Thieves I've Known

THE PROBLEM WITH FLIGHT

THE PROBLEM WITH FLIGHT Grimsley kept a flower stem in his pocket, not so much for good luck, but to keep bad luck away, a trick his mother had taught him. In the summertime, he never wore a hat after dark. Of these things, he was sure. An apple or a tomato without a bruise was bad luck, as was reading the obituaries, unless you knew someone in there. Bats brought good luck, but you didn’t want too many of them. A candle reflected in glass was a good sign, but its reflection in a mirror was, if possible, to be avoided. He never let a younger person take his picture. A moon in the morning brought great luck, and snow and sunshine on the same day was even better. Hail, though, was trouble all around. In the office of the lumberyard he put on his galoshes, his hat (it was winter), and his overcoat and limped out into the moonlight, into the sleet and snow. In the yard he checked the fence line for breaks and shined his flashlight under the stacks of oak wood in the main yard. The machine saws were unplugged, and there were no teenagers hiding there: it was the wrong season for pranks. At the shoreline Grimsley splashed salt water on his face, watched the ripple of stars in the waves of the bay. Inside the mill, he dropped a bit of sand into his shoe for luck and rubbed mentholatum on his knee because it was old and it hurt. He kept away from the coffee on his doctor’s orders. He warmed himself at the woodstove and watched the slow hands of the time clock and waited for his shift to end. On his drive home he passed the lines of pickups and station wagons, lights on, driving toward work and school, slow in the morning’s slush 144 th e pr o b l em w ith flig ht and ice. He watched for animals from the woods. They came out fast if you didn’t keep an eye out. Killing a raccoon was bad luck, and deer was worse. At home, he left his boots just inside the trailer door, and he changed his socks because that was good for his circulation. His wife was in the kitchen, and an omelet—spinach, which he didn’t much like—was frying in a pan. Mona rubbed lotion on her arm—an old habit, she’d been burned bad as a child—and squinted up at him as he sat down. She looked tired and old, although she was ten years younger than him. “You put your glasses on, you could see,” he said. “They hurt my eyes this early.” “I could be a serial murderer with a chain saw, for all you could tell.” “I know your walk,” Mona said. “A man with a chain saw doesn’t come in here with just his socks on.” He took a seat. “You get that prescription changed and you’d be all right.” “I had it changed, and the lenses were too heavy. I’m not having that same fool conversation with you this morning. I can smell a cigarette on your clothes. You got no business giving me any lectures.” Grimsley decided not to argue with her. It was bad luck. Although his mother hadn’t taught him that, he’d learned it on his own. Mona set the lotion aside, pushed her chair away from the table. At the stove she flipped the omelet, pushed down with the spoon. They listened to the sizzle of grease, the ice slipping from the trailer outside. The sun was beginning to rise. He switched the lamp off and watched the shadows of trees on the frozen pond, the birds pecking at the snow. Mona set the omelet on a plate, brought him a knife and fork, a mug of juice. He ate quickly: the spinach didn’t taste so bad when it burned his tongue. “Today’s Thursday,” Mona said. Grimsley concentrated on the omelet. He counted the bites remaining —six if he was lucky—and said nothing. “You said you’d go over there by the end of the week,” she said. “Saturday’s the end of the week.” the proble m with flight 145 “Saturday you’ll be out on your boat, and tomorrow you’ll tell me a...