Hearts In Atlantis

Ted was still on his knees by the electrical plug. He looked as if he were praying. To Bobby he also looked exhausted—done almost to death. How could he run from the low men? He didn’t look as if he could make it as far as Spicer’s Variety Store without stumbling.

“Yes,” he said at last. “They come from another world. Another where and another when. That’s all I can tell you. It’s not safe for you to know more.”

But Bobby had to ask one other question. “Did you come from one of those other worlds?”

Ted looked at him solemnly. “I came from Teaneck.”

Bobby gaped at him for a moment, then began to laugh. Ted, still kneeling by the fan, joined him.

“What did you think of in the cab, Bobby?” Ted asked when they were finally able to stop. “Where did you go when the trouble started?” He paused. “What did you see?”

Bobby thought of Carol at twenty with her toenails painted pink, Carol standing naked with the towel at her feet and steam rising around her. Adults Only. Must Have Driver’s License. No Exceptions.

“I can’t tell,” he said at last. “Because . . . well . . .”

“Because some things are private. I understand.” Ted got to his feet. Bobby stepped forward to help him but Ted waved him away. “Perhaps you’d like to go out and play for a little while,” he said. “Later on—around six, shall we say?—I’ll put on my dark glasses again and we’ll go around the block, have a bite of dinner at the Colony Diner.”

“But no beans.”

The corners of Ted’s mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Absolutely no beans, beans verboten. At ten o’clock I’ll call my friend Len and see how the fight went. Eh?”

“The low men . . . will they be looking for me now, too?”

“I’d never let you step out the door if I thought that,” Ted replied, looking surprised. “You’re fine, and I’m going to make sure you stay fine. Go on now. Play some catch or ring-a-levio or whatever it is you like. I have some things to do. Only be back by six so I don’t worry.”

“Okay.”

Bobby went into his room and dumped the four quarters he’d taken to Bridgeport back into the Bike Fund jar. He looked around his room, seeing things with new eyes: the cowboy bedspread, the picture of his mother on one wall and the signed photo—obtained by saving cereal boxtops—of Clayton Moore in his mask on another, his roller skates (one with a broken strap) in the corner, his desk against the wall. The room looked smaller now—not so much a place to come to as a place to leave. He realized he was growing into his orange library card, and some bitter voice inside cried out against it. Cried no, no, no.

VIII. BOBBY MAKES A CONFESSION.THE GERBER BABY AND THE MALTEX BABY.RIONDA. TED MAKES A CALL. CRY OF THE HUNTERS.

In Commonwealth Park the little kids were playing ticky-ball. Field B was empty; on Field C a few teenagers in orange St. Gabriel’s tee-shirts were playing scrub. Carol Gerber was sitting on a bench with her jump-rope in her lap, watching them. She saw Bobby coming and began to smile. Then the smile went away.

“Bobby, what’s wrong with you?”

Bobby hadn’t been precisely aware that anything was wrong with him until Carol said that, but the look of concern on her face brought everything home and undid him. It was the reality of the low men and the fright of the close call they’d had on their way back from Bridgeport; it was his concern over his mother; mostly it was Ted. He knew perfectly well why Ted had shooed him out of the house, and what Ted was doing right now: filling his little suitcases and those carryhandle paper bags. His friend was going away.

Bobby began to cry. He didn’t want to go all ushy-gushy in front of a girl, particularly this girl, but he couldn’t help it.

Carol looked stunned for a moment—scared. Then she got off the bench, came to him, and put her arms around him. “That’s all right,” she said. “That’s all right, Bobby, don’t cry, everything’s all right.”

Almost blinded by tears and crying harder than ever—it was as if there were a violent summer storm going on in his head—Bobby let her lead him into a copse of trees where they would be hidden from the baseball fields and the main paths. She sat down on the grass, still holding him, brushing one hand through the sweaty bristles of his crewcut. For a little while she said nothing at all, and Bobby was incapable of speaking; he could only sob until his throat ached and his eyeballs throbbed in their sockets.

At last the intervals between sobs became longer. He sat up and wiped his face with his arm, horrified and ashamed of what he felt: not just tears but snot and spit as well. He must have covered her with mung.

Carol didn’t seem to care. She touched his wet face. Bobby pulled back from her fingers, uttering another sob, and looked down at the grass. His eyesight, freshly washed by his tears, seemed almost preternaturally keen; he could see every blade and dandelion.

“It’s all right,” she said, but Bobby was still too ashamed to look at her.

They sat quietly for a little while and then Carol said, “Bobby, I’ll be your girlfriend, if you want.”

“You are my girlfriend,” Bobby said.

“Then tell me what’s wrong.”

And Bobby heard himself telling her everything, starting with the day Ted had moved in and how his mother had taken an instant dis-like to him. He told her about the first of Ted’s blank-outs, about the low men, about the signs of the low men. When he got to that part, Carol touched him on the arm.

“What?” he asked. “You don’t believe me?” His throat still had that achy too-full feeling it got after a crying fit, but he was getting better. If she didn’t believe him, he wouldn’t be mad at her. Wouldn’t blame her a bit, in fact. It was just an enormous relief to get it off his chest. “That’s okay. I know how crazy it must—”

“I’ve seen those funny hopscotches all over town,” she said. “So has Yvonne and Angie. We talked about them. They have little stars and moons drawn next to them. Sometimes comets, too.”