Sigmund Shaw: A Steampunk Adventure Page 2

  Other theatre-goers continued to mill around them but were not relevant to this private moment. She lowered her gaze, not being able to look him in the face, unable to bear the inevitable disappointment he would show, and said, “I’m widowed. I have a young daughter at home.”

  There was a pause. Alexis wanted to turn away, wanted the moment to be over and go home. What had been a charming night with her brother was turning into another dreadful evening of rejection. But to her great surprise, Jamison said, “I would like to meet her sometime.”

  Alexis raised her eyes to his. People were crowding the sidewalk, moving all around them, but she couldn’t see anyone except Jamison. Her eyes glistened – Jamison recalled they sparkled – as she tried to keep her emotions in check. Barely able to speak, she managed a quiet, “I would like that too.”

  Over the next several months, Jamison and Alexis spent much time together, falling in love, and finally marrying. Jamison’s family was not completely happy about his decision – marrying a woman who already had a child from a previous marriage, but given time, the kindness of Alexis, and the happiness of Jamison, they eventually welcomed her sincerely to the family. The two years since have been the happiest that Sigmund could every recall his sister being. Maybe Sigmund was intimidated because Jamison took as good care of his sister and niece as he ever did, and perhaps better.

  Raising his fist to knock a second time, he halted as he heard rapidly approaching footsteps. When the door opened, his sister nearly flew out of it to give him a hug. “Sigmund! Right on time, as always.” She exclaimed

  “Well, you know what father always said…”

  Together they said, for an uncountable time, “‘Time is precious.’”

  Alexis gave him another quick hug before guiding him into her living room. On the wall opposite the door was a fireplace, unused on this nice summer day, the mantle holding a vase with bright yellow flowers along with two picture frames. There was a brown couch, a matching brown wing chair, and two wooden chairs with floral upholstery, one of them occupied by Alexis’ husband. Jamison’s ears stuck out prominently on his narrow face but he had an overall intelligent look. He was similar in age to Sigmund but had the concentration lines of one who thought deeply on matters, a person who had a job that was more analytical than driving a cab. As Sigmund entered, Jamison smiled, stood up, and said, “Sigmund, welcome!”

  Sigmund took two steps across the dark wood floor and shook hands with Jamison. “Always a pleasure to be here Jamison. You look well.”

  “As do you.” Extending his hand to a chair, Jamison continued, “Please, have a seat. How was the ride today?”

  “The ride was quite lovely. The warm weather has permeated even the coldest hearts and has won the citizens over to happiness. But I will have to decline your offer to sit for now, as you know I can’t delay another moment without visiting Sarah.” Sigmund gave a mock look of great concern. “Can’t have her be angry with me. Plus, I have a gift to deliver.”

  Alexis put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Oh Sigmund, you are too kind. You will find her in the kitchen. She has been quite the helper today.” Looking at the package he held, she asked, “What did you bring her this time?”

  “It is a surprise; you’ll see soon enough.” He smiled, turned towards the kitchen and said over his shoulder, “If you would excuse me for a moment, my niece awaits.”

  The kitchen was warm and smelled of some kind of chicken dish. Pot pie? Sigmund thought – his favorite. Sitting at the table was Sarah, his twelve year old niece. She had long, blonde hair, a heart shaped face like her mother, and a huge smile at seeing her uncle – what Sigmund considered The Impossible Smile.

  “Uncle Sigmund!” she cried with delight but did not get up to hug him – she never got up to hug him, not for lack of desire, but for lack of ability. Since birth, her legs did not work. This condition made her constant joy, her happy smile seem impossible.

  There were not many things that Sigmund truly hated, but he hated that his niece was in this condition. The unfairness of it all. But her ability to not let this ailment dominate her was nothing short of amazing. The Impossible Smile, the smile of his niece despite all her hardships. Sigmund didn’t talk of it with her, not wanting to draw attention to her condition, but he felt it deeply. Despite the pain he felt, he was proud of her and humbled by her attitude.

  Sigmund walked over and kneeled next to her at the table so they could hug. Every embrace nearly brought tears to Sigmund’s eyes. This beautiful girl, so smart, so funny, so full of life, but limited with this physical ailment. What he wouldn’t give to help her. How many doctors had she visited, medicines tried – all to no avail. He loved her dearly, and long ago concluded that he would do anything to make her happy.

  “I brought you something. But,” Sigmund continued teasingly, “I’m not sure you are old enough for it…”

  “Uncle! I’m nearly thirteen years old. I’m old enough to know that you are going to give me the gift and that you are just teasing me.” She gave him a satisfied look, knowing that she had bested him.

  Sigmund laughed, “My dear Sarah, you are correct. I will have to make a better case next time. It’s not fun teasing you if I can’t make you believe my lies.” Sigmund took the package from under his arm and placed it on the table in front of her.

  With delicate fingers she lifted the wrapped present and turned it around examining its papered exterior closely with her large brown eyes. Sigmund loved her inquisitive mind, a trait that Jamison no doubt fostered. With the outside fully examined, she then hefted the package to get a feel for the weight. She finally declared, “Clearly a book of some sort.”

