How to Find Your Way in the Dark Page 8

  “We’re outlaws now,” Abe said. “There’s no going back.”

  Mirabelle smiled; both validated and bemused. Sheldon, however, felt entirely unchanged.

  When Abe opened the door, a tiny bell above it rang, and for a moment, they all stood silently. When nothing happened, they moved inside.

  * * *

  Sheldon had never been inside a pawn shop before. He’d seen the outsides; he’d even stared at this one before when walking past. It was located in the first floor of a three-story building. There were two large display windows on either side of a black door. Above the windows, painted by hand, were WE BUY OLD GOLD SILVER & PLATINUM.DIAMONDS, WATCHES AND JEWELRY APPRAISED. 100,000 USED TOOLS FOR ALL TRADES. EXPERT WATCH AND JEWELRY REPAIR. A COMPLETE STOCK OF SHOTGUNS, RIFLES, AMMUNITION, FISHING RODS & REELS. BOUGHT, SOLD, AND EXCHANGED. The one that had caught Sheldon’s eye, though, was the last sign over the guitars in the window. In the black of the corridor inside the shop, this is what he wanted to ask Abe about.

  “It says accordion lessons are given here,” he whispered.

  “What?” said Abe.

  “Accordion lessons. You can take accordion lessons here.”

  “So what?”

  “Isn’t that weird?”

  “I don’t know. Is it?”

  “I think it’s weird that anyone wants to take an accordion lesson at all,” said Sheldon, trying to keep his voice down.

  “I guess.” Abe was leading, Sheldon was in the middle, and Mirabelle was behind them. “This isn’t important, Sheldon.”

  “And if you were going to take accordion lessons,” continued Sheldon, undeterred by the lack of interest, “why would you do it at a pawn shop? They’re not really set up for that, you know. Who wants to go shopping for a watch or a trumpet and listen to some doofus learning the accordion in the corner?”

  They entered into the back office, where Teddy McCullen sat day after day buying stolen items from drunks and junkies, and running book on sporting events. His chair was a high steel one made of red Naugahyde with a crack in the middle and a permanent double dimple. It faced a high counter for talking to people on the other side. There was no glass, no chicken wire. The desk was littered with newspapers and books, staplers and tape, a green banker’s lamp (off now), and a snow globe with the Terminal Tower inside. Written across the bottom was I’D RATHER BE IN CLEVELAND.

  “Why would anyone rather be in Cleveland?” Sheldon whispered.

  Mirabelle had lifted the partition to the main room and was starting to place objects in her laundry bag as quietly as possible. She looked focused, discerning, and happy.

  “No one would rather be in Cleveland,” Abe said, trying to shut Sheldon up by answering his questions for a change. Abe, though, didn’t know his cousin well enough yet to know that answers only helped Sheldon further refine his questions.

  Abe checked the register for cash and found none. He squatted down and started running his hands beneath the desk looking for keys.

  “It’s just weird,” Sheldon whispered. “The only place you’d buy a snow globe of Cleveland would be Cleveland, and if you were already in Cleveland . . . you wouldn’t buy a snow globe saying you’d rather be in Cleveland. Because . . . you’d already be there.”

  “They’re gifts for out-of-town friends, Sheldon. They’re tourist kitsch.” Abe found two sets of keys that he hoped would open the cabinets to the jewelry and watches. He palmed them carefully and stood up.

  “But if no one would rather be there—”

  “OK, you know who’d rather be in Cleveland? Jews in Germany. And Italy. And Poland. And Europe in general. They’d rather be in Cleveland.”

  Sheldon hadn’t thought to go international.

  “I really need you to focus on stealing, OK?” Abe said, trying desperately to shut Sheldon up. “The accordion lessons don’t matter. The snow globe doesn’t matter. And if you even think of taking the snow globe, I will make you eat it. Are we clear?”

  Sheldon nodded while taking the snow globe and placing it gently into his empty laundry sack.

  Mirabelle had jimmied the lock on the watch display and was now snatching them up by the handful and dropping them into her bag. Abe opened a display cabinet filled with shotguns and old pistols. He removed a revolver with wood handles and held it up.

  “You’re heavy,” Abe said to the gun.

