The Second Chance of Benjamin Waterfalls Read online

  I hope she doesn’t get in trouble for missing work. She needs her job. She’s worked so hard for it. She studied every night to get her certification and worked even harder to land a job at Duluth’s best physical therapy facility. Years and years of dedicating her life to PT, all down the tubes because she had to clean up her son’s mess. Ugh.

  But if she does lose her job, she has no one to blame but herself. She did this. She stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. She will have hurt herself by trying to hurt me.

  I slide open a dresser drawer and see that even some of my clothes are gone. What? I turn to ask my mom where the heck my underwear went, but the answer is staring back at me near my bedroom door … A packed suitcase.

  Oh yeah. I’m leaving.

  I don’t know how my mom knew the judge would agree to her request, but she somehow did, because the bus ticket on the suitcase is for early tomorrow morning. A two hour and forty-seven minute bus ride from Duluth to Grand Portage.

  This sucks.

  I don’t remember much about Grand Portage. We’ve only gone back a couple times to bury distant relatives, when we were still a family. Those were long-ago times. But they’re also some of my favorite memories as a kid, which is weird because technically we were always on our way to a funeral. But that’s when my parents were happy. That’s when they laughed. When my dad would play with me. When my mom would call us both goofballs.

  But when Duluth’s Savannah-Pacific plant closed and my dad, along with 144 other workers suddenly had no job, I suddenly had no dad. He changed so fast. It caught my mom and me completely off guard. His smile flipped over like a turtle and never really found a way back to its feet.

  That was seven years ago. I was just a little rug rat that hung on to his leg when he walked. I don’t even remember what he looks like. I mean, I kind of do, but people change. I look completely different now. Back then, I was a scrawny six-year-old kid that wanted to grow up and be exactly like my dad.

  But when I picture him now, I don’t see my hero. I see an angry man that yelled too loud and locked himself in his room all day. I see a guy who the cops would bring home in the middle of the night after he’d made a scene at the local bar. Some nights, my mom and I would drive around looking for him, only to find him hanging outside of the liquor store or begging for money at random gas stations. My mom was so embarrassed. I was too young to be embarrassed. I was just happy we found him. My mom tried to shelter me from what was really happening. She made it a game for us to play. First one to find Daddy wins.

  Then he left for good.

  When I realized that this was not a game that families play, I got angry. I guess that’s when I started stealing. Not to be like him, but to show him I was better than him. He got caught. He was a lousy thief. I wanted to prove to him that I could do what he did, only better. At everything, even the things no one should be proud of. I’m really good at it too. I can steal the wings off a bee and not get caught. After a while, it just made sense to keep doing it. The more I took, the better I felt about being good at something.

  But since getting busted for stealing that stupid stuffed bear, I’m starting to think that maybe I’m not so good after all, even though I stuck to my game plan. I have five rules for stealing. And I always follow my rules.

  1.  Count how many security guards there are between me and the exit.

  2.  Check for cameras.

  3.  Make sure I’m wearing baggy clothes that have deep pockets.

  4.  Have another item in my hand so when I pocket the item I want, I’m seen putting the decoy item back on the shelf.

  5.  And lastly, only steal what I know I can flip, which means turn around and sell.

  I broke all my rules with that stuffed bear. I saw it, stopped, and stared at it for a good minute or two. It was like that bear was calling to me to take it home. I grabbed it and walked out of the store. And the award for Worst Thief Ever goes to … me.

  I hear the shower run from down the hall. That’s one advantage of being a thief and living in a small apartment: thin walls. I can hear everything. At times like right now, I know she’s occupied, so I have a few minutes to sneak into her room, find her purse, and snake a few bucks. Now that she took all my stuff, I’m gonna need some money for this pointless trip she’s sending me on. It’s only fair.

  I quietly open my door, tiptoe down the hall, and slip into her room. Her purse is on her bed. She’s way too trusting; I mean, there are thieves everywhere. I open it and rifle through it. Where the heck is the cash? I dump the contents out onto the Thunderbird blanket her mom made before she died. Out fall keys, wallet, and about two bucks in change, but still, no dollar bills.

  I feel three light taps on my shoulder. I turn around and see my mom standing there, at the doorway, with dripping wet hair and her body wrapped in a red towel. Clever. She kept the water running so I’d think I had more time.

  “I’d assume that stealing from your own mother qualifies as hitting rock bottom, wouldn’t you agree?” she says.

  I shovel all her belongings back into her purse. “I’m sorry … But—”

  “No buts. You’ve done many things I am very upset about, but right now, at this moment, I’ve never been more disappointed.”

  “I was only looking for—”

  “Go to your room, Benny.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “I don’t care if you’re sorry. We have nothing without trust, and you just took ours away.”

  Ugh. I feel like crap. No, worse than crap. I feel like the crap that crap craps out: crap crap. She’s right. There should be a line, even for me, and stealing from the woman who gave birth to you definitely crosses that line.

  CHAPTER 3

  GIMOODISHKI (HE STEALS)

  STEAL: to take the property of another without permission or right, especially by secret or by force.

