Sneak Thief Page 7

Mabel was just stepping onto the porch as my friends drove off.

  She saw what I was holding. “Couldn’t find a use for that jar, after all?”

  “No.” I grinned. “I did.”

  * * *

  —

  I kept the jar of imps beside me while I did some weeding. I was fairly sure they weren’t going to escape, but it seemed best to keep them close all the same.

  “Hey, Mabel,” I called.

  Mabel, who was maybe thirty paces away, snipping herb leaves, replied, “Mmm?”

  Holding up a wrenched-out flower, I asked, “How do you pick which plants you like and which you don’t?” I couldn’t help wondering what the weeds did wrong.

  “I guess there are things in a garden that are useful, and things that are not,” she mused. “Part of my job is to grow herbs, so they’re useful to me.” She waved a hand along the tops of a bunch of basil. “There are some plants that would come in here and multiply so furiously that they’d squeeze the herbs out. And that guy you’ve got there?”

  I showed her the flower.

  She nodded. “His roots would strangle the roots of those tomatoes. Tomato—another useful plant, especially when I want spaghetti! So-o…” She paused for a time to focus on her work. “So, that strangler plant is what I’d call a weed. I’m not saying he’s not useful somewhere. I’m sure he is. Just not here.”

  I had to agree, that did seem like good sense. “It does seem a mite sad, though,” I said. “The flower is kind of pretty.”

  A soft breeze wafted over us, carrying the scent of herbs and flower blossoms. Overhead, a bird crooned.

  “Belle?” came Mabel’s voice.

  “Yeah?” I kept on pulling up weeds.

  “We’ve got plenty of pots and soil. Why don’t you plant a couple of your flowers there?”

  “Plant the weeds in pots?” I asked.

  “Sure. With a good, solid container around them, they can’t hurt anything, and you can enjoy them.”

  I thought it over. “All right, I will.”

  “And after that,” she said, “let’s call it a day. I’m hun-gry!”

  “I could go for some of that tomato spaghetti.” I couldn’t help noticing that, since I left Nina’s, I was starting to develop quite an appetite.

  “Spaghetti it is!” Mabel eased herself up from her chair and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Oh, also, I’m taking a delivery to the hospice up in Pitney tomorrow. It’ll be an early morning, but do you feel like giving me a hand?”

  I told her I’d be pleased to. Then I found three painted yellow pots, planted my weeds, and wished them a good night.

  When Mabel said early, boy howdy, she meant it! We were up at five-thirty, loading boxes onto her pickup at six, and on the road at six-thirty. Pitney was a good piece up the road, so once you included Mabel’s pee stops, we didn’t get there till almost eight.

  It was a plain building, where she parked. Biggish, two stories high, and with a sign out front that said DIGNITY HOSPICE.

  “Hospice,” I said to Mabel as she snapped off the radio and dropped her keys into her bag. “That’s like a restaurant, ain’t it?”

  She had been about to get out of the truck, but changed her mind. “Oh, Belle. I thought you knew. I wouldn’t have brought you here without—” She pressed her lips hard together. “A hospice is where people go to die.”

  I wasn’t too perturbed by that. Folks lived, then they died. “So, it’s a hospital?”

  She squinched her eyes like she was puzzling something out. “Sort of. It’s nicer than a hospital. More like a home, but with doctors and nurses.” She waited to see what I thought of that.

  I didn’t think much one way or the other, so I only said, “And they like your herb fixin’s here?”

  She nodded. “Sometimes sick people have trouble with their skin, so they like my lotions. But I’ve also got treats in back, cookies and stuff.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if the last thing I did before I died was eat one of your oatmeal raisins!”

  “So, you’re okay with this?” she asked carefully.

  “Sure. Everybody dies someplace.”

  “Okay, then,” she said, opening her door. “But if it gets to be too much, you let me know.”

