The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls (5 page)

A few years ago he thought he had my future all figured out. Remember that intelligence test I took back in elementary school? After I finished the test, there was a follow-up report with a bunch of recommendations. The testers thought I should go to a special boarding school for really smart kids called the Monroe Academy.

The Monroe Academy was in Victoria, on Vancouver Island. A long way from my uncle or any of his associates in Vancouver. If that wasn't bad enough, the school seemed superstrict.

I've always had a problem following other people's rules. It's not that I'm lazy or anything. It's just that if I'm going to do anything that involves actual effort, I want it to be my own decision. When I read some literature on the school, right away I knew it wasn't for me.

On the front of the academy's brochure, there was a picture of a big gray building with a Latin motto on the front. The English translation of the motto read
To Love Learning Is to Love Discipline
. On the inside of the brochure, the school promised to mold academic warriors in the bracing atmosphere of a Spartan existence. Photos showed their world-class rowing team, a live-in dormitory with rows of tightly made bunk beds and a cafeteria with vending machines for three kinds of vitamin-enriched bottled water.

Boys in shiny shoes, gray flannel pants and blazers featuring the Monroe Academy crest were pictured doing homework, mopping floors and pruning rose bushes for the camera. One guy was so proud to be pruning rose bushes in his blazer that he was almost smiling.

When the testers said they could get me a scholarship to the Monroe Academy as part of the school's program for disadvantaged youth, Uncle Andy called a family meeting with just the two of us.

“I've been thinking about your future,” said Uncle Andy. “And I demand that you attend the Monroe Academy.”

This sounded strange because my uncle never demanded anything of me. But all I asked was, “What does this place sound like to you?”

“Like prison with neckties,” said Uncle Andy. “But that's not the point. This is an opportunity for you to rub shoulders with a class of people I'd be lucky to rob.”

“Did you tell them my mother played the piano?” I asked. “No way I'm disadvantaged.”

“I agree, Henry. It's not you personally that's disadvantaged,” said Uncle Andy. “That's the beauty of the way these people think.”

When I said that I didn't understand, my uncle explained that the academy considered him a highly negative influence. “I've already done all the heavy lifting for you just by being me,” he said. And then, sounding almost as if he were proud of it, he added, “Don't you see, Henry? I'm your disadvantage.”

I was beginning to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “How often would I get to see you?” I asked.

“Once a year at Christmas,” he said, explaining it was part of the deal for my full scholarship. “That's if I can stay out of trouble, which both of us know is highly unlikely.”

“I'm not going,” I said. “I don't trust any place that makes you get in a rowboat when you're not even trapped on a sinking ocean liner.”

“You don't understand,” said Uncle Andy, shooting me his most serious look ever. “I'm not giving you a choice.”

“So you want me to become some slave in gray flannel pants?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Uncle Andy, not batting an eye.

That's how I ended up enrolled at the Monroe Academy for the beginning of grade eight. Right away, I did everything I could to get expelled. I got on the rowing team and rowed in the wrong direction. I cut all the roses off my personally assigned rose bush until there was nothing left but a sick-looking stump. But it was no use. The warden—who called himself the headmaster—told me I could not do anything he hadn't seen before.

So naturally, I started escaping. After the first couple of attempts, they locked me up in a private room with another student who was supposed to stand guard. Luckily, my personal guard was practicing very hard to make the track team. So he kept falling asleep. Much to my good fortune, I had managed to steal a tiny crochet hook from tapestry weaving class. After a little bit of experimenting, I found I could pick a lock with the hook a lot easier than I could weave a tapestry.

I escaped five times in the first month and a half—twice going so far as to hide in a van full of empty water bottles that took me all the way back to Vancouver. Unless you count tearing the crest on my blazer while running through the rose bushes, the only bad thing that happened to me was that I kept getting caught and sent back.