  It gives me a rush. The blood-pumping thrill of whether I’ll get caught or not. The way my heart races as I walk out of the store carrying as many items as I can and not having to pay for them. And before that stuffed bear incident, I was convinced the world had never seen a better thief, even though I’d been caught before. But all thieves get caught at some point, it comes with the job. If I was never caught, no one would even know I’m a thief. And we all know, no one’s perfect. But it was almost magical how I’d walk in with nothing and come out with whatever I wanted. Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat, I was that good.

  But, clearly, it does come with a cost.

  My mom says she doesn’t know who I am anymore. She says she cannot fathom her sweet boy doing such awful things. I tell her that it’s not a big deal. This is America. Everybody steals. This country was founded on theft. I make her so sad. That’s the only part of stealing I don’t like. Moms shouldn’t be sad. They should be happy. They pushed a human out of their body. That must be painful and terrifying. Eternal happiness should be the reward for something like that. And maybe it is. Maybe I’m just ruining her chance to be happy. Just like how my dad ruined it for me.

  Maybe sending me away to live with him is Mom’s way of closing the chapter on their marriage for good. It makes sense. They are divorced. All his stuff is gone; all the photographs of him have disappeared. In fact, I’m the only reminder of him, and now I’ll be gone too. I know she says it’s only until I change, but what if she said that just to get me out of the door? What if it is forever? What if I never change, or worse, what if I never want to change? Truth be told, the only thing I regret is getting caught.

  * * *

  We’re stuck in traffic on the way to the bus station, which is pretty common here in Duluth, with all the construction that’s been going on. Duluth loves its bridges. Our city is famous for them. I’ve always found it strange that people travel from all over the world to drive over our bridges. The Aerial Lift Bridge even has a visitor shop. And the Blatnik Bridge, which I’ve been on a million times, made its way to be on postcards
and T-shirts. It connects Minnesota to Wisconsin. So my friends and I call it the Minnesconsin Bridge. Why am I thinking about bridges again? Oh, yeah, because my dad will assume his seven-year absence will just be water under the bridge between us. Fat chance. He burned that bridge the day he skipped out on me.

  Mom will be late for work if we don’t get to the bus soon. And with taking yesterday off to accompany me to court, I can tell she’s worried.

  I guess she’s been worried since I was ten. That’s when I started hanging out with the older kids from our neighborhood, who she calls the dropouts. I don’t defend them because she’s right, they are dropouts. I promised her I wouldn’t end up like them. I’ll be the first to admit that they’re losers. But a good thing about hanging out with losers is that they don’t judge you like other people do. It feels good not being judged. If I steal, it’s nobody’s business but mine … Well, and the sucker who I stole from.

  I remember the moment my relationship with my mom fell apart. It was the first time I lied to her. Nothing has been the same since that night. It wasn’t even a big lie. But it meant the earth to her. I stole a wallet, and when she saw it in my room, I told her I found it. She was so happy that I picked it up so we could return it to its owner. When I hesitated, she knew something was up. That was the pebble hitting the windshield of her heart.

  In the end, my mom returned the wallet, and apparently the owner described in pretty good detail what the kid who stole it off a convenience store counter looked like. And my mom says her heart cracked then, and it has been slowly and steadily cracking ever since. After that night, we basically became two people living under one roof, not mother and son.

  I guess she thinks that if I don’t go live with my dad, I’ll keep stealing, and sooner or later, her cracked heart will ultimately shatter. She tried her best. She taught me everything a dad was supposed to teach his son. How to throw a ball. How to catch. How to throw a punch. How to ride a bike. Math. Spelling. She even taught me how to change a tire. I’m not sure why I am being bombarded with all these memories right now. Maybe this happens to everyone right before they say their goodbyes?

  “Can I ask you something? Or are you too mad to hear my voice?” I say as the traffic begins to finally move forward.

  “What is it?” she says, keeping her eyes on the road.

  “Was he a kleptomaniac?”

  She turns to me, and I see a sparkle in her eyes, as if she is either about to cry or laugh. Is she driving down memory lane too? Or maybe she’s just impressed I know what a kleptomaniac is. After all, it’s a pretty big word, and I haven’t really been doing so well in school lately.

  “He would lie like a rug and cheat like a sailor, but as hard as he tried, he was never too good at stealing,” she says.

  “Really?” I say.

  “He’d get caught stealing sand from a desert,” she adds.

  For some strange reason, I feel better knowing my particular set of skills is something I acquired on my own. I’d hate to give credit to the person who tore our family apart, who I refuse to let crawl back into my heart. Come to think of it, in a way, this is all his fault. He is why my mom had to pick up extra shifts. He’s why I never got to spend enough time with her. And he is why my mom is always so sad now.

  I know I’m contributing to it, but it’s because of him that this is happening … And now he’s the one to fix me? Mark my words: He will only make things worse. He ruins everything. It’s the only thing he’s good at.

  But he wasn’t always the destroyer of happiness. After all, my mom loved him once. And as hard as I try to deny it, so did I. That’s why I hate him so much. He had everything and threw it all away. I wonder if, somewhere deep down in my mom’s busted-up heart, she still loves him? I know I don’t. I refuse to.

