Hearts In Atlantis

business-suited men in the rear seat—Dean was the other guy’s name, he remembered—just in time to see them elbowing each other. Both were grinning.

Something’s wrong here, Bobby thought, and as Mr. Biderman opened the passenger door for his mother, as she murmured her thanks and slid in, gathering her dress a little so it wouldn’t wrinkle, he had an urge to tell her not to go, Rhode Island was too far away, Bridgeport would be too far away, she needed to stay home.

He said nothing, though, only stood on the curb as Mr. Biderman closed her door and walked back around to the driver’s side. He opened that door, paused, and then did his stupid little batter-up pantomime again. This time he added an asinine fanny-wiggle. What a nimrod, Bobby thought.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Sport,” he said.

“But if you do, name it after me,” Cushman called from the back seat. Bobby didn’t know exactly what that meant but it must have been funny because Dean laughed and Mr. Biderman tipped him one of those just- between-us-guys winks.

His mother was leaning in his direction. “You be a good boy, Bobby,” she said. “I’ll be back around eight on Thursday night—no later than ten. You’re sure you’re fine with that?”

No, I’m not fine with it at all. Don’t go off with them, Mom, don’t go off with Mr. Biderman and those two grinning dopes sitting behind you. Those two nimrods. Please don’t.

“Sure he is,” Mr. Biderman said. “He’s a sport. Ain’t you, Sport?”

“Bobby?” she asked, not looking at Mr. Biderman. “Are you all set?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m a sport.”

Mr. Biderman bellowed ferocious laughter—Kill the pig, cut his throat, Bobby thought—and dropped the Mercury into gear. “Prov-idence or bust!” he cried, and the car rolled away from the curb, swerving across to the other side of Broad Street and heading up toward Asher. Bobby stood on the sidewalk, waving as the Merc passed Carol’s house and Sully-John’s. He felt as if he had a bone in his heart. If this was some sort of premonition—a winkle—he never wanted to have another one.

A hand fell on his shoulder. He looked around and saw Ted stand-ing there in his bathrobe and slippers, smoking a cigarette. His hair, which had yet to make its morning acquaintance with the brush, stood up around his ears in comical sprays of white.

“So that was the boss,” he said. “Mr. . . . Bidermeyer, is it?”

“Biderman.”

“And how do you like him, Bobby?”

Speaking with a low, bitter clarity, Bobby said, “I trust him about as far as I could sling a piano.”

VI. A DIRTY OLD MAN. TED’S CASSEROLE. A BAD DREAM.

VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED.

DOWN THERE.

An hour or so after seeing his mother off, Bobby went down to FieldB behind Sterling House. There were no real games until afternoon, nothing but three-flies-six- grounders or rolly-bat, but even rolly-bat was better than nothing. On Field A, to the north, the little kids were futzing away at a game that vaguely resembled baseball; on Field C, to the south, some high-school kids were playing what was almost the real thing.

Shortly after the town square clock had bonged noon and the boys broke to go in search of the hotdog wagon, Bill Pratt asked, “Who’s that weird guy over there?”

He was pointing to a bench in the shade, and although Ted was wearing a trenchcoat, an old fedora hat, and dark glasses, Bobby rec-ognized him at once. He guessed S-J would’ve, too, if S-J hadn’t been at Camp Winnie. Bobby almost raised one hand in a wave, then didn’t, because Ted was in disguise. Still, he’d come out to watch his downstairs friend play ball. Even though it wasn’t a real game, Bobby felt an absurdly large lump rise in his throat. His mom had only come to watch him once in the two years he’d been playing— last August, when his team had been in the Tri-Town Champi-onships—and even then she’d left in the fourth inning, before Bobby connected for what proved to be the game-winning triple. Somebody has to work around here, Bobby-O, she would have replied had he dared reproach her for that. Your father didn’t exactly leave us well off, you know. It was true, of course—she had to work and Ted was retired. Except Ted had to stay clear of the low men in the yellow coats, and that was a full-time job. The fact that they didn’t exist wasn’t the point. Ted believed they did . . . but had come out to see him play just the same.

“Probably some dirty old man wanting to put a suckjob on one of the little kids,” Harry Shaw said. Harry was small and tough, a boy going through life with his chin stuck out a mile. Being with Bill and Harry suddenly made Bobby homesick for Sully-John, who had left on the Camp Winnie bus Monday morning (at the brain-numbing hour of five A.M.). S-J didn’t have much of a temper and he was kind. Sometimes Bobby thought that was the best thing about Sully—he was kind.

From Field C there came the hefty crack of a bat—an authoritative full-contact sound which none of the Field B boys could yet pro-duce. It was followed by savage roars of approval that made Bill, Harry, and Bobby look a little nervously in that direction.

“St. Gabe’s boys,” Bill said. “They think they own Field C.”

“Cruddy Catlicks,” Harry said. “Catlicks are sissies—I could take any one of them.”

“How about fifteen or twenty?” Bill asked, and Harry was silent. Up ahead, glittering like a mirror, was the hotdog wagon. Bobby touched the buck in his pocket. Ted had given it to him out of the envelope his mother had left, then had put the envelope itself behind the toaster, telling Bobby to take what he needed when he needed it. Bobby was almost exalted by this level of trust.

“Look on the bright side,” Bill said. “Maybe those St. Gabe’s boys will beat up the dirty old man.”

When they got to the wagon, Bobby bought only one hotdog instead of the two he had been planning on. His appetite seemed to have shrunk. When they got back to Field B, where the Wolves’ coaches had now appeared with the equipment cart, the bench Ted had been sitting on was empty.

“Come on, come on!” Coach Terrell called, clapping his hands. “Who wants to play some baseball here?”

That night Ted cooked his famous casserole in the Garfields’ oven. It