When Marty came home from work he did the same thing, led me to the garage and pointed out the shavings. He told me there was no use in calling the police seeing as they’ve had it in for him since day one. Marty said he would solve this crime himself, one man, on his own. He said he couldn’t say for sure but he was practically certain that Cuff Daniels had something to do with it. “Good old Cuff,” he said. Then he spit on the con-crete floor.

Things went along like always until the next week, when Rochelle caught me taking money from her purse. Normally I could always tell where she was as I could hear her moaning, sometimes actual words and other times just sounds, like a weary motor. She must have held her breath this time. Maybe she suspected something was up. I turned around and there she was.

“I wasn’t taking your money,” I said, rolling up the bills and replacing the rubber band that held them. “I wasn’t taking it, I was just . . . counting it. You’ve got thirty-seven dollars here. Boy, that’s a lot of tips, thirty-seven dollars.”

Rochelle stood in the doorway with her fists in the air. “Not but twenty minutes ago I had forty-one dollars,” she said, hobbling closer toward me. “Do you expect me to believe that the rest of my money got tired of being cooped up in that packet-book and decided to walk off on its own and explore the world? Is that what you expect me to believe? Is it? Because, let me tell you something, Mister, I can’t stand a thief.”

She brought her fist up against the side of my face. “Somebody needs to box your ears, Mister, and it might as well be me because if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a thief, a lazy, sneaking thief.”

She kept hitting me, her voice rising until my father came from the bathroom and pulled her off of me. After listening to her side of the story he calmly placed his left hand on my shoulder and, with his right, punched me very hard in the stomach.

“That’s what he needs,” Rochelle said, “someone to box his ears. Thief! Liar.”

Just like Vicki before me, I packed my belongings into paper bags. At the time all I felt was shame and regret — not for taking the money, but for my pitiful lie that I was just counting it. I know how I must have looked at that moment, washed out and sneaky and stupid. I should have said I was collecting for services rendered and stood my ground. I should have predicted my father’s punch. Should have, should have. I spent the night in the woods behind my father’s house thinking of all the should haves. That night I should have packed a sleeping bag.