He made another circuit of his room, working the tingles out of his legs, feeling like a prisoner pacing his cell. The door had no lock on it — no more than his mom’s did but he felt like a jailbird just the same. He was afraid to go out. She hadn’t called him for supper, and although he was hungry — a little, anyway — he was afraid to go out. He was afraid of how he might find her . . . or of not finding her at all. Suppose she had decided she’d finally had enough of Bobby-O, stupid lying little Bobby-O, his father’s son? Even if she was here, and seemingly back to normal . . . was there even such a thing as normal? People had terrible things behind their faces sometimes. He knew that now.
When he reached the closed door of his room, he stopped. There was a scrap of paper lying there. He bent and picked it up. There was still plenty of light and he could read it easily.
Dear Bobby—
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone . . . but I’ll take you with me in my
thoughts. Please love your mother and remember that she loves you. She
was afraid and hurt and ashamed this afternoon, and when we see people
that way, we see them at their worst. I have left you something in my room. I
will remember my promise.
All my love,
The postcards, that’s what he promised. To send me postcards.
Feeling better, Bobby folded up the note Ted had slipped into his room before leaving and opened his bedroom door.
The living room was empty, but it had been set to rights. It looked almost okay if you didn’t know there was supposed to be a sunburst clock on the wall beside the TV; now there was just the little screw where it had hung, jutting out and holding nothing.
Bobby realized he could hear his mother snoring in her room. She always snored, but this was a heavy snore, like an old person or a drunk snoring in a movie. That’s because they hurt her, Bobby thought, and for a moment he thought of
(Howya doin Sport howza boy)
Mr Biderman and the two nimrods elbowing each other in the back seat and grinning . Kill the pig, cut her throat, Bobby thought. He didn’t want to think it but he did.
He tiptoed across the living room as quietly as Jack in the giant’s castle, opened the door to the foyer, and went out. He tiptoed up the first flight of stairs (walking on the bannister side, because he’d read in one of the Hardy Boys mysteries that if you walked that way the stairs didn’t creak so much), and ran up the second.
Ted’s door stood open; the room beyond it was almost empty. The few things of his own he’d put up — a picture of a man fishing at sunset, a picture of Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’ feet, a calendar — were gone. The ashtray on the table was empty, but sitting beside it was one of Ted’s carryhandle bags. Inside it were four paperback books: Animal Farm, The Night of the Hunter, Treasure Island, and Of Mice and Men. Written on the side of the paper bag in Ted’s shaky but completely legible handwriting was: Read the Steinbeck first. ‘Guys like us,’ George says when he tells Lennie the story Lennie always wants to hear. Who are guys like us? Who were they to Steinbeck? Who are they to you? Ask yourself this.
Bobby took the paperbacks but left the bag — he was afraid that if his mom saw one of Ted’s carryhandle bags she would go crazy all over again. He looked in the refrigerator and saw nothing but a bottle of French’s mustard and a box of baking soda. He closed the fridge again and looked around. It was as if no one had ever lived here at all. Except —
He went to the ashtray, held it to his nose, and breathed in deeply. The smell of Chesterfields was strong, and it brought Ted back completely, Ted sitting here at his table and talking about Lord of the Flies, Ted standing at his bathroom mirror, shaving with that scary razor of his, listening through the open door as Bobby read him opinion pieces Bobby himself didn’t understand.