Mad Boys by Ernest Hebert Page B

Joe,” jammed his hands in the orange topcoat, and started up the hill. I watched him walk away wishing he’d take me with him. But he kept going and never looked back.
    And so Father and I found ourselves in a new business—residential burglary. City neighborhoods were pretty risky for break-ins. For one thing, our truck was conspicuous, and if neighbors saw you prowling around a house in the middle of the night, they’d likely call the cops; for another thing, there wasn’t much cover to hide in; and anyway, Royal had given over those neighborhoods to other burglars. So Father and I stuck pretty much to rural routes. For a short while the good times returned. Or, as Father would say, “rolled.”
    Royal would send us his lists. He called this information “referrals” and the victims “clients.” Father picked right up on this way of talking. “Web,” he’d say, his voice full of importance, “we have a referral from young Durocher. The clients are on vacation in Bermuda.”
    I remember one particular burglary. The clients lived in a year-round house on Spofford Lake, one of the many lakes in southwestern New Hampshire. It was a big house surrounded by smaller, seasonal cottages empty at this time of the year. During the day, a few ice fishermen sat by their tip-ups but at night the lake was deserted. The clients, a family of five, were visiting Disney World.
    As per our usual procedure, Father dropped me off nearby with a pair of wire cutters, a flashlight, and a hand-held walkie-talkie radio, and drove away. No wind tonight. The air felt almost warm. Bob houses frozen in the ice from the last thaw looked cozy. I had an urge to haul one of these tiny buildings to the lake’s island. Set up a camp. Live like a hermit. Build outdoor fires. Howl at the moon. I howled anyway. The sound came back full of grief. I wanted to tell the speaker to take it easy and look at the moon. So I looked up at the moon. A spy prod from the mother ship twinkled like a star.
    I’d almost reached the client’s place when a roaring sound startled me. The lake was making ice. A crack ran between my feet loud as thunder. The three-headed God was clearing His/Her/Their throat(s).
    The dock had been pulled in on the beach, and I climbed on top of it for a better look at the house. I spotted the telephone line and cut it. I ran back on the ice, seeking protection in a vacant bob house. If the police came, it would mean there was a burglar alarm in the house. No police, no burglar alarm. I called Father on the walkie-talkie. We conversed in code.
    “If the blue fish are biting, we’ll eat them for supper,” Father said. (Translation: If the police come, walk to the end of the lake and meet me in front of the restaurant.)
    “Yo, Tarzan.” (Translation: Yes, Father.)
    Half an hour later, I called again. “The fish aren’t biting,” I said. (Translation: No police, and therefore no activated burglar alarm.)
    Ten minutes later, Father arrived in his pickup. He parked it on the road in front of the house. It was a risk, but not a big one. According to Royal’s informants, the lake road had almost no traffic in the middle of the night, and the police were not scheduled to make a round for another couple of hours.
    Father smashed a window, and we went in. Father didn’t bother to use his flashlight. He just snapped on the house lights.
    “I’m going up in the bedrooms,” Father said. “Remember our plan in case the cops come.”
    If the police showed up, I was to pretend that I was a runaway and that I had hidden in this house and freaked out and called Father, who had come after me. If there was any damage, I was to take the blame.
    I could hear Father ransacking the upstairs rooms. Father was not a quiet burglar. He talked to himself, and he almost always found some reason to get angry with the clients. They were too middle class, or too rich, or their tastes were uptight. This particular night, he was in a bad mood. I knew if