Chapter 22

The Thief Wakes Up

Aurora turned and walked back to the castle, still trembling from her encounter with the bear. She sat for a while near a window and watched the breeze bend the grass. Then she wandered through the castle alone, looking at its halls and towers, noticing the many changes the new owners had made to the inside of the building: Elevators, colorful paint, indoor hanging plants, and several framed cross-stitched inspirational sayings. She found one hallway that was untouched, lined with the large, heavy oil paintings of her ancestors. 

She found her old bedroom. The one she had slept in for one hundred years. 

Everything looked nearly the same, with the addition of a few decorative cacti and painted rocks. 

The closet was full of her old gowns: Silk, satin, brocade, and tulle, sewn with golden threads, beads, gems, lace, and diamonds. 

She tried on one of the gowns, but she could no longer zip it up.

Finally, she wandered toward the room where she had left Paul and the donut thief. From the doorway, she saw that the thief was sitting up in bed, conscious. Paul was holding her hand. 

“I still love you, Jenny,” he was saying, “even though I have to take you to jail.”

“Take me to jail?” Jenny said, pulling her hand away. “What are you talking about?” 

“What am I talking about? You're the one who stole the donuts. The Cop Appreciation Donuts, of all things.” 

“I was sure my plan was fool-proof...” 

“Well, you got mauled by a bear and lost your wig!” 

“My wig! I loved that wig!' 

“So why did you do it, Jenny? I don't understand.” 

“You wouldn't understand, Paul.” 

“Try me.” 

Jenny looked at him sadly for a long time before she spoke. 

“I don't like cops, Paul,” she said.

“What do you mean? You're married to a cop.” 

“Yeah, but you weren't a cop when I married you.” 

“And you weren't a thief when I married you.” 

The two were silent for a moment. 

“I'm gonna have to take you to jail,” he said again. 

“Wait. Before you take me to jail, listen to my story,” Jenny said.

***

I was eleven years old, living in a beige two-bedroom apartment with my mother when I saw a homeless man sitting on a park bench. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty and his hair was greasy and matted in the back. He had a shopping cart full of stuff. 

When I passed him, he nodded at me. 

After that, I saw him everywhere: Standing on the sidewalk across from the school. Pushing his cart down Main Street. Loitering at the gas station. Once I got in a fight with my mom and ran out of the apartment. I rode my bike through the field behind our building and down a path into some trees, and there was the homeless man, sitting on the ground outside a tent, with his shopping cart next to him.

“Want a pickle?” he asked me. 

“No thanks,” I said. I walked toward him and dug my hand into my jeans pocket and held out a wad of money to him.

“What is it?” he asked.
“The rest of my allowance,” I said.

“Keep your money,” he said. “I've got enough.”

“But you're homeless,” I said.
And he didn't say anything. 

“Well, I guess I'll go home,” I said, and I turned around and began to walk my bike out through the trees. 

“Come back tomorrow,” he said, “and I’ll tell you about monarch butterflies.”

I came back the next day. 

“For three generations,” he said, “the monarch butterfly has its normal life cycle: The egg hatches, out comes a caterpillar. It crawls around, goes into a cocoon, comes out a butterfly. Migrates north a little ways, stops and lays its eggs, dies. Those eggs hatch. Out come the caterpillars. They crawl around, go into a cocoon, migrate north a little more, stop and lay their eggs, die. Those eggs hatch. Out come the caterpillars. They crawl around, get into their cocoons, come out butterflies, migrate north a little more, stop and lay their eggs, die. 

“Then, out comes the super generation. The eggs hatch, out come the caterpillars. They crawl around and eat. They get into their cocoons and change into butterflies. But these guys fly south. They fly for months. They fly all the way back to where the first generation started.” 

“Oh,” I said. “How do they know where to go?” The man asked. 

“No one knows,” he said. “They're just destined to do it. It's who they are. Just like me. I'm like those monarchs. I'm part of the super generation. All my folks three generations back were born and raised and married and had jobs and kids in the same town. But me, I didn't get married. Didn't get a job. Didn't have kids. And that's because I'm destined to take a journey.” 

“Where are you going to go?” I asked. 

“I don't know yet. But I feel my destiny inside me, telling me when to go, telling me when to stay. Telling me when to turn right, when to turn left.” 

“So did your destiny tell you to come here?” I asked him.
“Yep. And it hasn't told me to leave yet. I'm waiting,” he said

“Waiting for what?”
“Waiting for my destiny to tell me to move on.” 

“So...like... a voice in your head...or what?” 

He turned away and looked at the trees. 

“I plead the fifth,” he said. “Do you know what that means?” 

“No.” 

“What are they teaching kids in school these days?” he said. 

I didn’t say anything.

“'I plead the fifth' means you don't answer a question because it could incriminate you. Do you know what 'incriminate' means?” 

I said yes, though I didn't really know what it meant. 

I came back the next day after school and told him all about school and a big science project I had to do and all the different lunch tables and about the arguments I had with my mom.

The next day I came back again and told him all about where we used to live—in a two-story house on a cul-de-sac with an above ground pool—and how I had a father and a brother named Matthew who lived four hours away—and how I'd only seen them twice in the past six months—and how I'd always fought with my brother, and how I felt bad because I missed him and the life we used to have. 

A few days later I came back and told him about my dad's new girlfriend, and how he made me talk to her on the phone, and about how my science project was due the next day and I hadn't even started on it. 

He nodded his head and said, “Mmhmm, that's just the sort of thing I'm trying to get away from. All of society's expectations. I wasn't going to tell you this,” he continued, “because I thought it'd be better—but I'm leaving tomorrow morning at dawn. I saw the monarchs flying south, and it was the sign I've been waiting for.” 

I didn't say anything, but I knew what I was going to do. I packed a bag that night. Two changes of clothes. My stash of snacks. All the money I had. A water bottle. A notebook and a pen. My house key, just in case. I set her alarm for 6 am, half hour before mom would wake up. I got up and crept out of the house with my backpack. Rode my bike down the trail and into the woods. Saw the man there, packing up his tent. 

“Destiny is speaking to me too. I'm part of the super generation, too,” I told him. 

“What are you going to do with your bike? Destiny is calling me to walk.” He said. 

“I'll leave it here,” I answered, and I followed him out of town on foot.

We didn't get far. By midmorning, we were discovered by police in a park in a park in the next town, sitting on a bench, eating pickles. 

They arrested the man right there and accused him of kidnapping. They didn't listen to a word I said about how he was innocent. They put me in the back seat of a police car and drove me to the station. I cried the whole way. Then I saw my mom and she was crying too. 

For months, I asked my mom about the homeless man—whether he was ok—whether he'd gotten in trouble—and insisted on his innocence. She would say, “Could we please just forget about that sick man?” 

But I never forgot about him. Every year when I see the monarchs flying south, I think of him and cry, and pray that his destiny has led him to a safe place.