After my fifth escape attempt, the headmaster brought in Uncle Andy for a chat. It wasn't long before my uncle started to criticize the academy's lax security. “How do you expect the kid to stay put when your locks are a hundred years old?” he asked the headmaster. Then, almost as if he were bragging, he added, “My nephew could crack this old tin can of a place blindfolded.”

“What do you suggest?” asked the headmaster, whose tone was very sarcastic. “Barbed wire? A straightjacket during study period, perhaps?”

Uncle Andy smiled politely. “The kid's always been handy with wire cutters,” he said. “The straightjacket's not a bad idea. But I think Henry would find a way to wiggle out eventually. He's always been on the nimble side.”

The headmaster offered my uncle a reluctant smile. “I have no doubt that Henry would agree to be shot out of a cannon if it was pointed in your direction,” he said.

Uncle Andy asked him to leave us alone so that we could work things out. The first thing I asked was, “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“You're kidding, right?” said Uncle Andy, who sounded totally amazed.

“I know I get in the way sometimes,” I said. “It's not like you asked to be stuck with some kid.”

My uncle looked at me for a few seconds. “You can think anything else you want about me,” he said, his voice getting very quiet, “but don't you ever think that I want to get rid of you. You understand?”

The thing is, I did understand. My uncle is not someone who says “I love you” all the time. He doesn't even say it once in a while. You might think that he didn't care whether he loved anybody or anybody loved him back. But at that moment, I looked into his eyes and saw everything we'd always meant to each other. I knew he was going to take me out of the Monroe Academy and bring me home. For better or worse, we were family.

I still think it was the right decision not to attend the academy. Believe it or not, there are many things my current lifestyle can teach a person about the human condition. They are the sorts of things you don't learn studying Latin or Greek in a room full of dusty books.

Don't get me wrong. Before my current predicament forced me back into my old habits, I felt pretty good about leaving theft behind. On the other hand, I can't deny that burglary has certain educational benefits extending well beyond my program of cultural enrichment. You may find this hard to believe. But aside for the ability to purchase things like concert tickets, I didn't care much about the money.

In fact, sometimes I ended up taking nothing at all. I didn't really see myself as your typical neighborhood burglar. I even made up my own totally unique job title: domestic anthropologist. Someone who liked to explore the undiscovered places in every strange house. Places with secrets that could leave me happy or sad. Or feeling so bad about somebody's tucked-away troubles that I just had to take out the garbage or sweep the floor.

I remember this one patron named Shirley. She kept this diary all about how she could never find the right person to be with. Back then, I would often take a few minutes just to snoop if there was time, and I ended up reading Shirley's entire diary. It was full of questions like
Is it me? Am I that hard to love?
I felt so bad for her that I practically cleaned her whole house.

After that, I vowed never to read anything private or personal again when I was an uninvited (or even an invited) guest in someone's house. Shirley's diary made me think of something Uncle Andy said when he was warning me about the dangers of looking into other people's desks and medicine cabinets. “I've never robbed anybody who doesn't have one or two secrets tucked away in a private place,” he said. “And sometimes that secret's a lot more complicated than where a person hides the key to their front door.”

I try to keep this advice in mind. I do allow myself to take a good look at anything that's out in the open. Grocery lists, messages on kitchen chalkboards. That kind of thing. I call this “my postcard rule.” Just about everybody will read a stranger's postcard, because the writing is there for everyone to see. Even the postcard writer knows this.

Of course, even when you're trying not to, sometimes you can't help discovering private things about a certain benefactor. When this happens, I always try to look on the bright side. Sometimes the secrets I discover about my benefactors help me to be extra considerate.

Take Chester Hickley, a patron of mine with very special needs. Chester suffers from all sorts of pesky skin irritations. He even keeps a note on his fridge that reminds him to do things like avoid direct exposure to the sun. Last time I was at his place, I noticed he'd dropped the appointment card for his allergist on the kitchen floor. I didn't hesitate to pin it back on the fridge using a magnet that said
Do not forget to…

To be honest, the professional side of me was making a mental note to stop by again while Chester was out explaining his latest rash to the doctor. But just because you are stealing from a person doesn't mean you can't also be concerned about their health.

