Yes, of course, how could you doubt it? He only hoped Ted could be careful as well as crazy. Because if his mom heard Ted talking about stuff like this, she’d never let Bobby go near him again. In fact, she’d probably send for the guys with the butterfly nets . . . or ask good old Don Biderman to do it for her.
‘You know the clock in the town square, Bobby?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘It may begin ringing wrong hours, or between hours. Also, look for reports of minor church vandalism in the paper. My friends dislike churches, but they never do anything too outrageous; they like to keep a — pardon the pun — low profile. There are other signs that they’re about, but there’s no need to overload you. Personally I believe the posters are the surest clue.’
‘”If you see Ginger, please bring her home.”‘
‘That’s exactly r — ‘
‘Bobby?’ It was his mom’s voice, followed by the ascending scuff of her Saturday sneakers.
‘Bobby, are you up there?’
3
A Mother’s Power. Bobby Does His Job.
‘Does He Touch You?’ The Last Day
of School.
Bobby and Ted exchanged a guilty look. Both of them sat back on their respective sides of the table, as if they had been doing something crazy instead of just talking about crazy stuff.
She’ll see we’ve been up to something, Bobby thought with dismay. It’s all over my face.
‘No,’ Ted said to him. ‘It is not. That is her power over you, that you believe it. It’s a mother’s power.’
Bobby stared at him, amazed. Did you read my mind? Did you read my mind just then?
Now his mom was almost to the third-floor landing and there was no time for a reply even if Ted had wanted to make one. But there was no look on his face saying he would have replied if there had been time, either. And Bobby at once began to doubt what he had heard.
Then his mother was in the open doorway, looking from her son to Ted and back to her son again, her eyes assessing. ‘So here you are after all,’ she said. ‘My goodness, Bobby, didn’t you hear me calling?’
‘You were up here before I got a chance to say boo, Mom.’
She snorted. Her mouth made a small, meaningless smile — her automatic social smile.
Her eyes went back and forth between the two of them, back and forth, looking for something out of place, something she didn’t like, something wrong. ‘I didn’t hear you come in from outdoors.’
‘You were asleep on your bed.’
‘How are you today, Mrs Garfield?’ Ted asked.
‘Fine as paint.’ Back and forth went her eyes. Bobby had no idea what she was looking for, but that expression of dismayed guilt must have left his face. If she had seen it, he would know already; would know that she knew.
‘Would you like a bottle of pop?’ Ted asked. ‘I have rootbeer. It’s not much, but it’s cold.’
‘That would be nice,’ Liz said. ‘Thanks.’ She came all the way in and sat down next to Bobby at the kitchen table. She patted him absently on the leg, watching Ted as he opened his little fridge and got out the rootbeer. ‘It’s not hot up here yet, Mr Brattigan, but I guarantee you it will be in another month. You want to get yourself a fan.’
‘There’s an idea.’ Ted poured rootbeer into a clean glass, then stood in front of the fridge holding the glass up to the light, waiting for the foam to go down. To Bobby he looked like a scientist in a TV commercial, one of those guys obsessed with Brand X and Brand Y and how Rolaids consumed fifty-seven times its own weight in excess stomach acid, amazing but true.
‘I don’t need a full glass, that will be fine,’ she said a little impatiently. Ted brought the glass to her, and she raised it to him. ‘Here’s how.’ She took a swallow and grimaced as if it had been rye instead of rootbeer. Then she watched over the top of the glass as Ted sat down, tapped the ash from his smoke, and tucked the stub of the cigarette back into the corner of his mouth.