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| No. 8 |
Winter 2005 |
Amy Shearn
The Burt Smithsons
"Where've you been?" the new Burt Smithson was saying. He didn't look up from his manual.
"The Joys of Safe-Cracking?" Leeann read the cover, snorted, threw her beaded purse onto the sofa.
How could a person who'd lived in the Southwest her whole life, Burt often thought, collect so much Southwest-themed junk? All the Navajo-pattern sofas, rugs. All the Pueblo pottery, bought discount at the gas station, cluttering up the mantle. The coyote-shaped lightswitch cover. It wasn't his house, so he didn't say anything. He sat with one hand fisted on the distressed table top. It was a posture that might have looked furious but didn't, quite.
Leeann said, "I just needed to get out of town, to go drive around the desert for a while."
"So you drove around the desert?"
"I went to Evangeline's."
"That's not the desert, that's Rio Rancho. It's a fucking suburb."
Leeann looked offended. "Please, Burt. It's all desert."
Here's what the Bernalillo County police force knew:
That he was a Caucasian male.
That he was in his late twenties or early thirties.
That he worked alone.
That he preferred loafers to sneakers (implying that he felt a certain way about himself), that he must have been around six-one or six-two, that he was right-handed, but that he was also sometimes left-handed. That he wore gloves. That he had left shoe prints, once. Fingerprints, never.
That he had no previous police record, no J.D. record, no credit cards in his name, not that they had his real name. That he was clean.
Evangeline Bates was Leeann's new friend from work. They were secretaries in the same office.
"They need two secretaries?"
"I'm a receptionist," Leeann said, waggling her finger at him, "and Evangeline is an administrative assistant."
"I see."
"I take an interest in your work. I don't see why you can't take an interest in mine."
"Don't you," said Burt.
Here's what Leeann Krebs knew:
That he was thirty-two. That he liked older women.
That he kept a journal. (The journal entries usually went something like: Monday August 12. Sneakers. No crowbar. Interrupted.)
That he kept a closet of differently-sized shoes. That, in addition to being the youngest man she'd dated in a long time, he was also the first to own more shoes than she did, which became something like a joke between them.
That, despite claiming to be sickened when, on a job, he encountered plate silverware instead of sterling -- he could see and feel and taste the difference immediately -- he insisted they use the cheapest stainless steel available, flimsy forks purchased at WalMart. That he, in this way, kept business separate from pleasure.
That his real name was Blade. That he grew up in Indiana. That his mother had been young, the father disappeared (it was all pretty predictable), that he did not cleave to the wealthy stepfather, though enjoying the ski trips, private schools, and manicured subdivision, that he was always extremely bright, extremely way too bright (also predictable), breezed through the exams, fought on the playground but nothing serious, dropped out of college (Philosophy, minor in English), drifted around the country a few years before landing, all but falling into her lap, there in Albuquerque. That Blade Sorenson was the perfect name for a cat burglar, so he had to change it. That he had been Billy Severs for a while, in Texas. That she had helped him pick Burt Smithson, even less conspicuous, and the name of her first husband, though Blade didn't know it. That despite what one might think, he was a sweet and even timid lover. That when he was bored, he did long division in his head.
That he was out to prove, mostly, that there was a different kind of life than his parents' bland, though pleasant, existence. That it was like a game, a puzzle, the only thing difficult enough to keep his mind occupied.
That he slept with his mouth open.
"Ha, ha," Leeann was saying, the brainy wad of fruit-flavored gum falling from the top row of teeth to the bottom as she craned open her jaw, "Ha, ha, Burtie, Sunday was a funny one," as the local news anchor widened her eyes to express the gravity of the next segment, which, Burt saw, was about him. He swiped the journal out of Leeann's hands.
"Mind your business," he said.
Here's what Burt hated most about Albuquerque:
That only a rich person could have a lawn. That everyone else had to live in shitty little bungalows with shitty dirt patches out front, like it was a third world country or something. Not that Leeann knew, not that anyone knew, but Burt had a kind of passion for flowers. He liked to snip a few roses or dahlias from each home's garden, a habit that would lead someday to his capture. He felt a distinct distaste for the sturdy bushes and low-growing cacti of New Mexico.
