Ted leaving one final question on the side of a paper bag: Guys like us. Who are guys like us?
Bobby breathed in again, sucking up little flakes of ash and fighting back the urge to
sneeze, holding the smell in, fixing it in his memory as best he could, closing his eyes, and in through the window came the endless ineluctable cry of Bowser, now calling down the dark like a dream: roop-roop-roop, roop-roop-roop.
He put the ashtray down again. The urge to sneeze had passed. I’m going to smoke Chesterfields, he decided. I’m going to smoke them all my life.
He went back downstairs, holding the paperbacks in front of him and walking on the outside of the staircase again as he went from the second floor to the foyer. He slipped into the apartment, tiptoed across the living room (his mother was still snoring, louder than ever), and into his bedroom. He put the books under his bed — deep under. If his mom found them he would say Mr Burton had given them to him. That was a lie, but if he told the truth she’d take the books away. Besides, lying no longer seemed so bad. Lying might become a necessity. In time it might even become a pleasure.
What next? The rumble in his stomach decided him. A couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were next.
He started for the kitchen, tiptoeing past his mother’s partly open bedroom door without even thinking about it, then paused. She was shifting around on her bed. Her snores had become ragged and she was talking in her sleep. It was a low, moaning talk Bobby couldn’t make out, but he realized he didn’t have to make it out. He could hear her anyway. And he could see stuff. Her thoughts? Her dreams? Whatever it was, it was awful.
He managed three more steps toward the kitchen, then caught a glimpse of something so terrible his breath froze in his throat like ice: HAVE YOU SEEN BRAUTIGAN! He is an OLD
MONGREL but WE LOVE HIM!
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Oh Mom, no.’
He didn’t want to go in there where she was, but his feet turned in that direction anyway.
He went with them like a hostage. He watched his hand reach out, the fingers spread, and push her bedroom door open all the way.
Her bed was still made. She lay on top of the coverlet in her dress, one leg drawn up so her knee almost touched her chest. He could see the top of her stocking and her garter, and that made him think of the lady in the calendar picture at The Corner Pocket, the one getting out of the car with most of her skirt in her lap . . . except the lady getting out of the Packard hadn’t had ugly bruises above the top of her stocking.
Liz’s face was flushed where it wasn’t bruised; her hair was matted with sweat; her cheeks were smeary with tears and gooey with makeup. A board creaked under Bobby’s foot as he stepped into the room. She cried out and he froze, sure her eyes would open.
Instead of awakening she rolled away from him toward the wall. Here, in her room, the jumble of thoughts and images coming out of her was no clearer but ranker and more pungent, like sweat pouring off a sick person. Running through everything was the sound of Benny Goodman playing ‘One O’ClockJump’ and the taste of blood running down the back of her throat.
Have you seen Brautigan, Bobby thought. He is an old mongrel but we love him. Have you seen . . .
She had pulled her shades before lying down and the room was very dark. He took another step, then stopped again by the table with the mirror where she sometimes sat to do her makeup. Her purse was there. Bobby thought of Ted hugging him — the hug Bobby had wanted, needed, so badly. Ted stroking his back, cupping the curve of his skull. When I touch, I pass on a kind of window, Ted had told him while they were coming back from Bridgeport in the cab. And now, standing by his mother’s makeup table with his fists clenched, Bobby looked tentatively through that window into his mother’s mind.