  * * *

  —

  I reckon the best way to describe the hospice was soft. The cushy chairs were soft, and the carpet was real soft. Soft guitar music twanged in the air. The lady at the front desk had a soft way about her. Even the air, with its smell of lavender, felt soft.

  “Missus Mabel Holt!” the lady said gladly, but softly. “How are you?”

  “I’m grand, Miss Emony.” Mabel smiled. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Belle Cantrell.”

  “Hey, Miss Emony.” I gave a polite wave.

  My attention wasn’t really on the lady, though. Mabel had just called me her friend! Was I, really? And if I was, maybe having a friend like the ones in movies…wasn’t such a far-fetched thing, after all.

  “I’ve got all sorts of goodies out in the truck,” Mabel told the lady. “Should I just bring them on in?”

  “Nuh-uh, mamacita.” Emony wagged a finger. “I’ll call one of the volunteers to bring the cart around. Will you be stopping in to see Crispy? Should I make y’all some visitor’s passes?”

  “I think so,” Mabel said. “You don’t mind if I visit with a neighbor friend of mine, Belle? You can come in or stay out here.”

  “I’ll come.” Turning to Emony, I added brightly, “Slap me up one of them visitor passes.”

  * * *

  —

  We rode an elevator to the second floor and passed by a number of open doors on the way to Mabel’s friend’s. I saw what Mabel had meant about the place being like a home. Even when a person was tied to beeping machines, it was common to see them sitting on sofas, maybe with a blanket tucked up around them, maybe even a dog on their lap. I did pass one room where I thought the person—maybe a lady, maybe a man—might already be dead. They laid there real still, with their mouth hung open, so skinny they were practically a skeleton. The only thing that made me think they might be alive was the rippling, pale-ish pain imp that twitched on their belly.

  “All right?” Mabel asked when she saw me looking.

  “Sure.”

  She nodded. After another few paces, she stopped in front of a closed door. “He’s in here.” She knocked.

  “Come!” a voice creaked.

  “It’s me—Mabel.” Mabel eased open the door.

  Paper flowers sat in vases on the tables, and brightly colored paper chains hung from the ceiling like Christmas tinsel. A poster taped to one wall, written in little-kid print, said GRANPA’S BIG ADVENCHER! above a drawing of a gray-haired man wearing white robes and a yellow halo. Photos—framed, tacked, and taped—took up most of the wall space. One recliner chair was devoted entirely to a pile of toy animals. Another one held a tiny old man so swaddled in blankets he might have been set upon by a swarm of crochet biddies.

  The man’s eyes got wide. He burst into a toothless grin. “My dear! My favorite neighbor, Mabel!”

  “Crispy!” She crossed the room and gave the man a careful hug.

  “Who’s your young friend?”

  I walked up to them. “I’m, uh, Belle, Mister Crispy.”

  “Oh, just Crispy’ll do!” he told me. “And what’s a Belle for?”

  “Well, she’s helping me deliver some treats,” Mabel replied.

  “And here I thought a bell was for ringing!” Crispy exclaimed with a gleeful slap of the knee.

  Sure, it was goofy, but I couldn’t help chuckling.

  Mabel moved an enormous stuffed bear off a nearby sofa. “Do you want to sit, Belle?” She sat herself down.

  While I pulled up a chair, she asked, “How are you
, Crispy?”

  “Well enough, I reckon,” he replied.

  Mabel nodded. “And how’d that cupcake work out for your grandson? I know you were worried about him.”

  “Oh! Yes!” Crispy tried to sit a little straighter. “Things came together real good for him! He’s working nights to start, but they say if he keeps his corners up, he’ll be on the day shift in no time. Thank you for that, Mabel.”

  “It was no trouble at all, Crispy.” Leaning in, she raised an eyebrow. “How about you? I’ve got a cupcake with your name on it, if there’s anything you need.”

  “What am I gonna wish for? Not to die? Naw, Mabel, I am as pleased as a man can be. Lived a good life. My girls is all taken care of, and my wife’s waiting for me on the other side. Save your cupcake. Give it to this one, maybe.” He pointed to me. “Wishes are best spent on the young.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, wondering how I got included in their conversation about relatives and cupcakes.