After the news report he had a sort of block.
"What, like writer's block?" Evangeline said. They were waiting in line for fancy iced coffees at the trendy café near the campus.
Leeann shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. He's just never been caught before."
"Did he get caught?"
"No, not really, but they finally put together a bunch of the jobs. I mean, duh, three break-ins in a few weeks, only the silver taken, and he likes it that way, I mean, I think he likes to be distinctive like that, but he's always really careful to hide the clues. He likes it to be really clean, like in that Cary Grant movie."
They paid for their coffees and sat by the window. Across the street, the red neon dog in the groomers' window paced along, wagging its tail in blinks of light. It was a little Scottie kind of dog. A Scottish Terrier. Leeann felt a sudden warmth pulse in her chest watching the neon dog. Evangeline said, "Are you supposed to be telling me all this?"
"No," admitted Leeann. "I'm not even supposed to know most of it." She sipped at her coffee. "He thinks I'm a lot stupider than I am."
"He's handsome though, isn't he."
Leeann smiled a kind of sideways smile, watching the neon dog run in place.
The lawyer's family had been the first. They were all home, asleep, the lawyer, his wife, the three sons. Triplets or something, the sons, highschool football stars. Burt liked a challenge. This was in Plano, Texas. When the night came he didn't even feel nervous.
This is how he did it:
He studied the house a long time, settled on the breezeway entrance, a thinnish door in a frame of rotting wood. He took the door off its hinges. He worked like a surgeon. He really didn't even feel nervous; it was the most remarkable thing. He wore all black clothes and size-twelve sneakers. He wore latex gloves, too, like a surgeon.
Burt had decided a long time ago to only take silverware. It didn't take him long to find it. It never did. The lawyer's house had two sets; an older set, complete, serving utensils and all, tucked in a series of shoeboxes under the sink. Probably Gramma's. The newer silver, lined up like orphans in the drawer's molded plastic bunks, was some shit the wife no doubt had selected as their wedding silver -- ornate, cheap plate. He left it, took Gramma's. He replaced the door, fitting the hinges back into the frame. A few blocks away was a gas station with the kind of bathrooms that faced out, that could only be accessed from outside, under the buzz of sodium lights, and in one of these bathrooms he took off the gloves, the black clothing, and the oversized shoes, rolled them into a bundle which he buried beneath the trash can's cloudy mass of wadded tissue, and calmly walked away from the gas station, a shoebox of silver under each arm. They didn't even notice it missing for a few weeks.
This was early on.
Later, when he was more confident, he went into the city, made his way up and down Swiss Avenue, passing between the parked Jaguars and the midnight sprinklers that watered expansive lawns in darkness. These jobs were more fun; these houses had servants, presenting both more of a challenge and more closely monitered silver. These houses knew the difference between the sterling and the plate. After six months or so he had to practically tear himself away, he was having so much fun. But Dallas would be a hell of a place to be caught.
His mistake was coming to Albuquerque. There just weren't enough rich people, and what there was had mostly Indian shit -- kachina dolls and turquoise. On the up side, the sterling he did gather wasn't generally that spectacular, so it was easy to get rid of. The pawn shops were charmingly unscrupulous. And there was Leeann.
Burt had met Leeann at a biker bar on Central. She was friendly, big-chested, and talkative. Neither of them were bikers. They had shared a pitcher of thin yellow beer and some coiled onion rings; they had talked about the weather. Something about her put him at ease. He liked women who were older and larger than him, for unoriginal reasons. Plus she had a car, and rented a house near Nob Hill, the one part of Alburquerque that didn't make him feel like screaming.
So it hadn't been a total bust.
"Why silver?" They were driving up to Santa Fe, on a scouting mission, though Leeann thought it was just a weekend outing. This was early on, in the fall. Leeann had wanted to take the so-called Turquoise Trail, a two-lane highway snaking through an undifferentiated mass of rocky brown. Everything smelled like pinons and roasting chilis. Still, it was no Dallas.
"Losing your silver never ruined anyone," he said, mildly, pulling off onto the shoulder. He got out, shut the door, and stepped a few feet into the desert to pee. He watched his pee puddle on the surface of the cracked earth, pooling near the roots of one of those bushy little scraps of evergreen that amounted for vegetation.
