A Sleeping Disaster Chapter 2

Alban Vangette strode through the dirty streets of downtown Chicago. It was a gloomy day, and was quickly thickening into a gross night. It was the time of day everyone went inside, unless you were foolhardy or one of the gangs. He stepped quickly and with false confidence. In this part of town you had to look like you were just part of the crowd, which, sadly, he was. Eyes peered through shuttered windows, and avoiding any gaze, he walked in a nonchalant manner. A burly black man stepped across his path, blocking his way. Alban ignored him, and stepped aside to continue on his way. A large hand reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him round to face his captor.

“Got nothing?” grunted the man.

“No sir.”

“Hmm,” a quick search yielded nothing and with a curse the man shoved Alban away and stumbled on.

Whew. Close call. Good thing I put my money in my socks. They never think to check there.

Alban had a large build for his age of twelve years. Most people took him for fifteen, which was surprising considering his ill luck in living conditions. For the past three years he had lived as a thief, his mother no longer receiving pensions from the government. He now had to beg and steal for food and money – most of which went for his mother’s addiction- valium. The former years of his life had been far from pleasant, but they had at least been livable. His mother was not a cruel woman, and they had shared their meager supplies up till she had been diagnosed with a panic disorder. He still remembered with vivid detail, the day his life went drastically downhill:

“Go check the mail,” ordered Beckah lazily.

In response Alban raced out the door and came in moments later with two envelopes. A businesslike one and a private one.

“Here, mam,” said the freckled, blue eyed kid, flatting his ‘o’.

The tall woman grabbed them and sat down on a rickety plastic chair. Glancing at the business letter, she flung it down angrily on the small kitchen table. With frantic hands she tore open the smaller letter, scrabbling for its contents. Her hands stilled, as she recognized the handwriting.

“Oh…” she moaned, “merciful beings, no…no.”

“Mam?” asked Alban fearfully, as he watched the scene from the corner of the room.

Ignoring him, Beckah continued to read through the letter, a mixture of dark emotions written across her thin face. With shaking hands she read through it twice, then sat stock-still on the chair as she took in the gravity of the message.

Suddenly a rage filled her. She stood abruptly, and taking the letter, ran towards a tin box that served as the trash can. She began ripping the paper into tiny strips, with passionate determination. Having released some of her fury and despair she swung round and stormed toward the cowering child.

Hatred darkened her piercing green eyes as she shook him by the shoulders while uttering wild words. Suddenly she went limp and staggering toward the chair sat down and wept bitterly.

A very abused and confused Alban glanced at the woman leaning against the table and walking up to her, timidly placed his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry mammy; I’m a terribly bad boy. I won’t get bad mail again, I promise.”

After that day, the “occasional” hug or kind word dissolved into “never”. Beckah Vangette had given in to her troubles instead of fighting them. She had given up caring; for herself, for Alban, for anything accept the drug that would release her from her mental pain. Of food, she ate almost nothing; it took too much effort. For this, Alban was thankful; the business letter that had come that dreadful day held the news that his mother no longer qualified for state pensions.

From this day onward Alban resorted mainly to stealing. He stole jewelry, food, money -whatever had value that he could lay his hands on. Desperation forced him to go to drastic measures.

On this particular day he was back from a successful raid at an elegant house on a ‘richie’ street. The ‘richies’ were generally good pickings, and this particular house was lax on its safety measures, so he usually got in and out easily with little hassle. He had a route chosen, but never a schedule. A schedule was a death-penalty for a thief. It meant people got suspicious and watched at certain times on certain days. No. He was not that foolhardy. At times a street went a month without a single raid – from him, that is to say – but tonight he had risked it, he had gone to the same house twice in one week.

He had no real reason, other than a yearning to see the library which had so captured his attention: it was a large, elegant room, tastefully decorated with tan carpeting, cream curtains, and off-white walls. It had a brown sofa, one hue darker than the carpet, in front of a flickering fireplace. On a glass coffee table rested several books, one of which caught his particular attention. It was called the Curaverse, a word Alban would normally have had difficulty reading, with his limited schooling, yet he read it with ease. Hmm, a cure…I think, but a cure for what? Strange…

He was about to leave, knowing he had stayed too long as it was, when a boy’s voice was heard from the hall, “I’m sure he’ll turn up sometime, uncle. You said it would be soon, so that would mean within the next few days. All we can do, meanwhile, is wait.”

Alban made a hasty retreat to the tall windows where he had entered. Climbing out of windows quickly, silently, and without hurting oneself was a technique he had developed over the years. He landed with a soft “Oomph,” and running with the speed of an extremely fit athlete, lithely jumped the short wooden fence, and continued running. If he had stayed a moment longer, he would have heard “Ah, it appears he was just here. The food is gone as well as the money. Good. He’ll be returning shortly.”

Alban had no such intention of returning shortly. That was his second visit within a week, and today’s experience had shown him how slack he had become. His first visit, he had taken food, a few old-looking books, and some knick-knacks lying on the shelf above the hearth. This second visit he had come away with small pickings, having only taken some food and cash that had been carelessly left on the table. If he had thought about it, he might have found it strange that both times the fire was lit, and food was out in free sight…almost as if the house had been expecting him...