The time traveler's wife by Audrey Niffenegger Page B

is.
Most men use either their back pocket or the inside pocket of their suit
jacket. With women you want the purse behind their back. If you're on the
street you can just grab the whole purse, but then you have to be sure you can
outrun anybody who might decide to chase you. It's much quieter if you can take
it without them noticing."
    "I saw a movie where they practiced with a
suit of clothes with little bells and if the guy moved the suit while he took
the wallet the bells rang."
    "Yeah, I remember that movie. You can try
that at home. Now follow me." I lead Henry from the fifteenth century to
the nineteenth; we arrive suddenly in the midst of French Impressionism. The
Art Institute is famous for its Impressionist collection. I can take it or
leave it, but as usual these rooms are jam-packed with people craning for a
glimpse of La Grande Jatte or a Monet Haystack. Henry can't see over the heads
of the adults, so the paintings are lost on him, but he's too nervous to look
at them anyway. I scan the room. A woman is bending over her toddler as it
twists and screams. Must be nap time. I nod at Henry and move toward her. Her
purse has a simple clasp and is slung over her shoulder, across her back. She's
totally focused on getting her child to stop screeching. She's in front of
Toulouse-Lautrec's At the Moulin Rouge. I pretend to be looking at it as I walk,
bump into her, sending her pitching forward, I catch her arm, "I'm so
sorry, forgive me, I wasn't looking, are you all right? It's so crowded in here   " My hand is in her purse, she's
flustered, she has dark eyes and long hair, large breasts, she's still trying
to lose the weight she gained having the kid. I catch her eye as I find her
wallet, still apologizing, the wallet goes up my jacket sleeve, I look her up
and down and smile, back away, turn, walk, look over my shoulder. She has
picked up her boy and is staring back at me, slightly forlorn. I smile and
walk, walk. Henry is following me as I take the stairs down to the Junior
Museum. We rendezvous by the men's toilets.
    "That was weird," says Henry.
"Why'd she look at you like that?"
    "She's lonely," I euphemize.
"Maybe her husband isn't around very much." We cram ourselves into a
stall and I open her wallet. Her name is Denise Radke. She lives in Villa Park,
Illinois. She is a member of the museum and an alumna of Roosevelt University.
She is carrying twenty-two dollars in cash, plus change. I show all this to
Henry, silently, put the wallet back as it was, and hand it to him. We walk out
of the stall, out of the men's room, back toward the entrance to the museum.
"Give this to the guard. Say you found it on the floor."
    "Why?"
    "We don't need it; I was just
demonstrating." Henry runs to the guard, an elderly black woman who smiles
and gives Henry a sort of half-hug. He conies back slowly, and we walk ten feet
apart, with me leading, down the long dark corridor which will someday house
Decorative Arts and lead to the as-yet-unthought-of Rice Wing, but which at the
moment is full of posters. I'm looking for easy marks, and just ahead of me is
a perfect illustration of the pickpocket's dream. Short, portly, sun burnt, he
looks as though he's made a wrong turn from Wrigley Field in his baseball cap
and polyester trousers with light blue short-sleeved button-down shirt. He's
lecturing his mousy girlfriend on Vincent van Gogh.
    "So he cuts his ear off and gives it to
his girl—hey, how'd you like that for a present, huh? An ear! Huh. So they put
him in the loony bin..."
    I have no qualms about this one. He strolls on,
braying, blissfully unaware, with his wallet in his left back pocket. He has a
large gut but almost no backside, and his wallet is pretty much aching for me
to take it. I amble along behind them. Henry has a clear view as I deftly
insert my thumb and forefinger into the mark's pocket and liberate the wallet.
I drop back, they walk on, I pass the wallet to