‘Yes,’ Bobby said. His lips felt numb. It was true, all of it. By this time Friday night Ted would be gone. With two thousand rocks in your pocket you could do a lot of running from a lot of low men; with two thousand rocks in your pocket you could ride the Big Gray Dog from sea to shining sea.
Bobby went into the bathroom and squirted Ipana on his toothbrush. His terror that Ted had bet on the wrong fighter was gone, but the sadness of approaching loss was still there, and still growing. He never would have guessed that something that hadn’t even happened could hurt so much. A week from now I won’t remember what was so neat about him. A year from now I’ll hardly remember him at all.
Was that true? God, was that true?
No, Bobby thought. No way. I won’t let it be.
In the other room Ted was conversing with Len Files. It seemed to be a friendly enough palaver, going just as Ted had expected it would . . . and yes, here was Ted saying he’d just played a hunch, a good strong one, the kind you had to bet if you wanted to think of yourself as a sport. Sure, nine-thirty tomorrow night would be fine for the payout, assuming his friend’s mother was back by eight; if she was a little late, Len would see him around ten or ten-thirty. Did that suit? More laughter from Ted, so it seemed that it suited fat Lennie Files right down to the ground.
Bobby put his toothbrush back in the glass on the shelf below the mirror, then reached into his pants pocket. There was something in there his fingers didn’t recognize, not a part of the
usual pocket-litter. He pulled out the keyring with the green fob, his special souvenir of a part of Bridgeport his mother knew nothing about. The part that was down there. THE CORNER
POCKET, BILLIARDS, POOL, AUTO. GAMES. KENMORE 8-2127.
He probably should have hidden it already (or gotten rid of it entirely), and suddenly an idea came to him. Nothing could have really cheered Bobby Garfield up that night, but this at least came close: he would give the keyring to Carol Gerber, after cautioning her never to tell his mom where she’d gotten it. He knew that Carol had at least two keys she could put on it –
her apartment key and the key to the diary Rionda had given her for her birthday. (Carol was three months older than Bobby, but she never lorded it over him on this account.) Giving her the keyring would be a little like asking her to go steady. He wouldn’t have to get all gushy and embarrass himself by saying so, either; Carol would know. It was part of what made her cool.
Bobby laid the keyring on the shelf next to the toothglass, then went into his bedroom to put on his pj’s. When he came out, Ted was sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette and looking at him.
‘Bobby, are you all right?’
‘I guess so. I guess I have to be, don’t I?’
Ted nodded. ‘I guess we both have to be.’
‘Will I ever see you again?’ Bobby asked, pleading in his mind for Ted not to sound like the Lone Ranger, not to start talking any of that corny we’ll meet again pard stuff. . . because it wasn’t stuff, that word was too kind. Shit was what it was. He didn’t think Ted had ever lied to him, and he didn’t want him to start now that they were near the end.
‘I don’t know.’ Ted studied the coal of his cigarette, and when he looked up, Bobby saw that his eyes were swimming with tears. ‘I don’t think so.’
Those tears undid Bobby. He ran across the room, wanting to hug Ted, needing to hug him.
He stopped when Ted lifted his arms and crossed diem over the chest of his baggy old man’s shirt, his expression a kind of horrified surprise.
Bobby stood where he was, his arms still held out to hug. Slowly he lowered them. No hugging, no touching. It was the rule, but the rule was mean. The rule was wrong.