Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

His mother snatched her purse off the table by the end of the couch, butted out her cigarette hard enough to split the filter, then turned and looked at him. ‘If I said to you, “Gee, we can’t eat this week because I saw a pair of shoes at Hunsicker’s that I just had to have,” what would you think?’

I’d think you were a liar, Bobby thought. And I’d say if you’re so broke, Mom, what about the Sears catalogue on the top shelf of your closet? The one with the dollar bills and the five-dollar bills — even a ten or two — taped to the underwear pages in the middle? What about the blue pitcher in the kitchen dish cabinet, the one tucked all the way in the back comer behind the gravy boat with the crack in it, the blue pitcher where you put your spare quarters, where you’ve been putting them ever since my father died? And when the pitcher’s full you roll the quarters and take them to the bank and get bills, and the bills go into the catalogue, don’t they? The bills get taped to the underwear pages of the wishbook.

But he said none of this, only looked down at his sneakers with his eyes burning.

‘I have to make choices,’ she said. ‘And if you’re old enough to work, sonnyboy of mine, you’ll have to make them, too. Do you think I like telling you no?’

Not exactly, Bobby thought, looking at his sneakers and biting at his lip, which wanted to loosen up and start letting out a bunch of blubbery baby-sounds. Mot exactly, but I don’t think you really mind it, either.

‘If we were the Gotrocks, I’d give you five dollars to spend at the beach — hell, ten! You

wouldn’t have to borrow from your bike-jar if you wanted to take your little girlfriend on the Loop-the-Loop — ‘

She’s not my girlfriend! Bobby screamed at his mother inside his head. SHE is NOT MY

LITTLE GIRLFRIEND!

‘ —or the Indian Railroad. But of course if we were the Gotrocks, you wouldn’t need to save for a bike in the first place, would you?’ Her voice rising, rising. Whatever had been troubling her over the last few months threatening to come rushing out, foaming like sodapop and biting like acid. ‘I don’t know if you ever noticed this, but your father didn’t exactly leave us well off, and I’m doing the best I can. I feed you, I put clothes on your back, I paid for you to go to Sterling House this summer and play baseball while I push paper in that hot office.

You got invited to go to the beach with the other kids, I’m very happy for you, but how you finance your day off is your business. If you want to ride the rides, take some of the money you’ve got in that jar and ride them. If you don’t, just play on the beach or stay home. Makes no difference to me. I just want you to stop whining. I hate it when you whine. It’s like . . . ‘

She stopped, sighed, opened her purse, took out her cigarettes. ‘I hate it when you whine,’ she repeated.

It’s like your father. That was what she had stopped herself from saying.

‘So what’s the story, morning-glory?’ she asked. ‘Are you finished?’

Bobby stood silent, cheeks burning, eyes burning, looking down at his sneakers and focusing all his will on not blubbering. At this point a single choked sob might be enough to get him grounded for the day; she was really mad, only looking for a reason to do it. And blubbering wasn’t the only danger. He wanted to scream at her that he’d rather be like his father than like her, a skinflinty old cheapskate like her, not good for even a lousy nickel, and so what if the late not-so-great Randall Garfield hadn’t left them well off? Why did she always make it sound like that was his fault? Who had married him?

‘You sure, Bobby-O? No more smartass comebacks?’ The most dangerous sound of all had come into her voice — a kind of brittle brightness. It sounded like good humor if you didn’t know her.