The Stolen Child(32)

swallowed and trotted back to my comrades, holding up the mug in triumph.

"You done well, little treasure."

"While you dallied in the open"—Igel stared down—"I went ahead for the milk."

The bottle was already open. Without shaking down the half-inch of cream, Igel poured me some

first, and we washed down the half-gallon like three drunkards, toasting the dawn. Cold milk settled into

my stomach, swell-ing my belly, causing me to swoon and drowse away the morning with my fellow

thieves in a ditch.

At midday, we woke from our slumber and moved closer to town in measured steps, hiding among

the shadows, halting at the hint of any people. Stopping only at places that appeared to be empty, homes

with nobody inside, we pried, snooped, and hunted. The three of us clambered over a low stone wall

and stole armloads of fruit from a pear tree. Each bite was a sweet sin, and we took far more than we

could eat. I hated to abandon the pears, but we tossed most of them back over the wall and into the

orchard, leaving them to rot in the sun. From a clothesline of drying laundry, we each took a clean, fresh

shirt, and I swiped a white sweater for Speck. Luchóg pocketed one sock from a hanging pair.

"Tradition." He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "The mystery of the missing sock from every washing

day."

As daylight began its slow fade, the children appeared with their books and satchels, and an hour

or two later came the fathers in their big automo-biles. We waited for sundown, and after that, lights on

and lights out. Good-nights begot goodnights, and houses popped into darkness like bubbles in a chain.

Here and there a lamp burned, betraying perhaps some lonesome soul reading past midnight or a

wandering insomniac or forgetful bachelor. Like a battlefield general, Igel studied these signs of time

before we moved out into the streets.

Years had passed since I'd last looked through the storefront window of the toy shop or felt the

rough surface of brick corners. The town felt other-worldly, yet I could not pass by a single place

without experiencing a flood of associations and memories. At the gates of the Catholic church, I heard

Latin raised by a phantom chorus. The motionless candy cane in front of the bar-bershop brought back

smells of witch hazel and the clip of scissors. Mailboxes on the corner reminded me of valentines and

birthday cards. My school con-jured a picture of children streaming out by the dozens from its

doubledoors, screaming for summer. For all their familiarity, however, the streets unsettled me with their

neat corners and straight lines, the dead weight of walls, the clear boundaries of windows. The repetitive

architecture bore down like a walled maze. The signs and words and admonitions—STOP, EAT

HERE, SAME DAY DRY CLEANING; YOU DESERVE A COLOR TV—did not illuminate any

mystery, but only left me indifferent to reading their constant messages. At last, we came to our target.

Luchóg climbed up to a window and slipped through a space that seemed much too small and

narrow. He collapsed like a mouse going under the door. Standing in the alleyway, Igel and I kept

lookout until he heard the soft click of the front lock; he guided us up the stairs to the market. As he

opened the door, Luchóg gave us a wan grin, and Igel tousled his hair. Silently, we proceeded down the

row of goods, past the Ovaltine and Bosco, cereal in bright boxes, cans of vegetables, fruit, fish, and

meat. Every new food tempted me, but Igel would not allow any delay, and he ordered me in a whisper

to "come here right now." They crouched by bags on the bottom row, and Igel ripped one open with a

slice of his sharp thumbnail. He licked his fingertip, dipped it in the powder, then tasted it.

"Bah ... flour."

He moved a few paces and repeated the procedure.

"Worse ... sugar."

"That stuff will kill you," Luchóg said.

"Excuse me," I interrupted, "but I can read. What are you looking for?"

Luchóg looked at me as if the question was the most preposterous thing he'd ever heard. "Salt,

man, salt."

I pointed to the bottom shelf, observing that even without the gift of language, one might recognize

the picture of the old-fashioned girl under her umbrella, leaving behind a trail of salt. "When It Rains, It

Pours," I said, but they seemed unable to take my meaning. We loaded our rucksacks with as much as

could be carried and left the store by the front door, a deflating de-parture, considering the smorgasbord

inside. Our cargo made the journey home longer and more arduous, and we did not reach camp until

daybreak. The salt, as I would later discover, was used to preserve meat and fish for the lean months,

but at the time, I felt as if we had searched the wide seas for treasure and sailed into port with a chest