  “It’s a Colt 1917 from the war,” Sheldon said, glancing at it. “My dad came home with one. He traded it for some traps we use for bobcats. You should see if it’s loaded. You just . . .” Sheldon showed Abe how to pull back on the cylinder release.

  “Yeah. It’s loaded,” said Sheldon. “Be careful, OK? It’s a double action so pulling the trigger will make the gun shoot even if the hammer isn’t pulled back.”

  “You really know a lot about these things.”

  “Your Underwood typewriter is more complicated than a gun, Abe.”

  Sheldon and Abe both heard footsteps and looked over at Mirabelle to see what she was up to. Alone with her wealth of distractions, she’d wrapped a flapper’s purple boa around her shoulders and was holding a nickel-plated trumpet over a black case lined with plush green felt.

  That was when they heard the unmistakable pump of a shotgun accompanied by footsteps on creaky stairs at the far end of the office behind a door.

  “Where does Mr. McCullen live?” Sheldon asked. “Is it possible that he lives upstairs, which is where he teaches the accordion lessons? Because all of a sudden that would make a lot of sense and prove that my question was—”

  The door started to open.

  Mirabelle might have looked like she was in her own world, but she was the first to take action. She dropped the trumpet, grabbed her bag, and hurled herself toward the exit with the speed of a ferret.

  Sheldon—unlike his clever cousin—was frozen in place as he watched Mirabelle run, but his paralysis ended when Abe squeezed off a round from the Colt that shattered a baroque mirror on the far wall. The crash of the falling glass snapped him back, and Sheldon bolted after Mirabelle into the dark corridor under the bell that dangled like mistletoe and out to the alley where they’d come in.

  Behind him, Sheldon heard a shotgun blast followed by the pump-­chambering of a second shell, but he didn’t have long to wonder whether Abe was all right because that second Abe’s hand grasped his collar and yanked him out of the alley.

  “Faster!” Abe yelled, as though he could command Sheldon’s legs to grow.

  Mirabelle’s purple boa was lying up ahead, discarded in the gray street like an exotic snake, and she was already fifty yards farther on, running as fast as a track star with her bag clenched to her chest. A shadow, she disappeared into a side street as Abe pulled Sheldon in the opposite direction. They sprinted together along the sidewalk, keeping their heads low in case Mr. McCullen had a mind and a chance to shoot them off.

  * * *

  There was no second shotgun blast, and after five solid minutes of running, the boys turned into a large park and fell hard behind a bush, where they panted and watched for the flashing lights of a thousand police cars that never came.

  As their hearts slowed and their breathing returned to normal, it was Sheldon who spoke first.

  “You’re still holding the gun.”

  Abe was lying on his back in the damp soil under the bush. He squeezed the handle of the gun. “You’re right.” He opened his laundry bag and tossed it in with his take. Sheldon propped himself onto an elbow, his heart still again, and asked, “Did you shoot at Mr. McCullen?”

  “No. I got nervous and squeezed. I’m sure he’s fine. I hit the mirror.”

  “Did he shoot at us?”

  “Don’t know. Might have been a warning shot.” Abe looked down at his own torso and legs and then over at Sheldon. “We look OK.”

  “Where’s Mirabelle?” Sheldon asked.

  Abe didn’t know. He didn’t seem concerned either. She was the fastest runner of the three of th
em and clearly had the quickest reflexes too. “Home is my guess,” he said, lying back again in the damp soil.

  * * *

  Sheldon and Abe looked for trouble as they approached their town house. The street was empty of cops, thugs, or Mr. McCullen. The only light they could see was the electric bulb burning from Mirabelle’s window, which they both took as a good sign. Nate’s car wasn’t there.

  The parlor was dark as they stepped inside. Both boys removed their shoes and made their way up the creaky stairs to the second floor. Mirabelle was already showered and dressed for bed in a long satin slip with lace straps. Her hair was pinned back in a ponytail and her light brown eyes blinked at Sheldon, who was staring at her.

  “What?” she finally asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “How did you get back so fast?” Abe asked her. Her appearance made him sniff his own clothes. He’d have to shower too.

  “I didn’t stop. Where have you been?”

  “Under a bush in the park.”

  Mirabelle rubbed her hands together. “Checked your bags yet?”

  Abe and Sheldon were still clutching theirs. They both looked down as though they’d forgotten about them. Mirabelle reached out, took both of them, and said, “Come on!”

