Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

‘He has suitcases, too,’ Bobby said, but he didn’t need his mother to point out that the new tenant’s three little cases weren’t such of a much. None matched; all looked as if they had been kicked here from California by someone in a bad mood.

Bobby and his mom walked down the cement path. The Town Taxi pulled away. The man in the poplin jacket turned around. To Bobby, people fell into three broad categories: kids, grownups, and old folks. Old folks were grownups with white hair. The new tenant was of this third sort. His face was thin and tired-looking, not wrinkled (except around his faded blue eyes) but deeply lined. His white hair was baby-fine and receding from a liverspotted brow.

He was tall and stooped-over in a way that made Bobby think of Boris Karloff in the Shock Theater movies they showed Friday nights at 11:30 on WPIX. Beneath the poplin jacket were cheap workingman’s clothes that looked too big for him. On his feet were scuffed cordovan shoes.

‘Hello, folks,’ he said, and smiled with what looked like an effort. ‘My name’s Theodore Brautigan. I guess I’m going to live here awhile.’

He held out his hand to Bobby’s mother, who touched it just briefly. ‘I’m Elizabeth Garfield. This is my son, Robert. You’ll have to pardon us, Mr Brattigan — ‘

‘It’s Brautigan, ma’am, but I’d be happy if you and your boy would just call me Ted.’

‘Yes, well, Robert’s late for school and I’m late for work. Nice to meet you, Mr Brattigan.

Hurry on, Bobby. Tempus fugit.’

She began walking downhill toward town; Bobby began walking uphill (and at a slower pace) toward Harwich Elementary, on Asher Avenue. Three or four steps into this journey he stopped and looked back. He felt that his mom had been rude to Mr Brautigan, that she had acted stuck-up. Being stuck-up was the worst of vices in his little circle of friends. Carol loathed a stuck-up person; so did Sully-John. Mr Brautigan would probably be halfway up the walk by now, but if he wasn’t, Bobby wanted to give him a smile so he’d know at least one member of the Garfield family wasn’t stuck-up.

His mother had also stopped and was also looking back. Not because she wanted another look at Mr Brautigan; that idea never crossed Bobby’s mind. No, it was her son she had looked back at. She’d known he was going to turn around before Bobby knew it himself, and at this he felt a sudden darkening in his normally bright nature. She sometimes said it would be a snowy day in Sarasota before Bobby could put one over on her, and he supposed she was right about that. How old did you have to be to put one over on your mother, anyway?

Twenty? Thirty? Or did you maybe have to wait until she got old and a little chicken-soupy in the head?

Mr Brautigan hadn’t started up the walk. He stood at its sidewalk end with a suitcase in each hand and the third one under his right arm (the three paper bags he had moved onto the grass of 149 Broad), more bent than ever under this weight. He was right between them, like a tollgate or something.

Liz Garfield’s eyes flew past him to her son’s. Go, they said. Don’t say a word. He’s new, a man from anywhere or nowhere, and he’s arrived here with half his things in shopping bags. Don’t say a word, Bobby, just go.

But he wouldn’t. Perhaps because he had gotten a library card instead of a bike for his birthday. ‘It was nice to meet you, Mr Brautigan,’ Bobby said. ‘Hope you like it here. Bye.’

‘Have a good day at school, son,’ Mr Brautigan said. ‘Learn a lot. Your mother’s right —

tempus fugit.’

Bobby looked at his mother to see if his small rebellion might be forgiven in light of this equally small flattery, but Mom’s mouth was ungiving. She turned and started down the hill without another word. Bobby went on his own way, glad he had spoken to the stranger even if his mother later made him regret it.