Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

‘You don’t have to wait out here with me, you know,’ Liz said. She was wearing a light coat and smoking a cigarette. She had on a little more makeup than usual, but Bobby thought he could still detect shadows under her eyes — she had passed another restless night.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I hope it’s all right, leaving you with him.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t worry. Ted’s a good guy, Mom.’

She made a little hmphing noise.

There was a twinkle of chrome from the bottom of the hill as Mr Biderman’s Mercury (not vulgar, exactly, but a boat of a car all the same) turned onto their street from Commonwealth and came up the hill toward 149.

‘There he is, there he is,’ his mom said, sounding nervous and excited. She bent down.

‘Give me a little smooch, Bobby. I don’t want to kiss you and smear my lipstick.’

Bobby put his hand on her arm and lightly kissed her cheek. He smelled her hair, the perfume she was wearing, her face-powder. He would never kiss her with that same unshadowed love again.

She gave him a vague little smile, not looking at him, looking instead at Mr Biderman’s boat of a Merc, which swerved gracefully across the street and pulled up at the curb in front of the house. She reached for her two suitcases (two seemed a lot for two days, Bobby thought, although he supposed the fancy dress took up a good deal of space in one of them), but he already had them by the handles.

‘Those are too heavy, Bobby — you’ll trip on the steps.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t.’

She gave him a distracted look, then waved to Mr Biderman and went toward the car, high heels clacking. Bobby followed, trying not to grimace at the weight of the suitcases . . . what had she put in them, clothes or bricks?

He got them down to the sidewalk without having to stop and rest, at least. Mr Biderman was out of the car by then, first putting a casual kiss on his mother’s cheek, then shaking out the key that opened the trunk.

‘Howya doin, Sport, howza boy?’ Mr Biderman always called Bobby Sport. ‘Lug em

around back and I’ll slide em in. Women always hafta bring the farm, don’t they? Well, you

know the old saying — can’t live with em, can’t shoot em outside the state of Montana.’ He bared his teeth in a grin that made Bobby think of Jack in Lord of the Flies. ‘Want me to take one?’

‘I’ve got em,’ Bobby said. He trudged grimly in Mr Biderman’s wake, shoulders aching, the back of his neck hot and starting to sweat.

Mr Biderman opened the trunk, plucked the suitcases from Bobby’s hands, and slid them in with the rest of the luggage. Behind them, his mom was looking in the back window and talking with the other two men who were going. She laughed at something one of them said.

To Bobby the laugh sounded about as real as a wooden leg.

Mr Biderman closed the trunk and looked down at Bobby. He was a narrow man with a wide face. His cheeks were always flushed. You could see his pink scalp in the tracks left by the teeth of his comb. He wore little round glasses with gold rims. To Bobby his smile looked as real as his mother’s laugh had sounded.

‘Gonna play some baseball this summer, Sport?’ Don Biderman bent his knees a little and cocked an imaginary bat. Bobby thought he looked like a dope.

‘Yes, sir. I’m on the Wolves at Sterling House. I was hoping to make the Lions, but . . . ‘

‘Good. Good.’ Mr Biderman made a big deal of looking at his watch — the wide gold Twist-O-Flex band was dazzling in the early sunshine and then patted Bobby’s cheek. Bobby had to make a conscious effort not to cringe from his touch. ‘Say, we gotta get this wagon-train rolling! Shake her easy, Sport. Thanks for the loan of your mother.’

He turned away and escorted Liz around the Mercury to the passenger side. He did this with a hand pressed to her back. Bobby liked that even less than watching the guy smooch her cheek. He glanced at the well-padded, business-suited men in the rear seat — Dean was the other guy’s name, he remembered — just in time to see them elbowing each other. Both were grinning.