It was a summer Sunday in 1955. I was six and my sister, Anita, was nine. We were physically very different. She was an intimidating figure. She was tall and broad; I barely came up to her chest. A stern look from Anita was a warning sign—‘Don’t mess with me’. It was a look she had learned from our mother.
Mom stood over 5 feet, 7 inches, and weighed a solid 190 pounds. She believed firmly in ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’. Anita firmly believed in not giving her the satisfaction of crying or showing fear. Not I. Crying was my defense.
We lived in an idyllic suburb of Long Island, NY. Our large corner lot was filled with fruit trees and bushes, carefully tended to by our mother. This Sunday, Mom was aggravated by the invasion of insects destroying her peach trees. A jar of the nefarious interlopers sat on the kitchen counter.
This Sunday, like every Sunday, my father gave us a handful of coins. We were to walk the two blocks to the corner store–a combination newsstand, soda counter, and candy store, and purchase the Sunday Times, which the owner, Mr. Goldberg, set aside for his regular customers. We were more than happy to leave the house and our ill-humored mother behind.
We set out on our mission. On the corner, Anita stopped and declared that she had come up with a failsafe plot to acquire the much sought-after Dubble Bubble Bubblegum; a display box of which was on the other end of the counter from the stacked Sunday Times.
“I’m going to keep talking to Mr. Goldberg while you go get the bubblegum from that box on the end of the counter.”
“Steal?”
“Stop being such a wimp! Just walk down and get two pieces from the box and hide them in your pocket. It’s not really stealing when it’s worth less than a nickel. I’ll keep Mr. Goldberg busy, and you go and get the bubble gum.”
She punched me in the arm. “You want the gum, don’t you? You better not chicken out.”
She strode ahead of me with confidence I did not share. I lagged behind,
At the door to the store, Anita reached back, grabbed my arm, and propelled me ahead of her into the store. “Get going and act normal.”
Not feeling very normal, I pressed up against the counter stools and slouched down, edging to the far end of the counter. My journey complete, I crouched below the counter and stared up at the bright blue and pink Dubble Bubble display box.
Anita began to distract Mr. Goldberg with what she thought was scintillating conversation. Slowly, I rose to my full height and reached up over the counter until my fingers touched the rim of the display box.
Anita’s plan had neglected to consider one fact: I was too short! Stretch as I might, I could not get my hand over the top of the box to grab the treasure inside. Anita glanced down the counter to see my progress. Mr. Goldberg followed her glance. There I stood, fingers dangling over the box’s edge. Hearing no conversation coming from the other end of the counter, I turned. My quick assessment of the situation registered on my face.
Now, Mr. Goldberg was not a successful businessman by accident. He leaned over the counter, his face inches from Anita, and yelled.
“You trying to steal from me? You should be ashamed. Take your father’s paper and get out of my store. I’m calling your parents.”
Anita, shaking ever so slightly, took the paper and walked slowly out the door. I ran. As I turned the corner, I could see Mr. Goldberg through the large plate glass window. He was on the phone.
I was in no hurry to get home. Neither was Anita. She was planning our strategy.
“Don’t you say anything and don’t you cry. I’ll handle this.”
Damn. My strategy—to cry, apologize and swear never to do this again, had just been shot down by my sister. I resolved to hide behind her and hope my mother’s wrath would fall entirely on Anita.
Mom was at the kitchen sink. My dad sat at the table sipping coffee. Something had passed between them. They also had a plan. We hesitated at the door. My father cleared his throat and my mother turned. She crossed her arms and glared down at us. And then there was the single raised eyebrow—a sure sign of impending doom.
I must give it to Anita. She walked past my mom and handed the paper to my father who took it and proceeded to become absorbed in the front page. No salvation was going to come from that quarter.
Anita’s attempt to leave was thwarted by Mom. “Stop right there, young lady! Where do you think you are going? Stealing? Anita, I know this was your idea but Susan! I expect better from you. Mr. Goldberg is going to report you to the police tomorrow morning. I am taking you to the police station after breakfast. Now, go to your room.”
We did not sleep well. Thoughts of life in striped pajamas eating gruel kept me awake. Not that I knew what gruel was, but it didn’t sound appetizing. The next morning, I tried to eat our breakfast of bacon and eggs, thinking it was the last decent meal of our lives. Even Anita had little appetite. A sure sign that she was worried.
Mom was ready.
“Go get into the car. You’d better take your pajamas in case they keep you there. We are leaving for the police station in five minutes.”
We piled into the back of the Buick. The fifteen-minute ride was done in silence. My sister glowered at me, arms folded and defiant. It was all my fault. I had failed!
We pulled up to an impressive building with an even more impressive guard in a green uniform. My mother told us to stay in the car and spoke briefly with the guard on her way into the building. He approached the car, leaned down, and sternly waved an accusing finger at us. He then turned his back and planted himself in front of our car door. We were trapped! I was not able to hold back my tears.
My sister commanded me. “Don’t you cry! Don’t you dare!”
I was a blubbering idiot when my mother returned. Anita was not. Mom spoke briefly to the guard and entered the car. Turning to face us, she said,
“You are lucky this time. The judge was there, and he is giving you one more chance. If you try to steal again, you will go to jail. And stop that crying! We are going straight to Mr. Goldberg’s store, and you are going to apologize. Both of you.”
I nodded, tears flinging off my cheeks. Anita stared out the window not acknowledging my mother.
We apologized and our Sunday trips for the newspaper resumed. Anita conducted these transactions with little conversation. I stayed in the doorway.
Many, many, many years later when Anita and I had children of our own. We were reminiscing with Mom about the time she took us to the courthouse. She laughed and confessed.
“I didn’t take you to the police station. It was the state agricultural office. I needed to find out how to get rid of the bugs that were infecting the peach trees. And, of course, it just happened to be the perfect opportunity to teach two little girls a lesson,”
And there was that eyebrow again.
Susan Helene’s collection of short stories, Womenscape: Selected Stories of Eclectic Women was published by Unsolicited Press in December 2022. Several of her stories have been published in literary journals. She is a certified Tai Chi instructor, professional storyteller, and ceramic artist.