It is important for the conscientious house burglar to remember that all benefactors are individuals, with their own peculiar tastes, desires and lifestyles. I always take the time to look at bulletin boards, wall calendars or messages tacked on the fridge. This allows me to keep a mental file on the schedules of all the generous contributors to the Henry Holloway Emergency Fund. Like the day of the week they go grocery shopping or when they have their regular appointment with the hairstylist.

Of course, I try not to get too carried away.

Every steady relationship has to be based on a certain amount of trust. While it may sound funny, this is especially true of a burglar and his most cherished targets. If you want to drop by on someone more than once, you have to have enough faith in the future of that relationship not to steal too much at one time. It's always been my feeling that what you lose in cash and merchandise, you make up for with the comfort and security of familiar surroundings.

For me, this means stealing just enough to make the effort worthwhile but not so much that my patron becomes highly security-conscious all of a sudden. After all, what is the good of having a favorite benefactor if they suddenly decide to turn their home into a bank vault with furniture?

You want to know something else? One of the fringe benefits of inviting myself into a strange home is that, when I least expect it, it leaves me feeling grateful to be exactly who I am. For instance, I will be in the middle of a burglary, glance at a piece of paper tacked to the fridge and suddenly appreciate that I don't need a prescription for high blood pressure or a recurring rash. Another funny thing. It's gotten so that I can immediately tell when I am breaking into an unhappy home. Even before I open so much as a drawer.

I might notice that there are no family pictures on the side table. But usually I'll just get this strange feeling all of a sudden. It's almost as if sadness or loneliness can seep its way into the walls. Like cigarette smoke or the smell of last night's microwave dinner. It's the kind of thing that really makes you appreciate your own home. Even if that home no longer exists.

The thing is, once you open a drawer, you never know what you're going to find. I have always tried to restrain myself from checking out private belongings that have no monetary or nutritional value. That means I make it a strict rule to stay away from such temptations as personal letters or the insides of medicine cabinets. Probably the worst thing I can imagine is reading someone's private correspondence and having them catch me at it.

I would say that ninety-nine percent of the time I'm very respectful of a patron's privacy. My one big remaining weakness is family photo albums. If an album is open on the coffee table, I'll take a minute to look at the pictures when I really should be looking for cash. Before you know it, I can get sentimentally attached to the people I'm robbing. There are certain patrons that I try to steal the minimum from because I'd be genuinely sad if they decided to change their personal security habits.

Once I was making an unsupervised visit to the home of Mr. Ambrose Worton. Ambrose is one of my favorite benefactors. I've visited his place a grand total of three times. Like Mrs. Pastorelli, he's one of those absentminded individuals who likes to leave a spare key close by. You know, under the doormat. Or, if he's feeling especially creative, buried in the seeds of a birdfeeder.

There are some houses you'd never want to visit more than once. But right away I found Ambrose's place very welcoming. His place is very homey. It makes me want to leave everything as undisturbed as possible. Plus, a quick look at the prescription on Ambrose Worton's kitchen bulletin board showed that he suffers from high blood pressure and should not be unnecessarily upset by things like open drawers and scattered papers.

You can tell a lot about a person by what's in their fridge. And Ambrose's fridge always featured an unusually thoughtful selection of cold cuts. I felt so comfortable at his house that, on my second visit, I stopped by for a sandwich and didn't even bother to steal anything.

After a couple of visits, I got to know Ambrose's personal history quite well. According to a card he left right on his desk, he was a member of a single dad's support group. I could tell he was very attached to his only daughter, Melinda, a pleasant-looking teenager who appeared to be around my age. There were pictures of the two of them all over the house. Ambrose and Melinda on hiking trips. Ambrose helping Melinda with her exploding volcano science project. Personally, I found it very heartwarming.