"That's sweet," said Leeann, when he got back in the car. It was about a hundred degrees out, blindingly bright. He blinked a few times and then pulled back onto the road. "About not ruining anyone. Like, taking all their creditcards, or their TV, or their jewelry or something."
"Right," Burt said. It wasn't exactly his real reason, but it wasn't not his real reason, either.
He liked this about Leeann: that after that conversation, she'd thrown back her head and started singing along to the radio, to the parts of the song that eked through the faltering reception. "I can't get no!" she sang, looking out the window at the cavernous sky. "Satis! Faction! Dew dew dew." She always sang the guitar parts too. She didn't want to change him, he thought. A good girl.
Burt's mother, who had named him Blade, knew nothing of all this. She received cryptic postcards now and then. "The famous frontier," said one, in her son's tidy, looping hand, "The famous sweetrolls in too much butter." He meant a 24-hour restaurant in Albuquerque, though she didn't know it. She thought it was kind of beautiful, almost like a haiku.
The stepfather thought that he'd seen it coming a long way off.
The half-sister, Minnie, ten years younger than Blade, was glad he was gone. He'd often touched her in ways that made her uncomfortable. She would never be a normal girl with a normal boyfriend, she feared.
"Fort Courage," Blade wrote on a postcard to her. "Arizona."
"How about if I just make a phone call! How about if I call up the police -- or no! -- how about if I just mosey on over there and drop off, say, some books, a few pairs of shoes, a toolkit, oh! -- and a journal!" Leeann stalked in a tight circle around the living room, like a toy train on a track.
"Oh, HA HA, Leeann, HA HA!" shouted Burt. He almost never raised his voice, but they'd been drinking. It really was quite a pickle.
"Doesn't he have any friends? Any guy friends?" Evangeline was perched on the edge of Leeann's desk. They both had doughnuts sitting on napkins in front of them. Evangeline picked some of the sprinkles off of hers, ate them, grimaced, pushed it away, and moaned, "I can't eat any more. Jesus. I'm getting so fat." It was like a game. In a moment she pinched more of the cake between two fingers and ate it, still grimacing.
Leeann squinted at her computer screen. A few of the salespeople walked by, glaring at them. Leeann pretended to type something. "No, not really," she said. What the salespeople didn't know was that she had this whole other secret, exciting life. They wouldn't have thought such a thing possible. She smiled.
"He would like my friend Tom," Evangeline said. The phone rang and they both watched it.
"I don't know," said Leeann. She picked up the phone. "Please hold," she said, punching down the hold button. She bit into her doughnut, then set it down, waving her hands.
"Yes," said Evangeline, "Yes, I'm sure he would. I'll have you over for a barbeque! It might be good to get out of the house, meet some new people. Maybe he'll stop being such a grouch."
Burt would not like it, and he would not like Tom, no matter who this Tom was. Burt had ideas about himself that did not include barbeques or chatting with other fellows. Cary Grant never went to any barbeque in "To Catch a Thief," did he! Leeann tried to think how to explain this to Evangeline, watching the phone's red light pulse off and on, reminding her of something.
"Is somebody holding on line one?" The office manager's voice crackled through the intercom on Leeann's phone. Her office was only a few steps away, so that Leeann could hear both her actual speaking voice and the intercom version. Evangeline rolled her eyes, hopped off the desk.
"Think about it," she said, cupping the doughnut in her palm. "This weekend. He'll love it. I swear."
Leeann shrugged, and picked up her phone's receiver, and stared at the pulsing light for a moment before pushing the line one button. "Can I help you?" she said.
It was Burt Smithson, the real Burt Smithson. "Your sister gave me this number," he said. "I just moved back from California. I'd love to see you!"
"Oh, shit," said Leeann. The office manager leaned back in her chair and peered at Leeann through the open door.
"You remember me, dontcha?" the real Burt Smithson said, jokingly.
"Jeez, sort of," Leeann said, trying to sound like she was joking, too.
