Charlie the Thief

My father-in-law took everything that wasn't nailed down. Then again, he made Annushka carry a screwdriver in her purse.

This did not stop me from loving him. I was, more than anything else, puzzled about it.

Then I learned that Charlie and his five siblings had been born just before the Depression, living on a farm in the hinterlands of Jersey. His father had a stroke and was unable to work, so Big Ma moved everybody into Newark where she worked the Democratic machine to the point where she became a ward boss.

I don't know what the girls in the family got up to, but I know the boys became accomplished thieves. Charlie and Johnny would roam Newark and find buildings that were temporarily unoccupied and after a long night's work, would come home with wagon loads of copper pipes and copper wire.

Charlie's favorite thing to do was to check out all the rubbish bins and rescue only slightly damaged newspapers and copies of the Saturday Evening Post. He'd put them in his canvas bag and then go around the neighborhood, selling them for a nickel a piece.

Charlie became an accomplished artist who never went to art school. In fact, I'm not sure if he went much beyond the tenth grade.

His scavenging habits stuck with him for the rest of his life.

Once, Xman and I went on a vacation with Annushka and Charlie. When we checked out, Annushka was red in the face from trying to explain to Charlie that he could not steal the wastepaper bin and the framed watercolor on the wall and the room service china. He would have to choose. So he chose the room service china. Although I think he sneaked the wastepaper bin into this suitcase when Annushka wasn't looking.

When I was living with them, the big event of the week was The Garage Sale. From the tiny garage emerged boxes and boxes of personal hygiene products, shampoo, deodorant, skin lotion and any other bits and bobs Charlie'd picked up during the week.

The family was expected to stick around and help set up, sell, then re-store in the garage.

Charlie was a quality control inspector at a major pharma company. When he brought "samples" home for testing, he brought home boxes and boxes of it. After he died, it was five years before I needed to buy deodorant.

And what did Charlie do with his money?

He saved and saved and saved. And then he bought his dream - a Cadillac. A used Cadillac, but a Cadoo all the same.

Maybe a month after he bought it, he was diagnosed with cancer. He drove it maybe all of a dozen times, too weakened by the disease and its treatments to feel safe behind the wheel.

And in my Southern and general laziness, I asked myself, could it really have been worth it? Or was it the thrill of the deal, the delight of getting away with something that kept Charlie going?

I don't know. I only know that after he died, I ran after at least half a dozen tall, thin, bald men, expecting to see Charlie's face when he turned around. I saw him for years, that fleeting glimpse in a crowd. I told Annushka this once and she said, "I know. I seem him everywhere, too."

I miss him, thief that he was.