The Shoplifter's Apprentice

THE SHOPLIFTER'S APPRENTICE / Ellen Lesser SHE ROUNDED THE CORNER into the aisle with the beer and chilled wine and almost crashed into a man holding open the flap of his parka, stuffing an inside pocket with what looked like a bottle of champagne. He was so thin and the jacket so big, that when he jerked it across his chest the bottle was swallowed up—except for a barely discernable curve of glass against nylon, invisible. The man had purplish rings beneath dark eyes that filmed over with what must have been fear for an instant. But then the twin arcs of his heavy eyebrows imposingly merged. His eyes took on a commanding expression. She forgot about getting a bottle of wine. She fled the aisle with a terrible chemical rush in her limbs, as if she were the one who'd been caught in the act of some wrongdoing. From the checkout line she scanned the aisles of the store, but the man was nowhere in sight. She had to forget him. This had nothing to do with her. She'd never stolen a thing in her life, or just about never. She had tried to take a pack of gum once when she was seven. She hadn't been able to look at the storekeeper's face when he'd asked her the question, only out the window at her waiting bicycle. When she left the market, the man was waiting for her on the sidewalk. "Don't worry. I didn't turn you in," she said. "I'm not going to turn you in." He said, "I know. I hope you'll let me thank you for that." He smiled and glanced suggestively down at the bulge in his coat. Underneath his oversized parka, the man was dressed neatly: Levi's, stiff and dark blue, sky blue running sneakers with hardly a scuff mark, a wine-colored turtleneck. Strands of silver laced his black hair, but she wouldn't have put him much over thirty. She had to admit he was strangely handsome, with his skin so pale it was almost diaphanous, and his eyes set deep inside those dark rings. His whole person seemed to have an edge to it. He didn't just stand there on the street, he vibrated. "You were going to buy some wine, weren't you? But then you didn't." She wanted to say, "How do you know?" But she hated to give him the advantage. She said, "Not necessarily." "Listen, don't be like that. I'm a respectable guy. You can have me checked out. I teach at the daycare center on Juniper." 50 · The Missouri Review "What do you teach the kids to do?" She was proud of herself now. "Steal from the candy store?" He grabbed her arm and said, "Are you crazy?" He pulled her into the doorway next to the store. "I don't need this crap from you." "I'm sorry," she said. "I live a few blocks away," he said. "You want to come up and drink this champagne, or not?" He put on an impatient, indifferent face, but she could feel the pressure of his grip through her coat sleeve. The man's apartment, on the third floor of a yellow Victorian, resembled more than anything a warehouse, or a flea market. Hung from nails along the entryway wall was a wardrobe of cowboy hats with ornate, feathered hatbands, Greek fisherman's caps, felt fedoras. Rising from the far corner of the living room floor like some unearthly shrubbery was a collection of fire extinguishers. Bordering that were stacks of brand new hardcover books and a tower of cassette tapes, still in cellophane. A long, low table was crowded with digital clock radios, Chinese porcelain, paperweights, empty picture frames. His one window was draped with a dozen glass crystals that quavered in the still air, disturbing the walls with prism colors. There was nothing casual about this man's shoplifting. He came in from the kitchen with tall champagne glasses, cut glass flutes with gold lips. The champagne was Dom Perignon. He'd left on the price tag: fifty-seven...