Tereasa Bellew: A New Beginning

 “A thief has been stealing from the judge,” Aunt Fiona said from across the table. Twelve-year-old Albert swore his freckles heated up and his neck itched as she rattled on. He squirmed on his chair peering around his aunt toward the window. “The judge suspected someone was pinching from him for some time. But when his gold cufflinks, the ones the governor sent when he was appointed, up and disappeared, he was sure of it.”

     The sleek locomotion that cut through the valley carrying supplies and laborers was due any minute. Folks stood along the route, rallying to see the country finally making progress. President Roosevelt’s New Deal created jobs for thousands, assuring rural Americans everyone would enjoy the nation’s progress. And he was going to miss it!

     Uncle Walt forked another slice of venison; his knuckles scraped; his nails blackened from working at the garage in town. “I swear, Walt. Did you wash up before sitting down to dinner?” Fiona sighed and shook her head. Albert hid a grin behind a gulp of milk thankful he’d remembered to wash earlier. 

     Walt dismissed her comment, his knife scraping the plate as he cut into his meat. “Anyone could have stolen from him. The judge is a hard and unforgiving man with plenty of enemies. I pity those who wind up in his courtroom, not to mention them unfortunate enough to live in his home.”

     “Albert, you to stay away from his place, you hear? I don’t want no one looking crossways at you.” She pulled the butter dish closer and picked up a warm biscuit. “If you ask me, it’s probably someone hired to help his wife. Everyone knows she can’t boil water.”

      “If you ask me,” Uncle Walt mimicked. “You’re not being very charitable.” He broke open a biscuit to sop the juices on his plate. “There’s scripture against that.” 

     “There’s scripture against a lot of things, don’t mean people read or follow them.” Fiona wiped her fingers on the napkin fashioned from a scrap of a feedsack and turned a shoulder to Albert. “Be sure to lock your bedroom window. An open window is a red flag to a thief.”

     “Yes ma’am.” His bedroom she referred to was simply a blanket hung separating the porch and living room. Not that he was complaining. Albert liked having his own space. Still…. He overheard her say many times they’d already sold everything worth a penny. The only thing left was the food, which was a valuable asset to anyone hungry. 

     With the closing of Waydown Mine, dozens of shanty towns sprung up all over. Homeless folks were likely to snatch food from an unsuspecting farmer or a pie off a windowsill without remorse. Albert had been arrested for that very thing before being sent south to his relatives. Poverty hit harder, it seemed, in the city, where there were no gardens or woods in which to hunt. Thankfully, his aunt had a knack for fixing meals out of nothing, recalling the tender potato dumplings and crispy fried apples he’d enjoyed earlier in the week.

     A flash of red gingham darted past the window. Della Drummond- DD for short, stood in the middle of the yard jumping up and down to get his attention. Almost eight years old, DD ran everywhere she went. Albert had spent most of the summer avoiding her only to discover she wasn’t half bad. For a girl. 

     The two routinely raced the train to the wooden bridge before the engine and boxcars thundered across. The railroad ties would groan and shake as they hunkered down below the bridge pretending Waydown Mine was caving in on them. 

     She waved frantically pointing to the tracks, prompting Albert to shovel fried potatoes into his mouth like coal to a fire slowing only to his aunt’s stare. “You got someplace to be?”

     “Yes ma’am,” he managed.

     His aunt held out the platter of biscuits. “You’re excused,” she said, a softer expression on her face as he stuffed the biscuit in his pocket. 

     He was up from the table and across the floor in two shakes. 

     “Don’t slam that door!” Too late- the screen door snapped soundly. 

     The kids broke into a full run as the heavy engine bore down the tracks. Black smoke puffed from the stack followed by another blaring whistle.

     Earlier in the day Albert had placed a rusty washer on the rails. He squinted against the sparks as the wheels cut across the tracks, the weight of the train capable of pitching the metal several feet. When the last car passed, they scrambled up from the culvert to search on their knees along the rocks. 

     “Here it is!” DD held up the flattened steel. “It’s hot,” she said bouncing it in her palm before handing it over. Albert conducted his own inspection of the washer, now double in size as the train’s caboose rolled across the bridge and further down the tracks. Squatting on his haunches, his gaze lit on something poking through a mound of dirt nearby. A gentle tug exposed black leather. DD’s eyes widened when a yank exposed a leather bag.

     “Don’t just sit there,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Open it.” Albert turned the clasp and shook the contents onto the ground. A pair of silver candlesticks and a heavy serving set tumbled out, and lastly, a handkerchief tied with a knot. 

     He inspected the knotted bundle in his palm, the initials J.T. embroidered in the corner, then carefully unwrapped the handkerchief. “The judge’s missing cufflinks.” 

     DD’s eyes grew wide. “Maybe there’s a reward.”

     His heart sank. They couldn’t risk showing this to anyone.

     “You got to promise not to tell what we found.”

     “Why not? Ain’t like we stole it.”

     Shoving the contents back into the bag, Albert retied the knot and stuffed the satchel back where he’d found it, smoothing the dirt so it looked undisturbed. “Who’s gonna believe that?” He pulled her to her feet, and they started for home. DD, in her familiar gait across the field, and Albert deliberately slower. “Remember what I said,” he called out. “Not a word to anyone.”

     Albert tossed and turned most of the night. Living with his aunt and uncle had been the best part of his brief life of crime, allowing him the chance to start over. He never considered himself a thief, only stole necessities, like food and medicine for his mom who suffered from their poor living conditions. Sometimes a person can overlook right and wrong simply to survive.

     Maybe whoever took those things from the judge had a good reason. Like Albert, could be their very life depended on it.

     He stepped into the living room to see his uncle putting on his hat.

     “If you still want to go to work with me, you better get a move on.”

     Albert had asked if he could ride into town and look for work, determined to help pay his share. His aunt would rather he go to school, but he convinced her working was the best education for him.

     Uncle Walt parked behind the garage where he worked as a mechanic. His ability to fix almost anything with an engine allowed him to keep working despite the hardship facing most families. When the time came, he promised to teach those skills to Albert. 

     “Be here at six. She don’t like holding supper.” 

     Albert left the alley as store owners were raising their window blinds and turning door signs to OPEN; the sun lit upon the streets with a warming glow. He entered a shop where the butcher was hanging a string of sausages in the window. 

     “Come by later and I might have a carcass or two you can dispose of out back.” Albert thanked him promising to return and left aiming for the dry goods store. He swept the sidewalk in front of three stores for a penny each and assembled the morning’s newspapers before carrying them to the man on the corner. Folks came in and out all day, some to trade fresh vegetables and others looking to do anything to put money in their pocket. 

     Lastly, Albert finished the smelly job of dumping hides and entrails for the butcher, then went in search of a water hose. An old truck rattled up across the street and a handful of people climbed out of the back, some were met with hugs, and others, tired and worn simply walked off, one common goal, a better life.

     He primed a hand pump drawing cool water then leaned down to catch a drink as a woman stepped around the corner. It wasn’t long before a sleek Deuce rolled beside the curb. Even with her head down Albert recognized the judge’s wife, Mrs. Talbert; beneath her arm was the black leather bag. 

     She stepped into the Ford without looking back. Albert grinned; glad she found the courage and her chance to start over.