Chapter 9: Heist, 1990

by Elizabeth McWillams

My father had grounded me for just three days. And, as painful as they were, the days went by quickly. I kept my normal life guarding schedule at the pool and would walk home from work shortly afterwards, cutting across the meadow behind the local grocery store. Through the entire three days my father was kind and didn’t hold a grudge against me. He would look up and smile as I walked into the kitchen each morning and offer to make me breakfast and, in the evenings, he would ask if he could pick up a movie for me at the video store. But I wasn’t willing to accept any gestures of kindness, and would awkwardly maneuver behind him to reach for my own cereal bowl, taking it out to the porch if I saw he intended to sit with me at the dining room table. In the evenings, when everyone else was settling into the family room to watch a movie, I would retreat to my bedroom, saying only that I was tired when they entreated me to join them.

By the end of the three days, my father would make attempts to include me merely as an act of formality, knowing fully well that I would say no. On the third day, I saw him look at my stepmother and simply shrug his shoulders after I turned down his invitation to join a family game of Scrabble. I was very successful at distancing myself and, in the end, probably would not have dared to join them even if I had wanted to. I knew that I had forced an unbridgeable gap. That my father was attempting to hand me a rope and that I kept hacking away at it, unable to accept his love even though there was nothing that I craved more. When he finally shrugged his shoulders at my last rejection, I felt completely, purely severed from him. As if he had taken a sharp, steely edge and cut away at the last frayed and fragile thread that weakly bound us. There was my proof – he just didn’t care anymore. And in that same shrug, even though he intended it to be a private, exhausted query to his wife of “What’s a Dad to do?,”  came my liberation. There was the final proof that, in the end, I could do whatever I wanted because my father simply didn’t care.

I was devastated and thrilled all at once. A cold, hard lump, like a tiny brimstone, seemed to lodge deep within my belly. Yet, a glowing sense of warmth and well being also sparked in my toes, caught fire and began to journey up my legs. I felt as though I was floating. On wobbly legs, I started up the stairs to my bedroom.

My sister, father and stepmother were all in the family room and I could hear bits of their conversation as I retreated up the steps. My sister, commenting on a Manet painting featured in a coffee table book, reminded my stepmother of an art heist that had occurred earlier that spring at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

“Over $500 million of art stolen, including Degas and Rembrandt, “ my stepmother was saying.

“Yes, and Rembrandt’s only known SeaScape, “ interjected my father, “ Such a shame. They have no leads. Amazing that…” .  His voice began to fade as I turned the corner at the landing. I was glad to tune them out, relieved to retreat to my bedroom and be left alone with my four walls, my window that looked out on the garden and street below.

Closing the door behind me, I stood there for a moment looking around, wondering what to do with myself. I heard laughter from downstairs, the murmur of my family’s voices as they resumed the game. My room, in comparison, was quiet, isolated. The clock on the wall ticked almost imperceptibly, the curtains fluttered gently in the breeze. I walked across the room and looked out to the garden. Long shadows cast from the moon stretched across the lawn, leaving dark pools and patches of contrasting light. The crickets chirped, a floorboard creaked beneath my feet, a solitary car drove past headed towards Washington Street, its’ headlights illuminating the white picket fence and shrubbery. I craned my neck to look at the license plate, hoping that it was Nathan driving by to see if my light was on. But the car carried on, never slowing, oblivious to me standing there at the window like a sentinel.

I meant to pick up my book and Walkman, to settle back on the cushions and lose myself in the pages of Still Life With Woodpecker, but instead I went to the phone, picked up the receiver and listened to the dial tone. My heart was pounding in my ears so loudly that it overwhelmed every other sensation. I quickly dialed Nathan’s number and waited, breathless, hoping against hope that he would pick up the phone, and not his mother.

“Hello?” it was Nathan’s voice at the other end.

“Hi, it’s me. I can’t take it anymore,” I said, my voice a shrill whisper.

“Well, what do you want to do about it?” he asked, his voice suggestive.

“Come to my house tonight at midnight, everyone will be asleep. Meet me at the usual place.”

“You sure? You’re almost at the finish line. You won’t be grounded anymore tomorrow, you know.”  Nathan was trying to be reasonable, but there was very little resolve in his voice. In fact, to my ears, he seemed to be leading me to my very next question.

“Don’t you miss me?” I asked.