  Mabel fidgeted like a woman squished between a rock and a hard place. Then, suddenly, she seemed to decide something.

  “Belle,” Mabel began. “This may seem like an odd question. But—if I could give you a cupcake that would grant you a wish, what would you do with it?”

  “I never had much use for wishes.” With a laugh, I joked, “Why? You got any cupcakes like that?”

  “Yes.” She wasn’t laughing. In fact, she seemed to be waiting on an answer, for real.

  Before I’d met my pain imps, the notion would have been downright crazy. But now? A wish cake seemed only mildly peculiar with a slight chance of possible.

  I squinted at her. “You really have some kind of wishing cakes?”

  Mabel nodded. “It’s a sort of…Sass town magic.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’ve been thinking about offering you one, Belle, but—”

  She seemed to be apologizing. It took me a second to figure out what for.

  “I understand,” I said. “You’re saving it for someone specialer.” A friend who was more than a charity guest, probably.

  “No! It’s not that, at all! It’s only—sometimes it’s better to heal things, rather than simply fixing them.” She bit her lip. “Do you understand what I mean?”

  I gave it a think. “It might be like…if you gave a dog medicine for his sick stomach. He’ll just get sick again if he keeps eating filth. You got to remedy his stupid, if you want him to stay fixed.”

  Mabel agreed that was a very creative example.

  “Surely is,” said Crispy. “I used to have a dog like that. He just wouldn’t learn.”

  At that moment, a lady with a pink VOLUNTEER T-shirt appeared in the doorway. She greeted Crispy by name and said she was checking to see if he needed anything. I could tell from her expression that she was ready to move a mountain if it would give the man even a sliver of comfort or relief.

  Folks here seem to really care about these sick people, I thought. I’d never even known there were such places as this.

  Come to think of it, almost every day now, I was bumping into something I’d never known before. Seeds sprouting under my care. People giving without expecting something in return. It was like swapping howdies with the world for the very first time.

  “You go ahead and keep your magic cakes, Mabel,” I decided. “I’ve got enough to chew on.”

  “Well.” She looked at me with something like wonder. “All right, then.”

  Turning to Crispy, I said, “So, uh. I guess there’s not much, at your age, that you ain’t done before, Crispy. Must make this dying thing fairly interesting, huh?”

  Mabel’s jaw dropped.

  But Crispy only gave an elder’s wise nod and said, “Hadn’t thought of it like that. I reckon you’re right.”

  “Are you scared?” I wanted to know.

  “Scared? Of dying?” Crispy repeated. “I used to be, when I was a younger man. But now? Naw. I’m ready to see what’s next. Ready to see my wife again. And my mama. So many good people waiting for me there.”

  I considered the chances that a certain someone might be waiting there for me. Maybe he’d be smiling. Maybe I could even give him his jacket back.

  “So, you’re fairly sure you won’t just wink out?” I asked. That was Nina’s notion of dying. Seventy-some years of bullpuck and misery—then Nothing! she’d snarled more than once.

  “Wink out. Hmm,” Crispy mused.

  I happened to glance at Mabel just then. She was leaning forward in her seat, biting her knuckle. Her expression was a puzzlement. Part amusement, part alarm, I thought it might have been.

  “No,” Crispy went on. “Winking out’s for things like lightbulbs and car batteries. Folks are more than that. We’ve got a spark of Greatness nobody can turn out.” He smoothed his covers. “Yes, I’m sure of that.”

  I brooded on that, some. I might have a spark, I decided, but it probably wasn’t too great.

  “But I bet you were a good man your whole life. Me, I’ve done some things wrong,” I told him. “Winking out might be better! What if I ended up someplace bad?”

