Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

‘My name’s really Jack,’ he said.

‘Oh yeah?’ the blond Village of the Damned cop said.

‘Yes,’ Bobby said, nodding. ‘Jack Merridew Garfield. That’s me.’

Carol Gerber’s letters stopped coming in 1963, which happened to be the year of Bobby’s first

school expulsion and also the year of his first visit to Massachusetts Youth Correctional in Bedford. The cause of this visit was possession of five marijuana cigarettes, which Bobby and his friends called joysticks. Bobby was sentenced to ninety days, the last thirty forgiven for good behavior. He read a lot of books. Some of the other kids called him Professor.

Bobby didn’t mind.

When he got out of Bedbug Correctional, Officer Grandelle — the Danvers Juvenile Officer — came by and asked if Bobby was ready to straighten up and fly right. Bobby said he was, he had learned his lesson, and for awhile that seemed to be true. Then in the fall of 1964 he beat a boy so badly that the boy had to go to the hospital and there was some question of whether or not he would completely recover. The kid wouldn’t give Bobby his guitar, so Bobby beat him up and took it. Bobby was playing the guitar (not very well) in his room when he was arrested. He had told Liz he’d bought the guitar, a Silvertone acoustic, in a pawnshop.

Liz stood weeping in the doorway as Officer Grandelle led Bobby to the police car parked at the curb. ‘I’m going to wash my hands of you if you don’t stop!’ she cried after him. ‘I mean it! I do!’

‘Wash em,’ he said, getting in the back. ‘Go ahead, Ma, wash em now and save time.’

Driving downtown, Officer Grandelle said, ‘I thought you was gonna straighten up and fly right, Bobby.’

‘Me too,’ Bobby said. That time he was in Bedbug for six months.

When he got out he cashed in his Trailways ticket and hitched home. When he let himself into the house, his mother didn’t come out to greet him. ‘You got a letter,’ she said from her darkened bedroom. ‘It’s on your desk.’

Bobby’s heart began to bang hard against his ribs as soon as he saw the envelope. The hearts and teddy bears were gone — she was too old for them now — but he recognized Carol’s handwriting at once. He picked up the letter and tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper — deckle-edged — and another, smaller, envelope. Bobby read Carol’s note, the last he ever received from her, quickly.

Dear Bobby,

How are you. I am fine. You got something from your old friend, the

one who fixed my arm that time. It came to me because I guess he didn’t

know where you were. He put a note in asking me to send it along. So I am.

Say hi to your mom.

Carol

No news of her adventures in twirling. No news of how she was doing with math. No news of boyfriends, either, but Bobby guessed she probably had had a few.

He picked up the sealed envelope with hands that were shaky and numb. His heart was pounding harder than ever. On the front, written in soft pencil, was a single word: his name.

It was Ted’s handwriting. He knew it at once. Dry-mouthed, unaware that his eyes had filled with tears, Bobby tore open the envelope, which was no bigger than the ones in which children send their first-grade valentines.

What came out first was the sweetest smell Bobby had ever experienced. It made him think of hugging his mother when he was small, the smell of her perfume and deodorant and the stuff she put on her hair; it made him think of how Commonwealth Park smelled in the summer; it made him think of how the Harwich Library stacks had smelled, spicy and dim

and somehow explosive. The tears in his eyes overspilled and began to run down his cheeks.

He’d gotten used to feeling old; feeling young again — knowing he could feel young again —

was a terrible disorienting shock.

There was no letter, no note, no writing of any kind. When Bobby tilted the envelope, what showered down on the surface of his desk were rose petals of the deepest, darkest red he had ever seen.