  * * *

  Sheldon had never been inside Mirabelle’s room before. He’d looked in. He’d seen her on the bed. He’d seen the lamp and the book on the end table and the little silver wind-up clock with the bell on top and the red hands. But he’d never gone so far as to push the door open and step inside.

  When he did cross the threshold into her room, it was like stepping into an H. G. Wells or Jules Verne story. He could have been stepping onto another planet or out of a submarine onto the bottom of the sea. He didn’t feel prepared as he was only wearing socks.

  Mirabelle’s laundry bag of stolen items was on her desk. Sheldon had remembered it being black, like any good robber’s bag, but now he saw it was a deep purple. Where would she had gotten a purple laundry bag? In the light of her room—with the door now closed behind them—Sheldon saw that his own bag was actually a dark-blue pillowcase and Abe’s was the matching one. Without ceremony, Mirabelle dumped her bag onto her quilted bedspread.

  Everything sparkled like a pirate’s treasure. There were a dozen wristwatches, two dozen rings of a thousand colors, and necklaces and bracelets and earrings. Everything she took was small and looked priceless, though Sheldon knew immediately it couldn’t all be precious as they’d robbed a pawn shop, not a jewelry store. Then again, he was no judge. Maybe the jewelry was gold. Maybe it was plated. Maybe it was bronze. For the moment, though, it didn’t matter. It glistened.

  Mirabelle ran her hands through it all without grasping any one piece. She lifted a handful of loot gently from the bed and let the pieces fall back down. She smiled at them with a look of guilt-free joy. “We’re rich!”

  “We’re thieves,” said Abe.

  “We’re both,” she said, smiling. “What did you get?”

  Abe dumped out his bag. Twenty-one dollars in cash fell out along with four boxes of bullets, the Colt pistol, a stapler, a dozen silver necklaces, a man’s Freemason ring, and a pinkie ring with a skull on it.

  “Huh,” said Mirabelle. “You stole his stapler?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You get any staples?”

  “No.”

  Mirabelle reached for the pistol, and Sheldon immediately said, “It’s loaded.”

  She pulled back her hand. “Maybe you should take it.”

  “I don’t want it. Why would I want it?”

  “I’ll keep it,” said Abe. “Maybe we can finally tap on the window of the Mafia guy who’s usually out there. Find out who he is, what he wants, and then tell him he can’t have it.”

  Mirabelle picked up a silver Hamilton wristwatch with a black face and leather strap, and handed it to Sheldon. “A present.”

  Sheldon took it and held it as though it were an actual present she’d picked out at a fancy department store or jewelry shop instead of an item she’d recently lifted in a heist. Aside from his father’s enormous Austrian wall clock, Sheldon had never owned a watch before. His father had one, and when Sheldon was little, he’d play with it—and chew it, according to his mother—but he’d never worn one. Even holding it made him feel more adult.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Did you get me a present too?”

  It was a good question, actually. Sheldon lifted up his own pillowcase and dumped the contents on the bed. As he did, he became painfully aware that he had missed the point of the night’s activity.

  The snow globe—and nothing else—hit the bed, bounced once, and settled.

  The snow inside whirled around the Terminal Tower in a frantic and harmless storm.

  Mirabelle picked it up and made a cooing noise as though she were lifting a kitten from a basket. Abe closed his eyes in disgust, but Mirabelle’s theatrics made him smile and all three started to laugh.

  “Cleveland,” she said. “How did you know?”

  Cher Ami

  MIRABELLE WAS A JUNIOR in high school. She had told her father that her best subject was English because she knew that girls were supposed to like English, reading novels about sad people, and correcting grammar so they can become secretaries and perform the general etiquette of ladyhood. It wasn’t true, though. She really liked science, and her favorite class was biology. Assigned to the second seat in the third row from the left, Mirabelle would sit with rapt attention as she listened to Mr. Knightly talk about anatomy and procreation and breeding animals and how this taught us a thing or two about evolution. Today, however, was proving especially interesting because Mr. Knightly was talking about one of his great passions: pigeons. It was less a study of birds than of history, but he did have a tendency to speak to his interests, which may have been what made it all interesting.

