Hearts In Atlantis (8 page)

“Can you check the bulletin board there, as well?”

“Sure.”

“Good so far, very good. Now—you know the hopscotch patterns kids are always drawing on the sidewalks?”

Bobby nodded.

“Look for ones with stars or moons or both chalked near them, usually in chalk of a different color. Look for kite tails hanging from telephone lines. Not the kites themselves, but only the tails. And  . . .”

Ted paused, frowning, thinking. As he took a Chesterfield from the pack on the table and lit it, Bobby thought quite reasonably, quite clearly, and without the slightest shred of fear:
He's crazy, y'know. Crazy as a loon
.

Yes, of course, how could you doubt it? He only hoped Ted could be careful as well as crazy. Because if his mom heard Ted talking about stuff like this, she'd never let Bobby go near him again. In fact, she'd probably send for the guys with the butterfly nets . . . or ask good old Don Biderman to do it for her.

“You know the clock in the town square, Bobby?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It may begin ringing wrong hours, or between hours. Also, look for reports of minor church vandalism in the paper. My friends dislike churches, but they never do anything too outrageous; they like to keep a—pardon the pun—low profile. There are other signs that they're about, but there's no need to overload you. Personally I believe the posters are the surest clue.”

“ ‘If you see Ginger, please bring her home.' ”

“That's exactly r—”

“Bobby?” It was his mom's voice, followed by the ascending scuff of her Saturday sneakers. “Bobby, are you up there?”

Bobby and Ted exchanged a guilty look. Both of them sat back on their respective sides of the table, as if they had been doing something crazy instead of just talking about crazy stuff.

She'll see we've been up to something
, Bobby thought with dismay.
It's all over my face
.

“No,” Ted said to him. “It is not. That is her power over you, that you believe it. It's a mother's power.”

Bobby stared at him, amazed.
Did you read my mind? Did you read my mind just then?

Now his mom was almost to the third-floor landing and there was no time for a reply even if Ted had
wanted to make one. But there was no look on his face saying he
would
have replied if there had been time, either. And Bobby at once began to doubt what he had heard.

Then his mother was in the open doorway, looking from her son to Ted and back to her son again, her eyes assessing. “So here you are after all,” she said. “My goodness, Bobby, didn't you hear me calling?”

“You were up here before I got a chance to say boo, Mom.”

She snorted. Her mouth made a small, meaningless smile—her automatic social smile. Her eyes went back and forth between the two of them, back and forth, looking for something out of place, something she didn't like, something wrong. “I didn't hear you come in from outdoors.”

“You were asleep on your bed.”

“How are you today, Mrs. Garfield?” Ted asked.

“Fine as paint.” Back and forth went her eyes. Bobby had no idea what she was looking for, but that expression of dismayed guilt must have left his face. If she had seen it, he would know already; would know that
she
knew.

“Would you like a bottle of pop?” Ted asked. “I have rootbeer. It's not much, but it's cold.”

“That would be nice,” Liz said. “Thanks.” She came all the way in and sat down next to Bobby at the kitchen table. She patted him absently on the leg, watching Ted as he opened his little fridge and got out the rootbeer. “It's not hot up here yet, Mr. Brattigan, but I guarantee you it will be in another month. You want to get yourself a fan.”

“There's an idea.” Ted poured rootbeer into a clean
glass, then stood in front of the fridge holding the glass up to the light, waiting for the foam to go down. To Bobby he looked like a scientist in a TV commercial, one of those guys obsessed with Brand X and Brand Y and how Rolaids consumed fifty-seven times its own weight in excess stomach acid, amazing but true.

“I don't need a full glass, that will be fine,” she said a little impatiently. Ted brought the glass to her, and she raised it to him. “Here's how.” She took a swallow and grimaced as if it had been rye instead of rootbeer. Then she watched over the top of the glass as Ted sat down, tapped the ash from his smoke, and tucked the stub of the cigarette back into the corner of his mouth.

“You two have gotten thicker than thieves,” she remarked. “Sitting here at the kitchen table, drinking rootbeer—cozy, thinks I! What've you been talking about today?”

