By Patricia Crisafulli<\/strong><\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
For forty-six years, she could not explain how the little wooden figure had gotten into her pocket. Only six at the time, she\u2019d denied taking it, first with words and then with tears. Finally, in what would become a seminal moment, she realized it was better to stop asserting her innocence and take the humiliation of handing the toy and the apology note from her mother to her first-grade teacher. Then came the punishment of being reminded, again and again, that no one likes a liar and a thief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sara stirred her coffee, watching the dark turn to light as cream met the brew, and recalled the certainty she felt four-and-a-half decades ago. She had not taken that little wooden man with a pointed cap and a pointy nose and jointed arms and legs. That little Pinocchio had simply appeared in her pocket. All day, she saw another child playing with it, openly at recess and then secretly as they listened to their teacher read aloud and learned that one plus two equal three. At the end of the day, the boy had cast a glance around the room, their eyes meeting, and he smiled. She could see it still\u2014a curling sneer that revealed a missing baby tooth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She saw him put the toy in his pocket. A little while later, she felt a lump in her corduroy jumper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Such things\u2014Sara never gave them a name\u2014did not happen often; years could go by between these incidents. But each was inapplicable. At nineteen, she had watched through the wide plate glass windows of a drugstore as the manager chased a shoplifter into the parking lot. Turning away from the scene, she felt her purse getting heavier and, opening it, found jewelry and makeup that she managed to empty into a shopping basket while everyone was distracted by the shouting match outside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And once, leaving a restaurant, she reached into her pocket for her gloves and pulled out an extra pair\u2014these leather and lined in cashmere. She slipped them on, just for one luxurious moment, then brought them back to the coat check. \u201cThey\u2019re not mine,\u201d she told the attendant and put on her own knitted gloves with the tiny hole in the thumb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Unconscious kleptomania<\/em>. That\u2019s what the therapist she saw during college had called it, an opinion pronounced like a diagnosis. Some compulsion made her want to take small things, just for the thrill of it. Then shame blocked out the memory of having done so. The root cause was clear, the therapist had said, almost excitedly. \u201cYou keep repeating that childhood incident, hoping that this time someone will believe you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sara had pushed back at first; she\u2019d never taken anything in her life. The therapist looked at her with clinical coolness and only a hint of compassion. And so, she\u2019d nodded\u2014yes, yes, it seemed logical, made sense. <\/em>Two more appointments, just to be polite, then no more therapy. She affirmed what she had learned at six: no one would ever believe her.<\/p>\n\n\n
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The litmus test was during a trip to New York, twenty years ago, when she and Bill had been married three years, and he\u2019d taken her into Tiffany\u2019s just for fun. Amid displays of diamonds the size of dimes and gemstones in every color and facet, she\u2019d jammed her hands into her pockets. Over and over, she pounded the drumbeat of an admonishment: These things do not belong to me. They are not mine.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bill mistook her tense expression for disappointment and bought her the only thing he could afford: a small silver keychain. Every year since then, there was an aqua-colored box from him for her birthday. He always looked so pleased, and she loved him for it, unable to tell him that these gifts carried a secret reminder of her shame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For twenty years, nothing turned up in her pocket. Twenty years without something to return or slip back onto a shelf. Twenty years without doubting her own character, her sanity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Until a half hour ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Home from her job as a dental hygienist, Sara had been chopping vegetables for ratatouille when Marcia called, her voice rasped with tears: Her great-grandmother\u2019s amethyst pendant was gone. Sara knew it well, had seen her friend wear it dozens of times: a round, faceted stone the size of a quarter set with filigree on a serpentine chain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI wore it yesterday,\u201d Marcia pleaded. \u201cWhen I got home, I took it off and put it in the velvet box. I know<\/em> I did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sara listened, relief pushing aside sympathy; she had not been anywhere near Marcia\u2019s house in more than a week. \u201cI\u2019ll come over and help you look,\u201d Sara promised. \u201cBe there soon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As she put diced eggplant and zucchini into glass containers with lids, Sara felt something. The kitchen stool rocked into the counter as she slumped onto it. Wrapping her hands in the striped fabric of her apron, she willed whatever was in the pocket to go back to the velvet box or disappear into the ether with all lost things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The patio door slid open and Bill came in, cellphone to his ear, a grin and an eyeroll at how long his call had dragged on. The furrows between his brows deepened as he looked at her, and Sara heard him hurry the conversation to a conclusion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d he asked. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sara\u2019s fought brimming tears. \u201cI have to tell you something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n