  “He must have been decent at it. I mean, he stole your heart,” I say, trying to make her smile in an attempt to salvage this car ride.

  “I gave it to him. But he didn’t take care of it, so I took it back,” she says, and stiffens her face the same way she does when she’s cutting onions in the kitchen and is trying with all her might to not cry because she just put her makeup on.

  “Like me?”

  “Like you what?” she asks.

  “Like how I was good but turned bad, so now you’re getting rid of me,” I say.

  “Benny, I’m not getting rid of you. I tried to fix whatever it is that is broken inside of you, but I couldn’t. So I’m asking for help, that’s all,” she says.

  “But he’s probably the reason why I am how I am,” I say.

  “You are not him. You are you. Don’t blame other people for who you are. That’s the sign of a weak person. And you are many things, but weak is not one of them,” she says.

  “So, you think he and a bunch of old Indians are going to make me a better person?” I ask.

  She laughs. “You’ve seen too many Westerns. Grand Portage is a wonderful place full of wonderful people,” she says.

  “Well, if it’s so wonderful, why’d you leave?”

  “We left because your father got a good job at the plant here in Duluth,” she says.

  “Well, that didn’t last. It shut down. So why didn’t we move again?”

  “Because he’s there now,” she fires back.

  “So what? Isn’t he all rehabilitated? Or was that a lie?”

  “He is. But he has his own life there … And we have our life here.”

  We finally pull up alongside the curb, directly under the bus station’s drop-off-zone sign. The car idles as she gets out and walks toward my side. I step out, grab my suitcase, and meet her on the curb. I don’t know what awaits me in Grand Portage, so if this ends up being the last time I see or talk to my mom, I might as well show her that I’m not completely rotten to the core. My heart still works even though I haven’t used it in a while.

  “I’m sorry for not being who you want me to be,” I say, and hug her.

  She tightens her grip around my rib cage and leans into my ear. “You don’t even know who you are yet, Benny. But this trip will reveal that to you. I promise you that,” she whispers.

  As I pull away, I see her quickly wipe tears from her eyes.

  “I love you,” she says, kisses my forehead, and walks back to the car.

  She gets in and rolls down her window for her parting words: “Benny, remember to talk to strangers. It’s literally the only way to make friends.”

  Up until ten years old, it was a rule to never talk to strangers, then one day it completely changed. Talk to everyone, make friends, help old people cross the street. Rules are weird like that. When one parent leaves, some of those rules get reversed. Like, when I was younger, my mom and dad would always say, “No more talking. It’s bedtime. Go to sleep.” But after he left, sometimes my mom would wake me up in the middle of the night after she got home from work and ask if I wanted to talk or do a puzzle. My favorite was when she’d let me skip school when she was lucky enough to have a day off. We’d play fart in the park. That’s when we’d both eat a ton of ice cream, go to the park, and see who could make the loudest fart. She’d always win because she was lactose intolerant. But she’d still eat it because I loved ice cream so much.

  I watch my mom drive away in a hurry. She’s already late. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but life has suddenly become unpredictable. A few days ago, I would have never imagined I’d be where I am now.

  I pass through security and see a golden scarf in the tray next to mine. I don’t particularly like gold, but other people do. People with money. Before I can even think about whether I should steal it, I’m already following my five rules. The security guards are busy helping old people up the ramps, the security cameras are facing in the direction of the buses, I am wearing a hoodie with deep pockets; I casually pick the scarf up and mix it with my stuff, stuffing it into my backpack before the owner returns from wherever he or she is, and the last rule, yeah, I can sell this scarf
. It looks expensive. I’d get an easy twenty bucks for it, but like Duluth, Grand Portage is also right on Lake Superior. And it’s farther north. It will be much colder. I may need it.

  A soon as I zip up my backpack, a woman returns and gets the remaining contents out of her tray. She must be in a rush because she hasn’t yet noticed her scarf is missing. Well, she must have not liked it too much if she doesn’t realize it’s gone. She throws on a jacket and zips it all the way up to her chin, completely covering her neck. Seriously? She didn’t even need a scarf.

  I swipe a bag of chips as I walk by one of the crowded food kiosks and reach my bus. I leave my suitcase with the pile of luggage beside it and hand the man my ticket. He rips it in half as I step inside. Ugh, it smells like cheese in here.

  I take a seat near the back and lean my head against the window. The bus starts filling up with people, mixing the aroma. I smell cheese, perfume, and cigarettes, which turns my stomach. My dad started smoking when he lost his job. I’ve hated the smell ever since. Even when my friends would nick cigarettes from their parents and smoke them in the park, I didn’t join in. They’d reek for the rest of the day. They smelled like my dad.

  I just want to sleep. I woke up way too early this morning. I focus on the trees as the bus pulls away from the station. Since my mom took all my stuff, I have no music or video games to play. Now I’m going to have to listen to the two little kids in back of me argue over which is the coolest dinosaur ever the entire time, or I can listen to the teenage girl in front of me yapping away on her phone, explaining to one of her bestest best friends how her boyfriend is a loser for kissing that stuck-up rich girl at last night’s party. This is hell, and I’m only two minutes into my trip.