, peaceful family evening… but I was sick of it. Sick of being underestimated and belittled simply because I wanted to go down a different life path. 

“If I wanted to, I could steal a Cadillac,” I continued, voice rising steadily. “I could spend my days stalking the mall parking lot on Christmas Eve desperately searching for a high-ticket item that’ll win the validation of my family. I could even steal a watch. It isn’t difficult to slip something into your coat while the store clerk isn’t looking. I could do what you do easily, but to what end?”

There was a painfully long pause. We all listened to the flakes of snow pattering against the windowsill, waiting for someone to pick up the conversation.

Eventually, Mom cleared her throat. “I gave you your father’s name, Clyde. Of the three of you, I believed you would be the one that would appreciate it the most… I suppose I was wrong.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Eddie laughed and shook his head. “Funny how it’s you who spits on his grave the most. I should’ve gotten his namesake.”

“I’m not spitting on his grave I… I…”

I don’t admire who he was. Those were the words I wanted to say. Regardless of my own disdain for the legacy he left behind, however, Clyde had been the love of Mom’s life. If I had vocalized my lack of admiration for him, I would’ve seen her heart break in real-time.

“I just want to be my own person,” I eventually said, deciding the softer phrasing would strengthen my point.

Mom ran her fingers through her hair—her tell-tale sign that she was stressed. “I’ll make one final point before we drop this conversation once and for all: you have it in you, Clyde. Occasionally I’ll see that same mischievous glimmer in your eyes. One of these days, you’ll know why I gave you your name.”

The rest of the evening was ordinary. Ordinary by Boyle standards, at least. We watched A Miracle on 34th Street while Eddie somehow managed to burn microwaved popcorn. I, however, wasn’t able to enjoy the movie. All I could focus on was the burst of red in my periphery. Outside the window, the Cadillac glistened in the moonlight, beckoning the attention of anyone passing by.

In chess, it’s always suggested you always think eight steps ahead. 

Looking at my surroundings, I realized that I had been given one tiny stroke of luck: the TV remote happened to be placed right next to me. If I played my cards correctly, this would be the only thing I needed.

When the credits began to roll, I subtly slipped the remote underneath the couch.

“Alright.” Mom clapped her hands together, preparing for the next event of the night. “Let’s turn this off and move on to making cookies.”

“Does anyone have the remote?” Eddie asked, glancing around.

We looked around for a few moments, scanning the floors and tables. Nothing.

“Do you think it fell into the folds of the couch again?” I asked.

“Shit. How does everything end up there?”

Just as I expected, everyone began tearing up the couch. While Etta was prying open the space between two couch cushions, I pretended to search beneath two pillows in order to position myself closer to her purse. Zipping it open, I immediately found what I was looking for.

I slipped the keys to the Cadillac into my own coat pocket. No one noticed. Everyone else was busy searching for the remote in all the wrong places.

“Here it is,” Eddie said, finally spotting it beneath the couch. “Wonder how it ended up there.”

“Someone probably kicked it by mistake,” Mom replied as he turned the TV off. “Doesn’t matter… What kind of cookies were you all hoping to make tonight?”

We settled on stained glass. It had always been our childhood favorite—one of the few things we had ever unanimously agreed on. The recipe was simple: we took a pull-apart batch of sugar cookies, cut holes in the center of the dough, and stuffed jolly ranchers inside. The disagreement, of course, always centered around the flavor of the jolly ranchers in question.

Etta loved green apple. Eddie was partial to grape. I had no preference, simply taking whatever was left over.

This, of course, meant that green apple and grape were the scarcest flavors in the bag. We only finished six cookies before the two ran out completely, leaving only watermelon and cherry and raspberry in their wake.

“I knew this would happen,” I said once the shortage became apparent. “After my tournament yesterday, I managed to pick up an extra bag at the grocery store.”

There wasn’t a chess tournament on Christmas Eve that year. My family, however, was none-the-wiser.

“Really?” Etta asked, smiling. “I guess you aren’t a total waste of space after all.”

“I think I forgot it in the back of the SUV,” I said, the anticipation of what I was about to do running down my spine. “It might be a little cold after sitting out in the trunk overnight, but at least we’ll have enough green apple and grape to finish the batch.”

“That was sweet of you, Clyde,” Mom said. “And hopefully the temperature won’t affect the recipe at all.”

“I doubt it will.”

On my way out, I take the keys to the SUV with me as well. This way, none of them will be able to follow me after realizing what I’ve done.

I head out the front door, Etta’s words playing on repeat in my mind.

You know, in your heart, you wouldn’t be able to accomplish half the shit we do.

I glance back into the warmth of the kitchen. The three of them make idle conversation in my absence, distracting them as I quietly shut the front door behind me. The barrier of separation, however slight, will help delay their reaction.

I retrieve Etta’s keys from my purse, unlocking the Cadillac.

When I turn on the engine, a distant commotion erupts from behind me.

I don’t look back, driving away from my childhood home until it becomes a tiny light in the rearview mirror. 

Later that same evening, I discovered an address book located in the glove compartment. The owners of the Cadillac woke up the following morning to discover their vehicle sitting idly on their curb, returned as mysteriously as it disappeared.