2.16.1 Thou Shalt Not Steal

1956 • San Jose ~ By third grade I was in my third school and had lived in over twice as many houses. It made me anxious, moving all the time. It seemed that as soon as I’d figure out how to get back and forth to school or to the dentist or to church, we’d move. I spent a good part of my time standing on street corners, a blanket of confusion enveloping me, puzzling which way to turn, and usually guessing wrong. If I hadn’t already gone too far, I’d try to retrace my steps and start over. I’d wander around hoping something would look familiar, or find someone who could point me in the right direction. The problem with getting lost all the time is that after awhile, everything looks familiar—which makes it hard to get there from here—and where eeny-meeny-miny-moe is of no use at all. 

Willow Glen Elementary was much like Jefferson Elementary. Eating my sandwich (cut crosswise), my three Oreos, and a small red box of Sunmaid raisins, I perched at the corner of the playground. Hunching my shoulders and digging my heels back and forth, I made small hollows in the bald hardpack while I chewed my raisins with my front teeth like a rabbit. I watched the other kids play tag and dodge ball. Some days, Kendra, whose parents were both deaf mutes, sat with me. I fed my crusts to the birds and gave Kendra my raisins; they made my cavities scream.

I’m dead center in white sweater, second row from top; Kendra is to my right in checked dress

Kendra taught me to sign. One day she brought me a small card that showed me how to hold my hands for each letter so I could practice. I thought maybe I could teach Mom, maybe break the silence another way. But my mother wasn’t interested; the only voices in our house were the ones in her head.

I’d been praying to God for a number of years and now that I was official from making my First Holy Communion, I hoped that perhaps He would hear me. However, it soon became clear that He didn’t. He wasn’t helping any of us: Betty was skating on thin ice, Claudia had no use for me, and my stepfather, Mr. Wonderful, was busy chasing my mother down our tree-lined street with a butcher knife. I took up shoplifting. I don’t even remember worrying about theft being a sin—probably because by then I was so disheartened with God I didn’t care what He thought.

My mother never got after me for being out and about, never got after me for chores, nor did she ever get after me for stealing. She didn’t care about such things. Actually, she didn’t notice such things. The only time I remember her getting cross with me was for calling her “Ma.”

“Don’t you ever call me, Ma. I am Mother or Mom. Not Ma!”

She had to know I was stealing, as at eight years old and not gainfully employed, I had a corner of the bedroom filled with new toys. Within a couple of months, I’d acquired a complete line of Storybook dolls, along with their clothes, shoes, and accessories. I accumulated jacks, Crayolas, Slinkies, marbles, bubbles, balloons, and slingshots in addition to paper dolls, Pick-up Sticks, colored pencils, candy bars, comic books, and squirt guns. I went with Kendra. In the aisle of our neighborhood five-and-dime, we sat and played, taking our time sorting through what we were going to take. Stuffing our cache of the day down our panties (the paddle balls were the hardest to hide), we paid for one item and then calmly sauntered out, breaking into a run once we rounded the corner. We were Ben Franklin’s most loyal shoplifters.

Then I got caught. Kendra wasn’t with me this time. Facing the checkout register paying for a bag of marbles while tucking a package of balloons in my back pocket, I felt a large hand clamp onto my right shoulder. I was scared. The storeowner jerked the contraband out of my pocket, yanked me around, and shoved me out the door with, “If I ever see your face in here again, I’ll call the cops.”

I knew stealing was a sin and I knew it wasn’t right. I also never wanted the frightening—not to mention humiliating—experience of being caught in a wrongdoing again. So I stopped.

I thought it best to skip confession during my time of crime; I wasn’t about to admit to Father that I was a thief, for heaven’s sake. When I resumed going to confession, it was with a clear conscience.

to be continued…

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.

Note: Posting these stories is not a solitary effort, and I’ve some friends to thank and acknowledge:
Deb Carlen, my editor, who cleans up my sentence structure, spelling, and grammar. My writing reads better because of her.
Dianna Jacobsen, my webmaster (she recently redid the chapter setup of Through Any GIven Door so it was more user-friendly.) My website looks good because of her.
Jeff Elliott, my high school friend who offers literary feedback and also made suggestions as to how I might redo the setup of the chapters on the website. The organization and formatting both flow more easily because of him.
Gail Coffin Crosslin, an old friend from when I was married in the early 1970s and who I recently reconnected with on Facebook. She’s a whiz with Photoshop and generously cleaned up a number of my pictures, especially this one. It was damaged from a pink plastic whoopie cushion that I’d placed on top of it and the photo was damaged when I tried to peel them apart. Many of the pictures are vastly improved because of her.