Robbing Banks
Susan Pepper Robbins
I know it’s wrong to be thankful that our children haven’t done
what other people’s have, but I am. Here’s an example.
Last week we drove into the yard still upset from our visit to
Richard’s shrink who had issued a summons, all nicely coated with the
slime of being helpful, for me to come in for a session for which I
would be charged only half price, because why? I needed some help with
how to talk to Richard. Naturally, I refused, furious at the finger
pointing at me for Richard’s post-suicide-attempt problems. Anyway,
we drove into our second-mortgaged yard, and there we saw the Yukon of
our old friends, the Prichards. Friendliest people in the world.
They have six grandchildren, all of their children happily married and
holding down jobs. They had driven out from the city to surprise us,
and not finding us at home, never suspecting that we were at a
shrink’s, (Richard in the office, me out in our car, a ‘93 Taurus) had
made themselves at home, dug up some Queen Anne’s Lace to take home
for their borders, and were sitting on our patio, drinking ice water
when we drove in, me still mad as fire, Richard, sadder than usual,
trying to make everything right which can never happen even after we
are dead. I tell him all the time that when I see him at the gates of
hell, he will understand what he did to me. He always says he is sure
he will and that will be the good thing about being dead, that he can
at last make it up to me by getting it straight. You can see why I
love him.
We never lock our doors. Why bother? Out in the country where
we built a house thirty years ago, the thieves would just break the
windows, slit the screens, look around at our old appliances, 2003
computers and big heavy TV’s, and leave.
Tom and Ellen were sitting out there, waiting for us to show up,
and when we did, we had a good time, in fact, got over our fight which
I have to do the heavy lifting in. What they told us, laughing a
little, rueful, was that their niece was in the women’s correctional
facility near us, and that they had waved at it as they drove by on
the way out to see us. What had she done? We didn’t know any
children in jail. I don’t count my students who go for DUI’s and drug
deals made to undercover DEA’s. The Prichards' visit was better than
any therapy could be. For me, anyway.
Their niece with the lovely name of Emilia Grace, mother of two
biracial babies, one autistic, kept by Emilia Grace’s long suffering
mother, the sister of Tom, had lost her job as an aide at the
veterans’ hospital, so on a Tuesday morning last February, she had
walked into the biggest bank downtown, First Federal, stuck her
pointed finger through her big sweater’s pocket, and asked for all the
money in the teller’s drawer. She was shocked that the woman handed
over the money and even put it neatly in the shopping bag for her as
if it was groceries.
Here Tom laughed sadly, and asked for another glass of water.
Then, he went on, Emilia Grace had walked out of the bank with her bag
full of money, gone to a coffee shop, ordered a large coffee and crumb
cake, called her mom to tell her what she had just done and that she
was sorry. Her mom had called Tom at work, and he got Ellen to go
over to watch the two babies, while he went to his sister’s, picked
her up, and drove her downtown to get Emmy who had finished the crumb
cake by then and was weeping. They drove Emmy back home, left the bag
of money with Ellen and the babies, and then the three of them went to
the police station. The police sent an officer to pick up the money.
That’s how Ellen and Tom have a niece in jail and that’s why I am
grateful and thrilled that our children, with all their problems, have
not robbed a bank, because, knowing them, they might not have
regretted it immediately, and they certainly would not have called us.
what other people’s have, but I am. Here’s an example.
Last week we drove into the yard still upset from our visit to
Richard’s shrink who had issued a summons, all nicely coated with the
slime of being helpful, for me to come in for a session for which I
would be charged only half price, because why? I needed some help with
how to talk to Richard. Naturally, I refused, furious at the finger
pointing at me for Richard’s post-suicide-attempt problems. Anyway,
we drove into our second-mortgaged yard, and there we saw the Yukon of
our old friends, the Prichards. Friendliest people in the world.
They have six grandchildren, all of their children happily married and
holding down jobs. They had driven out from the city to surprise us,
and not finding us at home, never suspecting that we were at a
shrink’s, (Richard in the office, me out in our car, a ‘93 Taurus) had
made themselves at home, dug up some Queen Anne’s Lace to take home
for their borders, and were sitting on our patio, drinking ice water
when we drove in, me still mad as fire, Richard, sadder than usual,
trying to make everything right which can never happen even after we
are dead. I tell him all the time that when I see him at the gates of
hell, he will understand what he did to me. He always says he is sure
he will and that will be the good thing about being dead, that he can
at last make it up to me by getting it straight. You can see why I
love him.
We never lock our doors. Why bother? Out in the country where
we built a house thirty years ago, the thieves would just break the
windows, slit the screens, look around at our old appliances, 2003
computers and big heavy TV’s, and leave.
Tom and Ellen were sitting out there, waiting for us to show up,
and when we did, we had a good time, in fact, got over our fight which
I have to do the heavy lifting in. What they told us, laughing a
little, rueful, was that their niece was in the women’s correctional
facility near us, and that they had waved at it as they drove by on
the way out to see us. What had she done? We didn’t know any
children in jail. I don’t count my students who go for DUI’s and drug
deals made to undercover DEA’s. The Prichards' visit was better than
any therapy could be. For me, anyway.
Their niece with the lovely name of Emilia Grace, mother of two
biracial babies, one autistic, kept by Emilia Grace’s long suffering
mother, the sister of Tom, had lost her job as an aide at the
veterans’ hospital, so on a Tuesday morning last February, she had
walked into the biggest bank downtown, First Federal, stuck her
pointed finger through her big sweater’s pocket, and asked for all the
money in the teller’s drawer. She was shocked that the woman handed
over the money and even put it neatly in the shopping bag for her as
if it was groceries.
Here Tom laughed sadly, and asked for another glass of water.
Then, he went on, Emilia Grace had walked out of the bank with her bag
full of money, gone to a coffee shop, ordered a large coffee and crumb
cake, called her mom to tell her what she had just done and that she
was sorry. Her mom had called Tom at work, and he got Ellen to go
over to watch the two babies, while he went to his sister’s, picked
her up, and drove her downtown to get Emmy who had finished the crumb
cake by then and was weeping. They drove Emmy back home, left the bag
of money with Ellen and the babies, and then the three of them went to
the police station. The police sent an officer to pick up the money.
That’s how Ellen and Tom have a niece in jail and that’s why I am
grateful and thrilled that our children, with all their problems, have
not robbed a bank, because, knowing them, they might not have
regretted it immediately, and they certainly would not have called us.
