‘Will you write?’ he asked.
‘I will send you postcards,’ Ted replied after a moment’s thought. ‘Not directly to you, though — that might be dangerous for both of us. What shall I do? Any ideas?’
‘Send them to Carol,’ Bobby said. He didn’t even stop to think.
‘When did you tell her about the low men, Bobby?’ There was no reproach in Ted’s voice.
Why would there be? He was going, wasn’t he? For all the difference it made, the guy who did the story on the shopping-cart thief could write it up for the paper: CRAZY OLD MAN RUNS
FROM INVADING ALIENS. People would read it to each other over their coffee and breakfast cereal and laugh. What had Ted called it that day? Galumphing small-town humor, hadn’t that been it? But if it was so funny, why did it hurt? Why did it hurt so much?
‘Today,’ he said in a small voice. ‘I saw her in the park and everything just kind of . . . came out.’
‘That can happen,’ Ted said gravely. ‘I know it well; sometimes the dam just bursts. And perhaps it’s for the best. You’ll tell her I may want to get in touch with you through her?’
‘Yeah.’
Ted tapped a finger against his lips, thinking. Then he nodded. ‘At the top, the cards I send will say Dear C. Instead of Dear Carol. At the bottom I’ll sign A Friend. That way you’ll both know who writes. Okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Bobby said. ‘Cool.’ It wasn’t cool, none of this was cool, but it would do.
He suddenly lifted his hand, kissed the fingers, and blew across them. Ted, sitting on the couch, smiled, caught the kiss, and put it on his lined cheek. ‘You better go to bed now,
Bobby. It’s been a big day and it’s late.’
Bobby went to bed.
At first he thought it was the same dream as before — Biderman, Cushman, and Dean chasing his mom through the jungle of William Golding’s island. Then Bobby realized the trees and vines were part of the wallpaper, and that the path under his mother’s flying feet was brown carpet. Not a jungle but a hotel corridor. This was his mind’s version of the Warwick Hotel.
Mr Biderman and the other two nimrods were still chasing her, though. And now so were the boys from St Gabe’s — Willie and Richie and Harry Doolin. All of them were wearing those streaks of red and white paint on their faces. And all of them were wearing bright yellow doublets upon which was drawn a brilliant red eye:
Other than the doublets they were naked. Their privates flopped and bobbed in bushy nests of pubic hair. All save Harry Doolin brandished spears; he had his baseball bat. It had been sharpened to a point on both ends.
‘Kill the bitch!’ Cushman yelled.
‘Drink her blood!’ Don Biderman cried, and threw his spear at Liz Garfield just as she darted around a corner. The spear stuck, quivering, into one of the jungle-painted walls.
‘Stick it up her dirty cunt!’ cried Willie — Willie who could be nice when he wasn’t with his friends. The red eye on his chest stared. Below it, his penis also seemed to stare.
Run, Mom! Bobby tried to scream, but no words came out. He had no mouth, no body. He was here and yet he wasn’t. He flew beside his mother like her own shadow. He heard her gasping for breath, saw her trembling, terrified mouth and her torn stockings. Her fancy dress was also torn. One of her breasts was scratched and bleeding. One of her eyes was almost closed. She looked as if she had gone a few rounds with Eddie Albini or Hurricane Haywood
. . . maybe both at the same time.
‘Gonna split you open!’ Richie hollered.
‘Eat you alive!’ agreed Curtis Dean (and at top volume). ‘Drink your blood, strew your guts!’
His mom looked back at them and her feet (she had lost her shoes somewhere) stuttered against each other. Don’t do that, Mom, Bobby moaned. For cripe’s sake don’t do that.
As if she had heard him, Liz faced forward again and tried to run faster. She passed a poster on the wall: