‘This should help fix us up,’ Ted said, and when he bent to hand Bobby his rootbeer, a loud honk came from behind him. ‘Goose just flew out of my ass,’ he added matter-of-factly, and Bobby laughed so hard that he could no longer sit in his chair. He slithered out of it and lay in a boneless heap on the floor.
‘I’ll be right back,’ Ted told him. ‘There’s something else we need.’
He left open the door between the apartment and the foyer, so Bobby could hear him going up the stairs. By the time Ted got to the third floor, Bobby had managed to crawl into his chair again. He didn’t think he’d ever laughed so hard in his life. He drank some of his rootbeer, then farted again. ‘Goose just flew . . . flew out . . . ‘ But he couldn’t finish. He flopped back in his chair and howled, shaking his head from side to side.
The stairs creaked as Ted came back down. When he reentered the apartment he had his fan, with the electric cord looped neatly around the base, under one arm. ‘Your mother was right about this,’ he said. When he bent to plug it in, another goose flew out of his ass.
‘She usually is,’ Bobby said, and that struck them both as funny. They sat in the living room with the fan rotating back and forth, stirring the increasingly fragrant air. Bobby thought if he didn’t stop laughing soon his head would pop.
When Bronco was over (by then Bobby had lost all track of the story), he helped Ted pull
out the couch. The bed which had been hiding inside it didn’t look all that great, but Liz had made it up with some spare sheets and blankets and Ted said it would be fine. Bobby brushed his teeth, then looked out from the door of his bedroom at Ted, who was sitting on the end of the sofa-bed and watching the news.
‘Goodnight,’ Bobby said.
Ted looked over to him, and for a moment Bobby thought Ted would get up, cross the room, give him a hug and maybe a kiss. Instead of that, he sketched a funny, awkward little salute. ‘Sleep well, Bobby.’
‘Thanks.’
Bobby closed his bedroom door, turned off the light, got into bed, and spread his heels to the corners of the mattress. As he looked up into the dark he remembered the morning Ted had taken hold of his shoulders, then laced his bunchy old hands together behind his neck.
Their faces that day had been almost as close as his and Carol’s had been on the Ferris wheel just before they kissed. The day he had argued with his mother. The day he had known about the money taped in the catalogue. Also the day he had won ninety cents from Mr McQuown.
Go buy yourself a martini, Mr McQuown had said.
Had it come from Ted? Had the winkle come from Ted touching him?
‘Yeah,’ Bobby whispered in the dark. ‘Yeah, I think it probably did.’
What if he touches me again that way?
Bobby was still considering this idea when he fell asleep.
He dreamed that people were chasing his mother through the jungle — Jack and Piggy, the littluns, and Don Biderman, Cushman, and Dean. His mother was wearing her new dress from Gowns by Lucie, the black one with the thin straps, only it had been torn in places by thorns and branches. Her stockings were in tatters. They looked like strips of dead skin hanging off her legs. Her eyes were deep sweatholes gleaming with terror. The boys chasing her were naked. Biderman and the other two were wearing their business suits. All of them had alternating streaks of red and white paint on their faces; all were brandishing spears and shouting Kill the pig, slit her throat! Kill the pig, drink her blood! Kill the pig, strew her guts!
He woke in the gray light of dawn, shivering, and got up to use the bathroom. By the time he went back to bed he could no longer remember precisely what he had dreamed. He slept for another two hours, and woke up to the good smells of bacon and eggs. Bright summer sunshine was slanting in his bedroom window and Ted was making breakfast.