“The book Mr. Brautigan gave me,” Bobby said. His voice sounded natural and calm, a voice with no secrets behind it. “
Lord of the Flies
. I couldn't figure out if the ending was happy or sad, so I thought I'd ask him.”

“Oh? And what did he say?”

“That it was both. Then he told me to consider it.”

Liz laughed without a great deal of humor. “I read mysteries, Mr. Brattigan, and save my consideration for real life. But of course I'm not retired.”

“No,” Ted said. “You are obviously in the very prime of life.”

She gave him her
flattery-will-get-you-nowhere
look. Bobby knew it well.

“I also offered Bobby a small job,” Ted told her.
“He has agreed to take it . . . with your permission, of course.”

Her brow furrowed at the mention of a job, smoothed at the mention of permission. She reached out and briefly touched Bobby's red hair, a gesture so unusual that Bobby's eyes widened a little. Her eyes never left Ted's face as she did it. Not only did she not trust the man, Bobby realized, she was likely
never
going to trust him. “What sort of job did you have in mind?”

“He wants me to—”

“Hush,” she said, and still her eyes peered over the top of her glass, never leaving Ted.

“I'd like him to read me the paper, perhaps in the afternoons,” Ted said, then explained how his eyes weren't what they used to be and how he had worse problems every day with the finer print. But he liked to keep up with the news—these were very interesting times, didn't Mrs. Garfield think so?—and he liked to keep up with the columns, as well, Stewart Alsop and Walter Winchell and such. Winchell was a gossip, of course, but an
interesting
gossip, didn't Mrs. Garfield agree?

Bobby listened, increasingly tense even though he could tell from his mother's face and posture—even from the way she sipped her rootbeer—that she believed what Ted was telling her. That part of it was all right, but what if Ted went blank again? Went blank and started babbling about low men in yellow coats or the tails of kites hanging from telephone wires, all the time gazing off into space?

But nothing like that happened. Ted finished by saying he also liked to know how the Dodgers were doing—Maury Wills, especially—even though they
had gone to L.A. He said this with the air of one who is determined to tell the truth even if the truth is a bit shameful. Bobby thought it was a nice touch.

“I suppose that would be fine,” his mother said (almost grudgingly, Bobby thought). “In fact it sounds like a plum. I wish
I
could have a plum job like that.”

“I'll bet you're excellent at your job, Mrs. Garfield.”

She flashed him her dry
flattery-won't-work-with-me
expression again. “You'll have to pay him extra to do the crossword for you,” she said, getting up, and although Bobby didn't understand the remark, he was astonished by the cruelty he sensed in it, embedded like a piece of glass in a marshmallow. It was as if she wanted to make fun of Ted's failing eyesight and his intellect at the same time; as if she wanted to hurt him for being nice to her son. Bobby was still ashamed at deceiving her and frightened that she would find out, but now he was also glad . . . almost viciously glad. She deserved it. “He's good at the crossword, my Bobby.”

Ted smiled. “I'm sure he is.”

“Come on downstairs, Bob. It's time to give Mr. Brattigan a rest.”

“But—”

“I think I
would
like to lie down awhile, Bobby. I've a little bit of a headache. I'm glad you liked
Lord of the Flies
. You can start your job tomorrow, if you like, with the feature section of the Sunday paper. I warn you it's apt to be a trial by fire.”

“Okay.”

Mom had reached the little landing outside of Ted's door. Bobby was behind her. Now she turned back and looked at Ted over Bobby's head. “Why not outside
on the porch?” she asked. “The fresh air will be nice for both of you. Better than this stuffy room. And I'll be able to hear, too, if I'm in the living room.”

Bobby thought some message was passing between them. Not via telepathy, exactly . . . only it
was
telepathy, in a way. The humdrum sort adults practiced.

“A fine idea,” Ted said. “The front porch would be lovely. Good afternoon, Bobby. Good afternoon, Mrs. Garfield.”

Bobby came very close to saying
Seeya, Ted
and substituted “See you, Mr. Brautigan” at the last moment. He moved toward the stairs, smiling vaguely, with the sweaty feeling of someone who has just avoided a nasty accident.

