I was an elementary-school pickpocket
Thirty years later my petty crime came back to haunt me.
I don’t remember the physical act of stealing Edward’s wallet. I remember wanting it, and then I remember my heart racing and my cheeks burning as my first-grade teacher queried the class about the missing item, which contained exactly one dollar—the cost of a hot lunch in our elementary school cafeteria. I can’t even remember what I desired more—the bright yellow plastic Charmkins wallet or the dollar. It’s possible that I didn’t truly want either. It’s possible that I was simply curious to find out what it would be like to take something that wasn’t mine.
What I discovered about theft is that I don’t have the conscience for it. My initial physical reaction gave way to a chronic ache that settled into my soul. I know this sounds melodramatic. But I would forget about what happened for a week or even a month, and then something would remind me and I would remember again with a shudder: Oh, right. I did that. And having done that makes me a bad girl.
For two years I wrestled with this shame, until one night I couldn’t bear it anymore. I went to my mother, who was surely bewildered to see me there weeping not ten minutes after she’d tucked me in for the night. Between hiccupping sobs, I confessed what I’d done. Wisely recognizing that I’d punished myself sufficiently, she declined to dole out additional consequences for my misdeed. Instead she suggested reparations: I’d long since lost the wallet, but we could send Edward a dollar in the mail, anonymously. I still couldn’t bring myself to look at him during recess, but then I avoided most of the boys when I was in third grade.