“You know I do. I can’t wait to wrap you in my arms.” There was a slight pause. “ Okay - see you soon. And bring candles.”  Nathan hung up. I stood there with the receiver still in my ear, listening to silence until the phone eventually picked up a busy tone. The brimstone slipped a little deeper into my belly, But then, replacing the receiver gently, I tiptoed across the room and leaped onto my bed, delighted with my audacity, sure of my new found independence. I buried my head beneath the pillow and waited, distractedly, for the church bells to strike midnight.

When midnight finally came, I didn’t move until the very last stroke of the bell had stopped reverberating through the air. Then, in the silence, I slipped barefoot across the room and carefully opened my door. It opened quietly, much to my relief, and I began tiptoeing my way down the hall. All the lights were out, the house was still and asleep. I could hear my father’s shallow snores from the other side of the wall, steady and consistent. His regular breathing assured me that he was deeply asleep and my stepmother, I knew, would wake only at the sounds my little brother might make. I looked in the direction of his bedroom and was met with only a deep, dark calm. Emboldened, I made my way down the stairs, picking up my pace.

The house worked as my accomplice that night – not a single floorboard groaned out in protest at my weight, doors swung silently open on their hinges, even the drawers to the buffet glided open at my slightest nudge, offering up in a gesture of complicity their collection of candle ends, votives and match sticks.

Grabbing two mismatched candle ends that each still had at least an hour’s worth of wick, I turned to the basement door and made my way deeper into the recesses of the house and deeper into my own adolescent resolve. Adolescent resolve to do what? Identify loyalty to Nathan? Blur the lines that define an honest daughter? I didn’t know. But I was motivated by two repeating thoughts: I can do this and I deserve this. After all, my actions were justified by my father’s indifferent shrug earlier that evening. He simply didn’t care any more. Why should I be punished? Why shouldn’t I just take the love that was waiting for me?

Once in the basement, I opened the screen door that led to the side yard. And there, from out of the shadows, stepped Nathan, the moonlight catching on his sleeve and shoulder, illuminating a stray curl and the tip of his ear.

“Hi,” he whispered, enfolding me in a hug. His neck was warm and his arms, wrapped around my waist, felt strong and protective. I buried my nose into the side of his collarbone and then rested my cheek against the crook of his neck.

“I missed you,” he said, tilting my chin up for a kiss. We lingered there by the cellar door for a minute or so until the mosquitoes drove us indoors. Then, once inside, Nathan walked over to the closet and pulled out the mattress, sheets and blankets that I had stowed there, dragging them to the center of the room. I walked over to join him and together, in the utter darkness, we tugged at the fitted sheet until it held at the corners, and then smoothed out the flat sheet and blankets. We smiled silently at each other during this chore, he most likely in anticipation of what was to come, while I simply felt joy at sharing such a basic domestic task with him, as though we were nest building, even fortifying the walls of our relationship in the symbolic act of making a bed.

Bed made, we then set to the task of lighting the candles, which was a bit difficult since the candle ends were too narrow for the candle sticks and they kept leaning precariously to one side, dripping wax. We had nothing to protect the floor and we did not want to leave any evidence, so Nathan removed his shirt and lay it flat beneath the lit candles. He shivered a little in the cool, night air, tiny goose bumps traveling in a wave down his arms.

Shadows leapt and played at the walls and we entertained ourselves for a moment making finger puppets and holding the candles beneath our chins, making shadowy masks of our faces. Then we fell silent again and simply regarded each other, he smiling broadly while I giggled nervously, as though this were the first time we had coordinated and pulled off a clandestine rendezvous.

But Nathan and I were no strangers to stolen moments. I had lied to my father countless times to be with him before, even sneaking him into the basement on at least two other occasions. But this night somehow felt distinct from the others, separate and apart, held up at the tip of our fingers like a small gem or jewel. I had done it – I had forged ahead and had my way despite my father’s disciplinary measures, even because of them. If my father had left us alone, I most likely would not have acted so recklessly, or at least would have waited until Nathan had encouraged it, allowing him to take the lead. But tonight I was pouring salt in the wound, intentionally breaking every thread of decorum that unites a father and daughter. I was grounded. So what?  I was deeply insulting my father by bringing Nathan into his home. What of it? I had lied too often, broken his trust without apology or remorse on too many occasions. What was one more? Well, one more was my final act of rebellion, the last thrust that would completely redefine me as separate, as other.