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His face became a kaleidoscope of emotions: fear to worry to doubt to concern to anger and back to fear. \u201cI know this sounds crazy,\u201d Sara said for the fourth time. \u201cIt is so much easier to assume I\u2019m some kind of thief.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sitting on a kitchen stool facing her, Bill tapped his toes in rapid succession. \u201cWe have got to give it back,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We, not you. <\/em>Sara registered the words. Her husband, the forensic accountant who found the errors and corrected them, was going to help her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As Bill drove, Sara faced the window, the neighborhood blurring past them. She thought back to their early days as a couple, when his mother had not approved of her. It had less to do with her, Sara knew even then, and far more with the fact Bill had just ended a long relationship with a woman his parents had loved\u2014the daughter of their best friends, a match wished for since childhood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Then suddenly, soon after Sara had met Bill a coffee shop, it was over. The woman his parents had expected to be their daughter-in-law was replaced by a stranger. For years, long after they\u2019d married and their children had been born, Sara felt judgment from Bill\u2019s mother that she had stolen him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now, twenty-three years and two college-aged children later, given what she\u2019d just told him, would Bill still defend her? Would he choose this life with her?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 No, she told herself. From now on, every time they went out together\u2014to every store, market, restaurant, museum\u2014he would be watching her, probably reminding her to check her bag, check her pockets. He\u2019d treat her like an unrepentant thief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bill swore under his breath, and Sara turned first to him and then toward the windshield. Up ahead, on the left, she could see Marcia\u2019s house with a police cruiser in the driveway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou think we should just go back home?\u201d Sara asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bill shook his head. \u201cWe\u2019re here. You said you were coming. We better go in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marcia\u2019s husband, Jim, opened the door, thanked them for coming, and led them inside, His words formed a staccato explanation. \u201cBack door forced open. My Rolex \u2026 Marcia\u2019s jewelry \u2026 A laptop out of my office.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo, not just the pendant,\u201d Bill said. \u201cThat\u2019s what Marcia told Sara.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Jim shrugged. \u201cThat\u2019s what she saw at first. The empty box on the dresser. Then we noticed what else was taken.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A police officer entered the room, his radio crackling. Marcia followed, wiping her tears Sara hugged her friend, and Marcia\u2019s arms tightened as she sobbed. \u201cSomeone came in my home. I don\u2019t know if I\u2019ll ever feel safe here again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the kitchen table, Bill and Sara sat with Marcia while Jim went with the policeman out into the yard to take another look. As Marcia related everything\u2014coming home, seeing the empty box, calling Jim, searching the house\u2014Sara rubbed her hand along her own thigh under the table. She couldn\u2019t keep her hand still, feeling the shape of the pendant, the coil of the chain in her jeans pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, suddenly, nothing except the smooth fabric. Sara\u2019s eyes widened in Bill\u2019s direction, but he only gave her a steady look. It\u2019s gone,<\/em> she mouthed when Marcia turned away from them and toward the tissue box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few minutes later, the door flung open and Jim rushed inside. \u201cWe found it!\u201d Backlit by the sun, what Jim held was hard to see, but Sara knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cUnder the hedges,\u201d the policeman said, stepping into the kitchen behind Jim. \u201cStrange place for somebody to drop it, but that\u2019s where it was.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bill looked at Sara, his gaze telegraphing what he knew: they had been together the whole time. Sara could not have put that pendant in the yard; it had simply appeared there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat about the watch and the laptop?\u201d Bill asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Jim waved his hand in dismissal. \u201cDon\u2019t care. Marcia\u2019s pendant is priceless. Not that it\u2019s worth a fortune. It just can\u2019t be replaced. Her great-grandmother wore it on her wedding day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They stayed a little while, long enough to see Marcia\u2019s devastation transform into gratitude. Leaving the house, Bill and Sara walked in silence to their car parked at the curb. Once inside, doors shut and engine on, Bill finally spoke. \u201cI figured it out. You\u2019re a retriever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat? Like a dog?\u201d Sara teased.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m serious,\u201d Bill said, reaching for her hand. \u201cYou don\u2019t take things. You retrieve what\u2019s been taken. Like that kid with the toy. The shoplifter. The gloves in your pocket. Marcia\u2019s pendant was stolen, and you brought it back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sara shook her head. \u201cNever saw it that way. I had a secret I couldn\u2019t explain, not even to myself. I\u2019m not sure I can now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bill put the car in gear. \u201cI think you retrieved me, too. And I\u2019ve never stopped being grateful.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By Patricia Crisafulli<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,18],"tags":[25],"class_list":["post-10725","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-original-online-fiction","category-patricia-crisafulli","tag-short-story"],"yoast_head":"\n
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