  Crispy cast his rheumy eyes my way. “I wasn’t always so good. But the older I get, and the closer I come to the end, the more I hear a certain truth, over and over again, sung like a choir through the boughs of time.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  A hush had fallen over the room—maybe even over the whole hospice. Where I’d half heard TV chatter and beeping machines before, now there seemed to be nothing but a breath held and listening.

  Crispy held up a gnarled hand. “Only love is real.”

  Mabel exhaled softly.

  “But the other thing, Belle, the other thing?” the old man went on. “Those bad things you’ve done, you don’t have to let them stand. A lot of times you can go back and make things right. And where you can’t, at least you can do different next time. If you get the chance.”

  What would that mean, if I went back and made things right? Should I confess to the people I stole from? Or tell Sheriff Thrasher I deserved juvie, after all?

  I was cogitating on that when I noticed that a deep red pain imp had flared up just over Crispy’s heart. He shut his eyes and shook his head a little.

  Something moved in me, right then, maybe a different sort of loco. It wouldn’t let me just sit in my chair while that dying man suffered.

  “Crispy…” I slipped from my seat and knelt down beside his chair. “I can see you got a pain on your heart.” I didn’t dare pluck it off with Mabel watching.

  He nodded, his eyes still closed. “One thing I could have made right. Should have made right. Won’t never have the chance now.”

  “What is it?” I asked. “Could I help?”

  “No,” Crispy sighed. Then, all at once, he perked up and his imp paled. “Well—maybe. Maybe you could! Mabel, would you go to the closet and fetch the leather book on the top shelf?”

  Mabel was up in a flash.

  “Young lady, if I tell you what to say, will you write something down and take it somewhere for me?”

  * * *

  —

  It took Crispy some time to collect his thoughts and give us his words. Then it took me some time to get it neat enough—and spelled right—so he could sign it. But finally we had it done. He cried when he read it.

  “Yes. Thank you, both of you. Yes.”

  “Is there anything else we can do for you?” Mabel asked Crispy.

  “I might take one of your dee-licious peanut butter cookies if you brung any with you,” he answered.

  “There’s a whole box of them down in the kitchen. I’ll go grab you some. You want to come, Belle?”

  I was fixin’ to reply when Crispy said, “Let her keep me company.”

  “Glad to,” I said.

 
After Mabel left, Crispy said to me, “The address is in that leather book, all right?”

  “Yessir. I already looked at it. I even know the place,” I told him.

  “Good, good.” He settled back into his chair, a bundle of little old man and crocheted yarn. “Now, then. While our Mabel’s gone, perhaps you’ll tell me how you knew I had a pain on my heart.”

  “I—” I considered saying it was a guess, but it struck me that lying to a dying man might be on life’s list of Things Not to Do. “I saw it.”

  His eyes squinched ever so slightly. “You did?”

  “Um-hmm. I can still see it. In fact, now that Mabel is gone, I was thinking I might take it off of you.” I half smiled nervously. “If you’ll let me.”

  “You can do that?”

  I nodded.

  “You are a friend of Magical Mabel’s, ain’t ya?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. “So, can I pluck it off?”

  “Would you please?” He seemed to try to hold his chest up for me, but the effort didn’t amount to much.

  It didn’t matter. The imp was plain as day. Though it was real pale, now that Crispy’s letter was finished. I reached out and gave the imp a yank. It came off nice and easy.

  “Ahh—” Crispy sighed contentedly.

  He was smiling asleep when Mabel came back.

  * * *

  —

  As we made our way out, I noticed that the door to the near-dead skeleton-person’s room was still open. The pain imp rippled like mad on their belly, redder than before.

  “Hold up a second?” I asked Mabel.

  “Sure,” she said, looking curious, but asking nothing.

  I tiptoed into the room. A peculiar, sweet smell hung in the air.

  “Hey,” I whispered to the old soul on the bed. “I just wanna help you with something.” Real quick-like, I snatched up the imp and shoved it into my pocket.

  Nothing changed, except maybe the slightest softening of their breath. But I couldn’t help believing that, inside them—or wherever they were—they felt a little better.