thatâs not the word I would have chosen.â Ted clasped his bony arms around his even bonier knees and gazed across the lawn at Broad Street. It was growing dark now; Bobbyâs favorite part of the evening had arrived. The cars that passed had their parking lights on, and from somewhere on Asher Avenue Mrs. Sigsby was calling for her twins to come in and get their supper. At this time of dayâand at dawn, as he stood in the bathroom, urinating into the bowl with sunshine falling through the little window and into his half-open eyesâBobby felt like a dream in someone elseâs head.
âWhere did you live before you came here, Mr. . . . Ted?â
âA place that wasnât as nice,â he said. âNowhere near as nice. How long have you lived here, Bobby?â
âLong as I can remember. Since my dad died, when I was three.â
âAnd you know everyone on the street? On this block of the street, anyway?â
âPretty much, yeah.â
âYouâd know strangers. Sojourners. Faces of those unknown.â
Bobby smiled and nodded. âUh-huh, I think so.â
He waited to see where this would lead nextâit was interestingâbut apparently this was as far as it went. Ted stood up, slowly and carefully. Bobby could hear little bones creak in his back when he put his hands around there and stretched, grimacing.
âCome on,â he said. âItâs getting chilly. Iâll go in with you. Your key or mine?â
Bobby smiled. âYou better start breaking in your own, donât you think?â
Tedâit was getting easier to think of him as Tedâpulled a keyring from his pocket. The only keys on it were the one which opened the big front door and the one to his room. Both were shiny and new, the color of bandit gold. Bobbyâs own two keys were scratched and dull. How old was Ted? he wondered again. Sixty, at least. A sixty-year-old man with only two keys in his pocket. That was weird.
Ted opened the front door and they went into the big dark foyer with its umbrella stand and its old painting of Lewis and Clark looking out across the American West. Bobby went to the door of the Garfield apartment and Ted went to the stairs. He paused there for a moment with his hand on the bannister. âThe Simak book is a great story,â he said. âNot such great writing, though. Not bad, I donât mean to say that, but take it from me, there is better.â
Bobby waited.
âThere are also books full of great writing that donât have very good stories. Read sometimes for the story, Bobby. Donât be like the book-snobs who wonât do that. Read sometimes for the wordsâthe language. Donât be like the play-it-safers that wonât do that . But when you find a book that has both a good story and good words, treasure that book.â
âAre there many of those, do you think?â Bobby asked.
âMore than the book-snobs and play-it-safers think. Many more. Perhaps Iâll give you one. A belated birthday present.â
âYou donât have to do that.â
âNo, but perhaps I will. And do have a happy birthday.â
âThanks. Itâs been a great one.â Then Bobby went into the apartment, heated up the stew (remembering to turn off the gas-ring after the stew started to bubble, also remembering to put the pan in the sink to soak), and ate supper by himself, reading Ring Around the Sun with the TV on for company. He hardly heard Chet Huntley and David Brinkley gabbling the evening news. Ted was right about the book; it was a corker. The words seemed okay to him, too, although he supposed he didnât have a lot of experience just yet.
Iâd like to write a story like this , he thought as he finally closed the book and flopped down on the couch to watch Sugarfoot. I wonder if I ever could .
Maybe. Maybe so. Someone had to write stories, after all, just like someone had
Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child