  Pigeons had never remotely interested Mirabelle. They were filthy things that soiled benches and cooed most uncharmingly, but Mr. Knightly was insistent that they were fascinating, and he was going to prove it to them. Before getting into the science of it, he wanted to explain why.

  “Come, come. Come forward. Out of the seats; forget the seats,” he said. He was a short, slender man. He had a face one couldn’t imagine without his glasses. His hair was blond, longer than it should be, and unruly to distraction. He was unmarried and of an indeterminate age. Nothing he said, and no tone in his voice, ever suggested that he wanted to be anywhere or doing anything but teaching his students about the world. “Come closer. Come see with your own eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked, pointing at a bird in a cage.

  The class giggled.

  “Come on. I’ll give you a hint. It’s not a turtle. OK, your turn.”

  “It’s a pigeon,” said a male voice behind Mirabelle. She’d moved to the front and had sat on a desk, which she’d never done. She crossed her ankles and leaned forward as though examining a magical work of art.

  The class giggled again. The obviousness of it all, the foolishness.

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Knightly. “But what kind? What makes it special? Anything? Anyone? Anything . . . unusual?”

  “There’s something on its left leg,” said Mirabelle—though she hadn’t expected to say anything. His question had seemed to be directed to her in such a way that she’d been unable to remain aloof. She leaned in farther . . . far enough to risk falling off her desk. At first, she thought it was one of those scientific markers with numbers on them, but that wasn’t it. It looked like a long bullet attached by rings to the bird’s leg.

  “Any guesses as to what it is?” asked Mr. Knightly.

  The other students leaned in closely too. No one uttered a sound.

  “I could tell you,” whispered Mr. Knightly. “But why tell you when I can show you?”

  The cage opened with a clinking sound, and the pigeon responded by hopping onto Mr. Knightly’s extended hand. He then grasp
ed the pigeon gently and extended the pigeon’s leg. With his right hand, he unscrewed a tiny cap on top of the cartridge. From it, he pulled out a tiny scroll. Ever so carefully, he unrolled it and handed it to Mirabelle.

  The paper was very small but not so small that she couldn’t read it. It was typed on a pinkish slip of paper. At the top, it said, “Pigeon Message.”

  “Go on, read it aloud. It’s the start of a very sad story,” said Mr. Knightly.

  We are along the road paralell to 276.4. Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us. For heavens sake stop it.

  Whittlesey

  Maj. 308th.

  The class did not make a sound. They were confused at first. “Is that real?” asked Matty Tomlin.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Knightly.

  “Someone wrote that? That happened?” asked a boy who rarely spoke.

  “This pigeon,” Mr. Knightly replied, “is a homing pigeon. Sometimes they’re called carrier pigeons or messenger pigeons. The one who carried that very real and very specific message was named Cher Ami. Back in October of 1918, Major Charles Whittlesey was in the Argonne Forest in France. His five hundred and fifty men were surrounded by German troops. To make matters worse, the Americans were dropping artillery fire on Whittlesey and his men. The Americans didn’t know this, of course, and it wasn’t intentional, but it was devastating. Unable to signal their location, Major Whittlesey sent Cher Ami into the air with that desperate message. The bird flew straight into enemy fire, and Whittlesey and his men saw Cher Ami shot down. You can just imagine the horror and the sudden desolation of knowing that your only chance at survival had fallen from the sky in front of your very eyes. Moments later, though, and against all odds, Cher Ami rose again into the air and took flight! Through air riddled with bullets, choking on smoke, and his tiny ears clapped by the thunder of artillery every second, the pigeon flew twenty-five air miles through enemy territory into the Allied sector. When Cher Ami arrived, they inspected him. He’d been shot by the Germans and his right leg was barely attached to his body. He was blind in one eye. The capsule with Major Whittlesey’s message, however, was still clamped to his leg. They read it and immediately stopped the shelling. By the time Whittlesey’s battalion was rescued, one hundred and seven men had been killed, and one hundred and ninety had been injured. Major Whittlesey was awarded the Medal of Honor whereas poor Cher Ami’s leg had to be amputated. In time, the 308th became known as the Lost Battalion. A silent movie was made about them. Cher Ami was awarded the French Croix de Guerre with palm. He died at Fort Monmouth in New Jersey in 1919 from his wounds, and he was taxidermied.”