His mother lingered. “How long have you been retired, Mr. Brattigan? Or do you mind me asking?”

Bobby had almost decided she wasn't mispronouncing Ted's name deliberately; now he swung the other way. She was. Of course she was.

“Three years.” He crushed his cigarette out in the brimming tin ashtray and immediately lit another.

“Which would make you . . . sixty-eight?”

“Sixty-six, actually.” His voice continued mild and open, but Bobby had an idea he didn't much care for these questions. “I was granted retirement with full benefits two years early. Medical reasons.”

Don't ask him what's wrong with him, Mom
, Bobby moaned inside his own head.
Don't you dare
.

She didn't. She asked what he'd done in Hartford instead.

“Accounting. I was in the Office of the Comptroller.”

“Bobby and I guessed something to do with education. Accounting! That sounds very responsible.”

Ted smiled. Bobby thought there was something awful about it. “In twenty years I wore out three adding machines. If that is responsibility, Mrs. Garfield, why yes—I was responsible. Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees; the typist puts a record on the gramophone with an automatic hand.”

“I don't follow you.”

“It's my way of saying that it was a lot of years in a job that never seemed to mean much.”

“It might have meant a good deal if you'd had a child to feed, shelter, and raise.” She looked at him with her chin slightly tilted, the look that meant if Ted wanted to discuss this, she was ready. That she would go to the mat with him on the subject if that was his pleasure.

Ted, Bobby was relieved to find, didn't want to go to the mat or anywhere near it. “I expect you're right, Mrs. Garfield. Entirely.”

She gave him a moment more of the lifted chin, asking if he was sure, giving him time to change his mind. When Ted said nothing else, she smiled. It was her victory smile. Bobby loved her, but suddenly he was tired of her as well. Tired of knowing her looks, her sayings, and the adamant cast of her mind.

“Thank you for the rootbeer, Mr. Brattigan. It was very tasty.” And with that she led her son downstairs. When they got to the second-floor landing she dropped his hand and went the rest of the way ahead of him.

Bobby thought they would discuss his new job further over supper, but they didn't. His mom seemed far away from him, her eyes distant. He had to ask her twice for a second slice of meatloaf and when later
that evening the telephone rang, she jumped up from the couch where they had been watching TV to get it. She jumped for it the way Ricky Nelson did when it rang on the
Ozzie and Harriet
show. She listened, said something, then came back to the couch and sat down.

“Who was it?” Bobby asked.

“Wrong number,” Liz said.

•   •   •

In that year of his life Bobby Garfield still waited for sleep with a child's welcoming confidence: on his back, heels spread to the corners of the bed, hands tucked into the cool under the pillow so his elbows stuck up. On the night after Ted spoke to him about the low men in their yellow coats (
and don't forget their cars
, he thought,
their big cars with the fancy paintjobs
), Bobby lay in this position with the sheet pushed down to his waist. Moonlight fell on his narrow child's chest, squared in four by the shadows of the window muntins.

If he had thought about it (he hadn't), he would have expected Ted's low men to become more real once he was alone in the dark, with only the tick of his wind-up Big Ben and the murmur of the late TV news from the other room to keep him company. That was the way it had always been with him—it was easy to laugh at Frankenstein on Shock Theater, to go fake-swoony and cry “Ohhh,
Frankie!
” when the monster showed up, especially if Sully-John was there for a sleepover. But in the dark, after S-J had started to snore (or worse, if Bobby was alone), Dr. Frankenstein's creature seemed a lot more . . . not real, exactly, but . . . 
possible
.

That sense of possibility did not gather around Ted's low men. If anything, the idea that people would communicate with each other via lost-pet posters seemed even crazier in the dark. But not a dangerous crazy. Bobby didn't think Ted was really, deeply crazy, anyhow; just a bit too smart for his own good, especially since he had so few things with which to occupy his time. Ted was a little . . . well . . . cripes, a little
what?
Bobby couldn't express it. If the word
eccentric
had occurred to him he would have seized it with pleasure and relief.