  Sigmund nodded. She continued, “But the size and weight is on the small side. That eliminates Dickens, thank goodness.” She smiled and Sigmund laughed. She thought Dickens’ stories were brilliant but his writing style was not one that she enjoyed.

  Sarah furrowed her brow for a moment and finally said, “There are too many possibilities, I give up.” And started to unwrap the present. Despite her previously analytical approach, she tore through the wrapping paper voraciously, tossing pieces of paper all around her. Once unwrapped, she held the book in hand and read the title out loud, “The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Arthur Conan Doyle! Oh Uncle! I love it!”

  Sigmund knew she would. Her mother had refused to allow her to read the story as it was released in the Strand throughout the previous year, but now it had been novelized and she was a year older. Sigmund didn’t check with Alexis first – counting on her forgiving nature to overcome any indiscretion he might have caused.

  With Sarah’s days generally limited to her bed or a chair, she found ways to keep occupied – playing music, crocheting, and what she loved most of all, reading. She had read and reread most all of the great writers, but she truly loved the adventures and inventions of some of the more modern authors. Jules Verne and H.G. Wells were her favorite, their stories taking her far away from her condition.

  Sigmund leaned close and they hugged again. “So, I was only partly teasing about you not being old enough. I have read this story and it has some scary moments. I don’t want you to have nightmares.”

  “Uncle, I have read about bloody revolutions, undersea monsters, dinosaur attacks –”

  “Sarah!” her mother cried from the doorway where she had been watching the gift opening. “Let’s remember that you are a young lady. I know what is in your books, and I have allowed it, but let’s keep those things in the books and not in conversation.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  Sigmund winked at her and Sarah gave a knowing smile which turned into the two of them laughing. After a moment, Alexis was laughing too. How Sigmund loved his family.

  Jamison walked into the kitchen with a questioning, though lighthearted, look on his face. “What is so funny?”

  Sigmund answered, “The usual; bloody revolutions and dinosaurs.”

  Jamison considered the response and replied
, “Well, carry on then. But don’t let it disturb our dinner, it smells absolutely wonderful.”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” said Alexis, “It still has some twenty minutes, plus cooling time.”

  “Uncle!” cried Sarah, “we have time for a walk! Can we please? I have reread Mysterious Island and have some thoughts on the pirate attack.”

  A ‘walk’ consisted of Sarah sitting in a wheeled chair while being pushed by someone, usually through the nearby Regents Park. She loved being outside and the park was her favorite place. “Of course,” responded Sigmund brightly, as if it was the greatest idea ever – which in his mind, it was.

  Jamison carried the wheeled chair outside while Sigmund carried Sarah. He placed her gently in the chair, took up position behind it, and began their walk. As they toured the park, Sarah animatedly discussed how Cyrus Harding and his men could have been better prepared to repel the pirates when they invaded Lincoln Island. She talked of battle strategies that they could have employed and defenses that she would have set up had she been stuck on that island with them. Not a conversation that you would hear from too many young women, but Sigmund couldn’t be happier to be able to discuss such topics with her. Mysterious Island was a particular favorite of Sigmund’s so he had much to contribute to the conversation. After about thirty minutes of walking and discussing, they returned home, just in time for dinner to be served.

  It was chicken pot pie and Sigmund gushed about how delicious it was – cooking for himself left much to be desired. After the early dinner they enjoyed a pleasant evening talking and laughing.

  Despite the wonderful day, and the best company Sigmund could wish for, something felt wrong. His sister and her husband seemed nervous or on edge somehow – not congruent with the weather, and certainly not the norm. As the sun set, the strangeness was soon revealed.

  Sigmund carried his niece to bed and tucked her in. “Goodnight Sarah,” he said, “I will see you soon. I want to hear all about how you enjoy the book.”

  “Of course, Uncle. Thank you very much for the gift. I love you, goodnight, goodnight, I love you.”

  “Goodnight, I love you, I love you, goodnight.” Their little nighttime routine.

  Sigmund closed her door as she closed her eyes. When he went back to the living room, Alexis and Jamison were standing hand in hand waiting for him. The look on their faces was concerning. Sigmund paused, then asked, “What is wrong? I’ve had a strange feeling all day. Are you two alright?”

  Jamison stepped forward, struggled to talk for a moment, then finally, “Sigmund, your sister and I have thought a lot about this, and we need to ask something from you.”

  Sigmund nodded and waited for Jamison to continue.

  “We need you steal something.”

  2.

  Steal something?

  This was not a request Sigmund thought he would ever hear from his sister and certainly not from her husband. Not that Sigmund wasn’t capable of stealing something, he was very capable, but it was always on his own terms with the goal of providing for his family. No one ever asked, they never had to. But to be asked, and asked so bluntly, was surprising and a bit shameful.

  He always assumed that his sister had shared his background with Jamison but it was never talked about openly, not even insinuated. But now it was clearly out in the open. Sigmund was a thief; well had been a thief. Since Alexis’ marriage to Jamison, he hadn’t needed to resort to it. He had even started to think he would be able to retire that part of his life for good. A nagging haunt to his conscience, he would love nothing better than to leave it behind now that he no longer had a family to take care of, Jamison was doing that for him.

