Read Online THIEF: Part 1 by Kimberly Malone - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kimberly Malone
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“I’m pretty sure my mom’s family thought I’d be a spinster before age thirty.”
“I kind of like it,” he admits. “I’m a man of mystery.”
I elbow him, stifling my laugh. As promised, he keeps my sadness in check.
The canned music floats down the hall. I take a breath, hearing it, and Silas shores me up with his arm as we head into the chapel.
It seems wrong for me to cry while the pastor’s speaking, his voice soothing only for its droning tone and lilt. Not because I didn’t love my mom. I did, I assure myself—I still do, even if we had our problems. It’s funny, but not in a ha-ha way, how some things are so easy to admit only when the other person’s gone and it doesn’t matter anymore.
No, crying feels wrong because Aunt Jane is weeping and wailing so much, it’s like she’s sucked all the mourning out of the funeral home. Elected herself Chief of Mourners, demonstrating devastation on our behalf. Through the slatted windows of the family’s privacy parlor, a small room off the chapel, I can see the pastor and guests glance nervously at us. They can’t see us, but I think they know exactly who’s responsible for the commotion.
“Aunt Jane,” I whisper, “I can’t hear the pastor.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” she stage-whispers. “I just can’t believe little Annie is really gone.”
This needles at me a little, because I know she means it. Still, though.
Silas elbows me, nodding to Aunt Jane and then the door. I nod back.
“Come on, Ms. St. James,” Silas coos at her, “let’s get some fresh air, yes?” Maybe it’s my imagination, but Silas’s voice has transformed into a classic Hollywood suck-up—exactly the kind of trick my aunt might fall for.
And she does. “Well, thank you, young man,” she sniffs, letting him glide her from the room without effort. He winks at me as they leave, Aunt Jane blubbering on.
The chapel relaxes. Some people actually slump in their pew.
“Would anyone like to come up and say a few words?” the pastor asks, and I thank God or the universe or whoever that Jane didn’t hear him.
No one volunteers, but I feel some eyes on me from all around the family parlor. I shake my head in what I hope is a modest way, but the truth is, I’ve got nothing to say. Not in front of these people, at least.
Our procession to the gravesite is drawn-out and complicated. My mom picked a funeral home across town from where she wanted her burial, maybe as a final teasing gesture to me, her preferred method of affection. Silas drives Aunt Jane’s rental car alone while I drive her in his, listening to sweeping stories of her and my mother’s childhood. I’ve heard them before, but I let her talk. It’s nice.
“Did you know she and I were in a commercial together, once?” Jane sighs wistfully. When she talks about her acting career that never was, I think of that old black-and-white movie about the has-been sister actresses, called What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? , funnily enough. She gets that same sad, almost pathetic look in her eyes, the one that makes you want to say, “Shit, Jane, just let it go.” But then you think of the things you can’t let go, and you shut your mouth.
At least, I do.
“Jiffy Pop,” I tell her. “I remember.” The commercial’s pretty cute, actually—Aunt Jane was six, my mother four. Jane shows my mom how to pop the popcorn, her hand holding Mom’s on the silver U-shaped
“I kind of like it,” he admits. “I’m a man of mystery.”
I elbow him, stifling my laugh. As promised, he keeps my sadness in check.
The canned music floats down the hall. I take a breath, hearing it, and Silas shores me up with his arm as we head into the chapel.
It seems wrong for me to cry while the pastor’s speaking, his voice soothing only for its droning tone and lilt. Not because I didn’t love my mom. I did, I assure myself—I still do, even if we had our problems. It’s funny, but not in a ha-ha way, how some things are so easy to admit only when the other person’s gone and it doesn’t matter anymore.
No, crying feels wrong because Aunt Jane is weeping and wailing so much, it’s like she’s sucked all the mourning out of the funeral home. Elected herself Chief of Mourners, demonstrating devastation on our behalf. Through the slatted windows of the family’s privacy parlor, a small room off the chapel, I can see the pastor and guests glance nervously at us. They can’t see us, but I think they know exactly who’s responsible for the commotion.
“Aunt Jane,” I whisper, “I can’t hear the pastor.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” she stage-whispers. “I just can’t believe little Annie is really gone.”
This needles at me a little, because I know she means it. Still, though.
Silas elbows me, nodding to Aunt Jane and then the door. I nod back.
“Come on, Ms. St. James,” Silas coos at her, “let’s get some fresh air, yes?” Maybe it’s my imagination, but Silas’s voice has transformed into a classic Hollywood suck-up—exactly the kind of trick my aunt might fall for.
And she does. “Well, thank you, young man,” she sniffs, letting him glide her from the room without effort. He winks at me as they leave, Aunt Jane blubbering on.
The chapel relaxes. Some people actually slump in their pew.
“Would anyone like to come up and say a few words?” the pastor asks, and I thank God or the universe or whoever that Jane didn’t hear him.
No one volunteers, but I feel some eyes on me from all around the family parlor. I shake my head in what I hope is a modest way, but the truth is, I’ve got nothing to say. Not in front of these people, at least.
Our procession to the gravesite is drawn-out and complicated. My mom picked a funeral home across town from where she wanted her burial, maybe as a final teasing gesture to me, her preferred method of affection. Silas drives Aunt Jane’s rental car alone while I drive her in his, listening to sweeping stories of her and my mother’s childhood. I’ve heard them before, but I let her talk. It’s nice.
“Did you know she and I were in a commercial together, once?” Jane sighs wistfully. When she talks about her acting career that never was, I think of that old black-and-white movie about the has-been sister actresses, called What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? , funnily enough. She gets that same sad, almost pathetic look in her eyes, the one that makes you want to say, “Shit, Jane, just let it go.” But then you think of the things you can’t let go, and you shut your mouth.
At least, I do.
“Jiffy Pop,” I tell her. “I remember.” The commercial’s pretty cute, actually—Aunt Jane was six, my mother four. Jane shows my mom how to pop the popcorn, her hand holding Mom’s on the silver U-shaped
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