Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

‘You two have gotten thicker than thieves,’ she remarked. ‘Sitting here at the kitchen table, drinking rootbeer — cozy, thinks I! What’ve you been talking about today?’

‘The book Mr Brautigan gave me,’ Bobby said. His voice sounded natural and calm, a

voice with no secrets behind it. ‘Lord of the Flies. I couldn’t figure out if the ending was happy or sad, so I thought I’d ask him.’

‘Oh? And what did he say?’

‘That it was both. Then he told me to consider it.’

Liz laughed without a great deal of humor. ‘I read mysteries, Mr Brattigan, and save my consideration for real life. But of course I’m not retired.’

‘No,’ Ted said. ‘You are obviously in the very prime of life.’

She gave him her flattery-will-get-you-nowhere look. Bobby knew it well.

‘I also offered Bobby a small job,’ Ted told her. ‘He has agreed to take it . . . with your permission, of course.’

Her brow furrowed at the mention of a job, smoothed at the mention of permission. She reached out and briefly touched Bobby’s red hair, a gesture so unusual that Bobby’s eyes widened a little. Her eyes never left Ted’s face as she did it. Not only did she not trust the man, Bobby realized, she was likely never going to trust him. ‘What sort of job did you have in mind?’

‘He wants me to — ‘

‘Hush,’ she said, and still her eyes peered over the top of her glass, never leaving Ted.

Td like him to read me the paper, perhaps in the afternoons,’ Ted said, then explained how his eyes weren’t what they used to be and how he had worse problems every day with the finer print. But he liked to keep up with the news — these were very interesting times, didn’t Mrs Garfield think so? — and he liked to keep up with the columns, as well, Stewart Alsop and Walter Winchell and such. Winchell was a gossip, of course, but an interesting gossip, didn’t Mrs Garfield agree?

Bobby listened, increasingly tense even though he could tell from his mother’s face and posture — even from the way she sipped her rootbeer — that she believed what Ted was telling her. That part of it was all right, but what if Ted went blank again? Went blank and started babbling about low men in yellow coats or the tails of kites hanging from telephone wires, all the time gazing off into space?

But nothing like that happened. Ted finished by saying he also liked to know how the Dodgers were doing — Maury Wills, especially — even though they had gone to L. A. He said this with the air of one who is determined to tell the truth even if the truth is a bit shameful. Bobby thought it was a nice touch.

‘I suppose that would be fine,’ his mother said (almost grudgingly, Bobby thought). ‘In fact it sounds like a plum. I wish / could have a plum job like that.’

‘I’ll bet you’re excellent at your job, Mrs Garfield.’

She flashed him her dry flattery-won’t-work-with-me expression again. ‘You’ll have to pay him extra to do the crossword for you,’ she said, getting up, and although Bobby didn’t understand the remark, he was astonished by the cruelty he sensed in it, embedded like a piece of glass in a marshmallow. It was as if she wanted to make fun of Ted’s failing eyesight and his intellect at the same time; as if she wanted to hurt him for being nice to her son.

Bobby was still ashamed at deceiving her and frightened that she would find out, but now he was also glad . . . almost viciously glad. She deserved it. ‘He’s good at the crossword, my Bobby.’

Ted smiled. ‘I’m sure he is.’

‘Come on downstairs, Bob. It’s time to give Mr Brattigan a rest.’

‘But — ‘

‘I think I would like to lie down awhile, Bobby. I’ve a little bit of a headache. I’m glad you liked Lard of the Flies. You can start your job tomorrow, if you like, with the feature section of the Sunday paper. I warn you it’s apt to be a trial by fire.’