  That was likely where most of the intimidation that Sigmund felt for Jamison stemmed from. The fact that the care that Jamison provided was through perfectly normal and legal means, able to give everything his sister and niece wanted without having to resort to stealing. In Sigmund’s mind, this made Jamison better than him. This, of course, is exactly what he wanted for his sister, but it still stung.

  Jamison’s care also left a hole in Sigmund’s self-worth. He had spent most of his life caring for his sister, then later his niece, and that care is how Sigmund measured success. He was successful as a man, successful in life, if he could provide for his family. When Alexis first married, Sigmund went through the same feelings, but when her husband left, he was thrust into the familiar, comfortable role of provider and protector. At times, he felt selfish. It was the distress of his sister that made him feel the hero.

  This role that he had played during much of his life was also an excuse to not focus on himself. He gave up on any kind of relationship, not wanting to threaten the balance he had created, and not knowing how he could possibly explain his thieving habits to a potential suitor. It was easier to just keep to himself. But now there were no excuses, Alexis and Sarah were provided for. She must have sensed it too, as through the years she never spoke of him not having a lady to court. But in recent months she had started to drop hints as to her desire for him to find someone.

  That immediately changed with the request, ‘We need you to steal something’.

  Sigmund’s thieving had started simply enough. By fifteen years old, his father was gone, his mother was sickly, and he and his sister often went to bed hungry. One day he overheard two men talking, one of them was complaining about how his wife did not appreciate the gift he had given her, a gold broach with small diamonds and emeralds. Sigmund was angry at how hard things were for his family and how much a piece of jewelry like that would help – and this woman evidently didn’t even like it! To have the means to purchase such superfluous things was almost beyond comprehension. The feeling of unfairness burned inside.

  He dwelled on these thoughts and was able to force the conclusion that this woman didn’t deserve it. It took only a few more thoughts to bring him to the idea of relieving her of the unwanted item. It was very robin Hood-esque he thought, take from the rich and give to the poor.

  A few more convincing thoughts and he decided that he would attempt it, he would steal this pendant. Sigmund carefully followed the man home to get his address. From there he would visit the home each day and wait until it was empty – it happened on the second day. Sigmund saw the man of the house leave for work a few minutes before eight, his wife left around ten. Clearly to do this in the day time was bold but he didn’t think the home would be empty during the night. Sneaking around an occupied home was well beyond his skills – and courage.

  Waiting for the street to be clear, Sigmund ran across and went straight to the door. To his great surprise it was open! He often wondered what he would of done if it was locked – walk away and give up, smash a window, or something else entirely. What if…

  Opening the door, he slipped inside quickly. The immediate strangeness of being inside someone else’s house was both frightening and thrilling. Surrounded by smells and sights that belonged to someone else was almost disorienting. He knew that just his actions so far, entering the home, were far over the line of appropriateness. Second thoughts and doubts barraged him but he decided to continue on – as much for the sake of his pride as the desire for the jewelry. He headed up the stairs to the second floor rooms, assuming that the bedrooms were on that level and that the jewelry box would likely be there as well. His steps on the stairs sounded excruciatingly loud, his heart beats not sounding much quieter in his ears. His instincts were correct – after opening the second door of the hallway, he found the master bedroom. His feeling of discomfort, now that he was in a person’s most private room, grew even stronger. He was shaking, sweating, feeling cold and hot at the same time. Fear of failure drove him forward. Looking over what had to be a women’s bureau, an elaborate box stood to the side of the mirror next to several pairs of gloves and a white hat. Opening the drawers of the box, Sigmund was greeted with many pieces of jewelry – earrings, necklaces, rings, pendants, and other pieces. Already feeling overwhelmed at his actions, it wasn’t
until this moment that the complete gravity of the situation fell hard on Sigmund’s small shoulders. He was about to take something that wasn’t his, put it in his pocket, and leave. He would be a thief, a person that society would not be proud of. His stomach growled and he knew that his sister’s stomach was equally empty. The thought of helping Alexis superseded his morals.

  He continued looking through the box until he found the piece that he was looking for. He picked up the broach, gold with embedded jewels – just as the man described – and it was now in his sweaty hand. His goal was realized. The choice made here would alter Sigmund’s life moving forward. If he put it back and left he would never consider anything like this again. To try and fail would be too much to overcome in order to try it another time. Sigmund stopped thinking, trying to not allow his conscience to rule his actions. He kept rationalizing that the good that would come out of this would be more than the bad. The end justified the means. He put the broach into his pocket and closed up the box. He thought of taking more but decided to stick to the original plan. He felt a little better knowing he was only taking something that the owner didn’t want anyway. Making his way to the bottom floor, he headed back to the front door. His heart pounded in his ears as he slowly opened the door a crack and looked around outside as best he could through the narrow slit. At what looked like an opportune moment, he stepped outside, closed the door behind him, and walked down the side walk as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He was then a thief. No matter what happened, he will always have stolen the broach. The label hung heavy on him but ultimately drove him on to other burglaries. He was a thief, whether he stole one thing or a hundred, he was still a thief.