Day 12

What have you stolen?

I had no choice, you understand. It had to be done.

Let me explain it to you slowly, so it makes more sense, because any misbegotten facts will make you assume the worst of me, and you have to understand. I’m not a bad person, just a normal guy with, shall we say, extraordinary expectations. Maybe a little on the mischievous side, but, as the common man would say “I ain’t e’er done nuthin sides look out for me own.” At least, I assume that’s what they would say, in years past.

I’ll have to start at the beginning, so you have a clear picture. The family I was born into, well, maybe you will see that I didn’t really have a choice. Maybe you will see, because of my mother’s connections and my father’s great acts in the last great battle of the last major war, that I never could have been anything but great.

My idea of greatness though, I say ‘idea’ but really it was my realization, is nothing like my parents. When I was at the glorious ballroom parties of New York and London at the young age of 5, I realized I could never be great like my parents. My mother, tall and willowy, with splendid locks of russet colored hair and dark, seductive eyes, enraptured every man in the room. My father, battle-scarred and limping on one good leg, held a presence of command that no other man could equal. Even his superiors, for he was only a lowly officer in the war, straightened their backs at the sight of him.

Don’t you see, now? How could I hope to be the equal of the woman desired by all, the man equal to none? At the age of five, I realized my own path lay on a forked road, away from the starlit walkway my parents trod with no trouble at all. It was to them that glory and honor would go. It was to them that people would bend down and revere.

That night, at one of those parties I so loved, for I did love them, was when I began to forge my own path. As the admirers gazed hungrily upon my parents, as I, with my clear perception, saw them glow in the light of candles and chandeliers, my hand stole out into a gentleman’s pocket. I remember the pounding of my small heart, not realizing what I was doing until the digits were nearly to the opening of his suit paints. Sweat beaded upon my upper lip, and I felt such a rush of greatness that, with a quick movement, I slipped my hand in, grasped the brown leather wallet, and then held it behind my back.

It was at that moment my father, bushy eyebrows relaxed, turned toward me, and smiled.

Don’t you see that it was a sign? My father, he approved of my greatness. He knew I had not his command of words, nor my mother’s intellect. But this, this knowledge and skill I possessed, he approved. He must have seen me take the wallet.

That night, as he climbed behind the wheel, he said only ‘I love you, son.” As he gazed knowingly into the rearview mirror, the truck slammed into us, and it was in that clear moment, as my head snapped, that I knew that he would approve of the seed growing inside of me.

I never had his verbal approval, of course. The crash had maimed him severely, adding to injuries he had sustained in the war. I remember, at the funeral, that my mother had said she knew his time would always be short since that dreadful last battle, and I remember watching a little of her greatness die as she said goodbye to my father. The willow branch no longer waved, but stayed bent and hunched, and the fire had left my mother’s eyes.

Don’t you realize, now, why I had no choice? It was not for me that I pursued greatness. It was not for my own sake, but for my mother’s and father’s, and so what if I loved it, too? Should a man not love that at which he excels? I knew my skills, and I knew that only my greatness, though of a darker and harder type than my parent’s, would bring back the glory my family deserved.

It was several years until I had a chance to improve upon my skills. With my father gone, his pension alone sustained us, for though my mother had a strong mind and beautiful features, she cared too much for my own education and safety to seek employment. We moved out of the great apartment in Manhattan to a small, simple house in Brooklyn, the yard perpetually brown even at the height of spring.

My mother was vain, though, and she still kept her sparkling dresses and jewels, and told no one of the move. She still dragged me to the wonderful ballroom parties, though I knew that people now instead looked upon us with pity, not with the wonder and awe due to our name. It was here that I would take from the gentleman and ladies. Within months of my father’s death, I became an expert at picking pockets, of taking what was due my family and I from those who, I suspected and later confirmed, profited from my father’s death. I had overheard something once, someone asking my mother for “consideration” and from the shocked but resolute expression on her face, I knew the money I drew out of a ladies’ purse that night really belonged to us.

Finally, I remember, after a particularly brutal winter, when my mother began to cough even after the snow had melted, her attention began to wane. I knew that my mother knew of my greatness at my craft. She had glanced at me, at parties, at the supermarket, with a small smile and an incongruous line between her eyebrows, as I took small trinkets, small tokens, and things which helped us survive. She never asked where I got the money to buy candy or toys or, my real passion, books. She simply kissed my forehead, and told me, in a somber voice, “Be careful.” But after that brutal winter, she seemed to turn inward.

The Valentines Ball, which was held in the Waldorf Astoria, we did not attend that year. Nor St. Patricks at the Ritz-Carlton.

It was on those two occasions, when my mother shut herself in her room with her hot water bottle, I crept out into the night. On the first, I boosted a car. It was not the first time I had driven, but it was the first time I had not returned my prize to its rightful owner. I only remember a haze of glorious greatness, ending in a sharp crash and my feet pounding as I ran from police sirens.

The next time I had reason to leave, St. Patricks, I finally made the real commitment required of my craft. At only 7 years old, I broke into my first apartment. The feeling was spectacular, I doubt you would understand. I don’t mean that rudely, you know, but seriously. It is something one such as yourself can’t understand. Seeing the gleaming possessions of those mongrels, those wretches who were out drinking their minds away. I knew, at that moment, that they belonged to me. I, who had the presence of mind to do what others would not. Can you not see the greatness within my reasoning?

I see you’re growing bored, but bear with me a moment longer. It took me another three years, and several close scrapes, to hone my craft. I became an expert at locks, mechanisms, and all things secure. I began to watch people as I doubt they had ever been seen, as I doubt even I understood at the time, and saw how they protected themselves, and how to exploit those measures. Every night I broke through the barriers of at least one home, but I did not confine myself to high-rises. From the lowest beggar to the richest politician, I prowled each of their homes, looking for things to plunder. Often, I took nothing, but simply saw, as no one but the very keenest see, how people live.

My mother passed away. I had months to reconcile myself to the fact, and though I roamed the streets nightly, my mind was often with her, back in our scrubby little Brooklyn house. It seems people think sometimes that those who pursue greatness of the kind I have are full of only thoughts of themselves, but that isn’t how I am. Everything I did, I did for her, I did it so one day people would know our names and fear us like they did when my father was alive.

I really think she would have appreciated it.

We laid her to rest next to my father, in Cypress Hills, where so many souls have been laid to rest. I remember crying at her funeral, crying like I had not cried at my father’s, and resolving then to become what I am today.

After that, I drifted. My feet carried me anywhere they could, and my wallet was never lacking with funds. It was with a real purpose, now, that I practiced the art of the night. I was determined to make the name Halgill great again, make it something more than just the name scribbled on two headstones. I took great things, as you know, and always left my signature black handkerchief emblazoned with the family crest. You know all this, of course, but don’t you see now why it was necessary? Don’t you see that it was not compulsion that drove me?

Don’t you see the great purpose?

That’s why I stole it, Sergeant Hastings. That’s why I stole the classified laptop. Who would suspect a thief here, in the middle of the Pentagon?

Don’t you see why it had to be done?