Lost Boy Lost Girl by Peter Straub Page A

frozen, locked-up expression that had overtaken it in the Tranquillity Parlor. He nodded, now and again offered his handsome smile, but behind these gestures he remained untouched and apart; remained also, Tim thought, under the sway of the amped-up energy, that inflammatory recklessness, which had made him leap up and spin around when he was alone on the sidewalk with his red-haired friend.
    This was the quality that most made Tim hope that Philip would find it in himself to aid his son. He was afraid of what Mark might do if left to himself. The boy could not bear what he had seen, and without sensitive adult help, he would break under its fearful weight.
    Spotting Mark for once standing by himself near the living room window, Tim pushed his way through the crowd and sidled next to him. “I think you should come to New York and stay with me for a week or so. Maybe in August?”
    Mark’s pleasure at this suggestion gave him hope.
    “Sure, I’d love that. Did you say anything to Dad?”
    “I will later,” Tim said, and went back across the room.
    While being introduced to Philip’s principal, Tim glanced again at Mark, and saw him shrug away from a wet-eyed elderly couple and cut through the crowd toward Jimbo. Whispering vehemently, Mark nudged Jimbo toward the dining room.
    “I understand you’re a writer of some sort,” said Mr. Battley.
    “That’s right.”
    Polite smile. “Who do you write for?”
    “Me, I guess.”
    “Ah.” Mr. Battley wrestled with this concept.
    “I write novels. Short stories, too, but novels, mostly.”
    Mr. Battley found that he had another question after all. “Has any of your stuff been published?”
    “All of it’s been published. Eight novels and two short-story collections.”
    Now at least a fraction of the principal’s attention had been snagged.
    “Would I know any of your work?”
    “Of course not,” Tim said. “You wouldn’t like it at all.”
    Mr. Battley’s mouth slid into an uneasy smile, and his eyes cut away toward his underlings. In a second he was gone. On the other side of the space he had occupied, Philip Underhill and Jackie Monaghan stood deep in conversation, their backs to their sons. The boys were a couple of feet closer to them than Tim, but even Tim could hear every word their fathers said.
    “Wasn’t Nancy related to this weird guy who used to live around here? Somebody said something about it once, I don’t remember who.”
    “Should have kept his mouth shut, whoever he was,” Philip said.
    “A murderer? That’s what I heard. Only, there was a time when people called him a hero, because he risked his life to save some kids.”
    Mark swiveled his head toward them.
    “I heard they were black, those kids. Must have been one of the first black families around here. It was back when they weren’t accepted the way they are now.”
    Tim waited for his brother to say something revolting about acceptance. At the time he’d sold his house in the suburbs and bought, at what seemed a bargain price, the place on Superior Street, Philip had been unaware that the former Pigtown was now something like 25 percent black. This had simply escaped his notice. It was Philip’s assumption that the neighborhood would have remained as it had been in his boyhood—respectable, inexpensive, and as white as a Boy Scout meeting in Aberdeen. When the realization came, it outraged him. Adding to his wrath was the presence of a great many interracial couples, generally black men with white wives. When Philip saw such a couple on the sidewalk, the force of his emotions often drove him across the street. No black people of either gender had bothered to drop in for the “reception,” as Tim had overheard Philip describing the gathering.
    “I’d say we’re still working on that acceptance business,” Philip said. “To be accepted, you have to prove you’re worthy of acceptance. Are we in agreement?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “When I have my vice principal’s hat