Outside, the crickets chirped rhythmically, offering a quiet percussion. Nathan leaned forward and pulled me by the arm down onto the mattress. I lay flat on my back and looked up at him. He smiled, then playfully covered my eyes with his hand. Pressing up against me, he kissed me deeply on the mouth and then began to ease my pants down my hips and thighs.

Melted wax splattered in muffled plops on Nathan’s t-shirt and the candles, sputtering, flickered for a moment and then snuffed out. A smoky residue filled the air for a mere second and then dispersed as quickly as it had come, leaving behind only the deep calm of the sleeping house, the thrumming crickets, the moon shadow.

I emerged hours later from a sleep that was so deep and absolute that it felt as though I had been held, suspended, underneath water. No sounds, no shadowy lights, no movements. Just nothingness, as though I had ceased to be. Keeping my eyes shut, I took stock of my bearings and realized, to my absolute horror, that I was still in the basement with Nathan asleep beside me. My eyes flew open and darted about the room. Darkness lay thick in the corners but dawn had come, spreading her fingers through the night air, dispelling darkness and replacing it with a grey, ashen light. Birds chirped sporadically here and there, but not yet with much vigor or purpose. It was still very early, 5am perhaps. I might still be able to creep up the stairs, undetected, and return to my own bed. My father woke up early, 4:30 usually, but often he shaved first, or retreated to his office and closed the door behind him so that he would not disturb others with his typing and paper shuffling. My mind raced. If he was already downstairs, reading in the family room, I could silently sneak into the kitchen from the basement stairs and go to the main stairs by way of the living room. He wouldn’t be able to see me and often he was so absorbed in his reading that he didn’t notice his surroundings anyway. But if I waited too long he would make his way into the kitchen for coffee or a bowl of cereal and then I would be trapped. I knew that I had to make a move right then.

I was just struggling into my t-shirt when I heard the kitchen door to the basement open, followed by the sound of heavy steps coming down the carpeted stairs. My heart began to race, there was a loud thrumming in my ears and, in my panic, I looked desperately about the room for a hiding place. The closet? Behind the jumble of old boxes in the corner? I was just about to spring from the mattress wearing nothing but a t-shirt but, realizing I was too late, I dove beneath the blankets. Nathan, unbelievably, was still sleeping.

From underneath the covers, I felt my father step into the room. Praying that the semi-darkness would shield us from his view, I heard the flick of the light switch and saw through the threads of the blanket a muffled light shine down on us from the center of the ceiling. Nathan’s body started with a twitch and I knew he was awake.

Nobody said a word. I panted in the stifled air from under the covers and felt a vacuum suck from me any thought or emotional reaction whatsoever. My mind was an echoing void. No thoughts came to me, no plan of attack. There was nothing to do. I was caught, simple as that. I pulled the covers back from my head and blinked in the garish light.

I glanced at my father who stood staring at us. His mouth was twisted, his eyes burning with betrayal.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so, so sorry.”  Nathan said nothing, just lay there in mute silence. My father looked at us aghast and then quietly reached over to the light switch and flicked it off. Dawn leapt back in to the room.

Just then I heard a sound, a high-pitch crack, erupt from somewhere inside me. A stifled sob broke from my chest and, clutching my knees, I wept openly in starts and fits.

“Dad,” I cried. “Please. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.“

Nathan sat up, reached for his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. My father turned to go.

“Dad, please! Please listen to me,” I cried. My father hesitated and looked at me for a moment with the most terrible ache in his eyes.

“I’m done listening to you, Katherine,” he said. And he left the room.

I turned to Nathan, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“I gotta go,” he said. He threw on his pants and shoes, grabbed his wallet and car keys and disappeared out the side door.

In the half-light, I watched in silent desperation as the rising dawn brushed the windowsills in a soft, golden light and gently kissed the tips of the lilac bush. I looked about me. My jeans were inside out, my underpants lying exposed. I stood and numbly folded the blankets, removed the sheets and dragged the mattress back to the closet. I dressed quietly and combed my fingers through my hair, then dried my eyes.

Carrying the dirty sheets in a bundle and accompanied by a chorus of early morning birds now singing in full throttle, I made my way up the stairwell to the kitchen, my father, my shame and the deepest feeling of loss that I had ever known.