Evangeline was younger than Leeann, younger than Burt, and younger than her friend Tom. This, together with life in Rio Rancho, caused her to feel a certain way about herself. She was the life of the barbeque, naturally, being the hostess, but she also felt that she was quite beautiful, quite graceful, even slinky, in her strapless sundress. She wore oversized sunglasses and her reddish hair piled up on the top of her head. All of this had to do with how frisky she felt while preparing for the barbeque. She set the picnic table in her dusty yard with her grandmother's silver, winked at Burt as she spooned him a swab of coleslaw.
So Burt was grumpy.
Evangeline's friend Tom had hoped they might all end up naked in the hot tub, but it wasn't working. It was clogged or something. She'd bought it cheap.
So Tom was grumpy.
Burt wrote in his journal: Saturday, August something. God damn, this is godforsaken place. Two jobs in Santa Fe. Almost gave in and took some bracelets. What's happening to me?
Sunday. Maybe back east? Maybe vacation homes would be better. Go in the offseason. So much easier.
Monday. Got to stop writing these things down. Leave no paper trail. Albuquerque seems to be making me stupider.
Then he woke up in the middle of the night with an idea. Some rich people, movie stars no less, lived up by Taos. He'd borrow Leeann's car, swing up there, do a few jobs, maybe hang out a few days, head to Gallup, pawn it all, leave the state. Arizona, old folks in Phoenix, etc, then California. He was good enough for L.A., now. He was good enough for the Big Time.
Evangeline Bates had something up her sleeve. She showed up one night when Leeann was at Book Group.
"Oh, hi," said Burt. "Leeann's at Book Group."
"Oh dear, silly me," said Evangeline. She plopped onto the sofa and suggested that Burt offer her a drink. Evangeline would have described herself as "voluptuous." Burt would have described her as "fleshy." Evangeline would have described Burt as "dashing." Burt would have described himself as "rodent-like, though not all together unattractive." Neither of them was entirely wrong. Burt heard himself saying, "They are reading that Ya-Ya book. It's about sisterhood, and humanity."
"I've never known a real thief before," Evangeline said, leaning back into the Kokopelli pillow. "A real cat burglar."
"Oh, great." Burt stood up then, all the blood rushing to his skin. "Great. I'm glad we're being so stealthy and secretive. Jesus."
"Well, I'm sorry!" She seemed genuinely surprised. "Wasn't I supposed to know? But everyone knows, honey." He hadn't made her a drink yet or anything. Leeann would be coming home from the Barnes and Noble at the mall soon. Evangeline looked around, wildly.
Here's what the real Burt Smithson knew:
That she had grown up in Las Cruces, and felt like she'd made it to the big city, and then didn't know what else to do. That she believed self-improvement schemes.
That she spent evenings alone like this: boiling some water to make an instant meal, a prepacked noodle dish or some powdered soup. That she would eat at the kitchen table, reading cook books cover to cover. That she would dog-ear recipes for souffles, canapes, raspberry tarts. Things she would never make.
That Leeann just wanted to be loved.
"So," the real Burt Smithson said after they'd had sex. "Maybe I should turn him in? Would we get a reward?"
Leeann punched his chest. "Oh, come on, Burtie."
For his last job in Albuquerque, Burt Smithson, who would soon go back to using Blade Severson, for a while, decided he'd take Evangeline's silver. There were considerable risks. Still, he felt the need to make a point before leaving town.
Evangeline was out with Tom. Burt wore boat shoes, the traction almost entirely gone. He knew that Evangeline kept a spare key in the garage. Even so, he removed the side door from its hinges, slunk into the kitchen, emptied the silver into his satchel. For some reason he kissed her countertop. It was slightly sticky. Burt Smithson, his mind light and empty, replaced the door and disappeared into the night.
Only when he reached Gallup did he examine the goods, and see the folly of his ways. That the silver had been poorly cared for. That the slender necks of the forks had been dented, the etched flowers on the handles flecked with tarnish. That some paranoid Gramma had scratched shaky numbers onto each piece's spine. That the serial numbers were registered somewhere. That the pawn shop would not take it.
He lay sleepless in his cheap motel bed. The mattress springs poked at his back like the tines of forks.
Copyright 2005, Amy Shearn nidus is an online publication supported by the Writing Program
at the University of Pittsburgh's English Department.