mouth.
“Give me one sip,” Foster begged, and took the can from her and drank a long swallow. When he opened his eyes, Ted’s big hand was cupped under Mrs. Foster’s chin while his thumb rubbed away a smudge of dirt along her jaw which Foster had not noticed. This protective gesture made her face look small, pouty, and frail. Ted, Foster noticed now, was dressed with a certain comical perfection in a banker’s Saturday outfit—softened blue jeans, crisp tennis sneakers, lumberjack shirt with cuffs folded back. The youthful outfit accented his age, his hypertensive flush. Foster saw them suddenly as a touching, aging couple, and this perception seemed permission to go.
He handed back the can.
“Thanks for your help,” his former wife said.
“Yes, we do thank you,” Ted said.
“Talk to Tommy,” she unexpectedly added, in a lowered voice. She was still sending out trip wires to slow Foster’s departures. “This is harder on him than he shows.”
Ted looked at his watch, a fat, black-faced thing he could swim under water with. “I said to him coming in, ‘Don’t dawdle till the dump closes.’ ”
“He loafed all day,” his brother complained, “mooning over old stuff, and now he’s going to screw up getting to the dump.”
“He’s very sensi-tive,” the visiting gypsy said, with a strange chiming brightness, as if repeating something she had heard.
Outside, the boy was picking up litter that had fallen wide of the truck. Foster helped him. In the grass there were dozens of tokens and dice. Some were engraved with curious littlefaces—Olive Oyl, Snuffy Smith, Dagwood—and others with hieroglyphs—numbers, diamonds, spades, hexagons—whose code was lost. He held out a handful for Tommy to see. “Can you remember what these were for?”
“Comic-Strip Lotto,” the boy said without hesitation. “And a game called Gambling Fools there was a kind of slot machine for.” The light of old payoffs flickered in his eyes as he gazed down at the rubble in his father’s hand. Though Foster was taller, the boy was broader in the shoulders, and growing. “Want to ride with me to the dump?” Tommy asked.
“I would, but I better go.” He, too, had a new life to lead. By being on this forsaken property at all, Foster was in a sense on the wrong square, if not
en prise
. He remembered how once he had begun to teach this boy chess, but in the sadness of watching him lose—the little furry bowed head frowning above his trapped king—the lessons had stopped.
Foster tossed the tokens into the truck; they rattled to rest on the metal. “This depresses you?” he asked his son.
“Naa.” The boy amended, “Kind of.”
“You’ll feel great,” Foster promised him, “coming back with a clean truck. I used to love it at the dump, all that old happiness heaped up, and the seagulls.”
“It’s changed since you left. They have all these new rules. The lady there yelled at me last time, for putting stuff in the wrong place.”
“She did?”
“Yeah. It was scary.” Seeing his father waver, he added, “It’ll only take twenty minutes.” Though broad of build, Tommy had beardless cheeks and, between thickening eyebrows, a trace of that rounded, faintly baffled blankness babies have, that wrinkles before they cry.
“O.K.,” Foster said. “You win. I’ll come along. I’ll protect you.”
The City
H IS STOMACH began to hurt on the airplane, as the engines changed pitch to descend into this city. Carson at first blamed his pain upon the freeze-dried salted peanuts that had come in a little silver-foil packet with the whiskey sour he had let the stewardess bring him at ten o’clock that morning. He did not think of himself as much of a drinker; but the younger men in kindred gray business suits who flanked him in the three-across row of seats had both ordered drinks, and it seemed a way of keeping status with the stewardess. Unusually for these days, she was young and pretty. So many
“Give me one sip,” Foster begged, and took the can from her and drank a long swallow. When he opened his eyes, Ted’s big hand was cupped under Mrs. Foster’s chin while his thumb rubbed away a smudge of dirt along her jaw which Foster had not noticed. This protective gesture made her face look small, pouty, and frail. Ted, Foster noticed now, was dressed with a certain comical perfection in a banker’s Saturday outfit—softened blue jeans, crisp tennis sneakers, lumberjack shirt with cuffs folded back. The youthful outfit accented his age, his hypertensive flush. Foster saw them suddenly as a touching, aging couple, and this perception seemed permission to go.
He handed back the can.
“Thanks for your help,” his former wife said.
“Yes, we do thank you,” Ted said.
“Talk to Tommy,” she unexpectedly added, in a lowered voice. She was still sending out trip wires to slow Foster’s departures. “This is harder on him than he shows.”
Ted looked at his watch, a fat, black-faced thing he could swim under water with. “I said to him coming in, ‘Don’t dawdle till the dump closes.’ ”
“He loafed all day,” his brother complained, “mooning over old stuff, and now he’s going to screw up getting to the dump.”
“He’s very sensi-tive,” the visiting gypsy said, with a strange chiming brightness, as if repeating something she had heard.
Outside, the boy was picking up litter that had fallen wide of the truck. Foster helped him. In the grass there were dozens of tokens and dice. Some were engraved with curious littlefaces—Olive Oyl, Snuffy Smith, Dagwood—and others with hieroglyphs—numbers, diamonds, spades, hexagons—whose code was lost. He held out a handful for Tommy to see. “Can you remember what these were for?”
“Comic-Strip Lotto,” the boy said without hesitation. “And a game called Gambling Fools there was a kind of slot machine for.” The light of old payoffs flickered in his eyes as he gazed down at the rubble in his father’s hand. Though Foster was taller, the boy was broader in the shoulders, and growing. “Want to ride with me to the dump?” Tommy asked.
“I would, but I better go.” He, too, had a new life to lead. By being on this forsaken property at all, Foster was in a sense on the wrong square, if not
en prise
. He remembered how once he had begun to teach this boy chess, but in the sadness of watching him lose—the little furry bowed head frowning above his trapped king—the lessons had stopped.
Foster tossed the tokens into the truck; they rattled to rest on the metal. “This depresses you?” he asked his son.
“Naa.” The boy amended, “Kind of.”
“You’ll feel great,” Foster promised him, “coming back with a clean truck. I used to love it at the dump, all that old happiness heaped up, and the seagulls.”
“It’s changed since you left. They have all these new rules. The lady there yelled at me last time, for putting stuff in the wrong place.”
“She did?”
“Yeah. It was scary.” Seeing his father waver, he added, “It’ll only take twenty minutes.” Though broad of build, Tommy had beardless cheeks and, between thickening eyebrows, a trace of that rounded, faintly baffled blankness babies have, that wrinkles before they cry.
“O.K.,” Foster said. “You win. I’ll come along. I’ll protect you.”
The City
H IS STOMACH began to hurt on the airplane, as the engines changed pitch to descend into this city. Carson at first blamed his pain upon the freeze-dried salted peanuts that had come in a little silver-foil packet with the whiskey sour he had let the stewardess bring him at ten o’clock that morning. He did not think of himself as much of a drinker; but the younger men in kindred gray business suits who flanked him in the three-across row of seats had both ordered drinks, and it seemed a way of keeping status with the stewardess. Unusually for these days, she was young and pretty. So many
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