Characters in Low Men in Yellow Coats

He died a long time ago.” He always added this so people wouldn’t get all gushy. “What was his name?” But before he could say, Alanna Files said it herself—it came out of her painted mouth like a magic word. “Was it Randy? Randy Garrett, Randy Greer, something like that?”

… to throw, soft-headed Francis Utterson, always pushing along on his scooter with one overdeveloped leg, Angela Avery and Yvonne Loving to ask Carol if she wanted to go over Yvonne’s and play dolls or a game called Hospital Nurse—but mostly it was just S-J and Carol, Bobby’s special friends. All …

Standing in front of it, looking extremely busty in the chest and extremely wide in the hip, was Anita Gerber’s friend Rionda. Summer clothes were never going to be her friends (even at eleven Bobby understood this), but at that moment she looked like a goddess in pedal pushers. “Rionda!”

It wasn’t likely, but it could have been. Then . . . did you see the old man back there? The one in the shoeshine chair?” “Sure, you patted him on the cheeks.” “That’s Arthur Girardi. Files lets him hang around because he used to be connected.

At recess Carol talked about how she was going to her aunt Cora and uncle Ray’s farm in Pennsylvania for a week in July; S-J went on and on about the week of camp he’d won and how he was going to shoot arrows at targets and go out in …

Liz Garfield was increasingly preoccupied with her trip to Providence, talking on the phone in the evenings with Mr. Biderman or one of the other two who were going (Bill Cushman was one of them; Bobby couldn’t exactly remember the name of the other guy), laying clothes out on her …

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?”

I guess he thinks this is a good way to do it.” “You liar!” Harry shouted. “That wasn’t me who chased you, that was Billy Donahue! That—” He stopped, looked around. He’d put his foot in it somehow; a dim appreciation of the fact was dawning on his face.

“School is different.” They were sitting at Ted’s kitchen table, looking out over the back yard, where everything was in bloom. On Colony Street, which was the next street over, Mrs. O’Hara’s dog Bowser barked its endless roop-roop-roop into the mild spring air. Ted was smoking a Chesterfield.

Yes, Bobby had said. You understand her a little bit better now, do you? Cam had asked, and once again Bobby had said yes. And when she recognized his step on the porch, there had at first been nothing in her mind but love and relief.

Inside straights were all hope and guesswork—“fool’s poker,” according to Charlie Yearman, the Harwich Elementary janitor, who had been happy to tell Bobby everything about the game that S-J and Denny Rivers hadn’t known—but there was no guesswork about this.

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?”

“Kill the pig, drink her blood,” Mr. Biderman said in a thick, almost unrecognizable voice, and started forward. “Kill the pig, drink her blood,” Bill Cushman and Curtis Dean chimed in. “Kill the pig, strew her guts, eat her flesh,” chanted Willie and Richie, falling in behind the nimrods.

This time the winkle had lasted longer, but it was going now, all right. “Hey Dee,” said the boy who had pulled Bobby’s hair. “We just gonna shake this little guy out a little. Make him pay his way across Diablo turf.” “Not this one,” Dee said. “I know him.

… Yearman, the Harwich Elementary janitor, who had been happy to tell Bobby everything about the game that S-J and Denny Rivers hadn’t known—but there was no guesswork about this. Mr. McQuown looked at him a moment longer; Bobby’s calm confidence seemed to trouble him. Then he reached up, adjusted the …

He got down on his knees, and Dina Sigsby, who had been about to toss her stone at the 7, stopped to watch him. Dianne put her grimy fingers over her mouth and giggled. Ignoring them, Bobby used both of his hands to sweep the shapes into chalk blurs.

Bobby walked over to them and observed the shapes——drawn beside the grid. He got down on his knees, and Dina Sigsby, who had been about to toss her stone at the 7, stopped to watch him. Dianne put her grimy fingers over her mouth and giggled.

Bobby guessed she might first have gotten the job because Donald Biderman liked Randall and felt sorry for her—widowed with a son barely out of diapers—but she was good at it and worked hard. Quite often she worked late.

When the meal was over and the table cleared, Liz gave Ted a list of telephone numbers, including those of Dr. Gordon, the Sterling House Summer Rec office, and the Warwick Hotel. “If there are any problems, I want to hear from you. Okay?” Ted nodded. “Okay.” “Bobby?

… and their lunches in paper sacks, S-J more and more often sat with Ronnie Olmquist and Duke Wendell, boys with whom he had been at camp. They told the same old stories about short-sheeting beds and sending the little kids on snipe hunts until Bobby was bored with them. You’d …

Her fancy dress was also torn. One of her breasts was scratched and bleeding. One of her eyes was almost closed. She looked as if she had gone a few rounds with Eddie Albini or Hurricane Haywood . . . maybe both at the same time. “Gonna split you open!”

He held out his hand to Bobby’s mother, who touched it just briefly. “I’m Elizabeth Garfield. This is my son, Robert. You’ll have to pardon us, Mr. Brattigan—” “It’s Brautigan, ma’am, but I’d be happy if you and your boy would just call me Ted.”

“I see four of em comin out of that barber shop with the horseparlor in the back,” the one who seemed to be named Filio said. “That’s what they do, those guys, go into places and ask questions. Always leave one of their big cars runnin at the curb.

… on their way home—some walking, some on bikes, a couple on roller skates, buck-toothed Francis Utterson on his rusty red scooter, honking laughter at the sky as he paddled along. They were almost as oblivious of him; the Big Vac had just started, and most were dazed by all the …

He walked out to River Avenue, stopping at the Tip-Top Bakery to buy half a loaf of day-old bread (two cents) and to ask Georgie Sullivan how S-J was. “He’s fine,” S-J’s oldest brother said. “We got a postcard on Tuesday says he misses the fambly and wantsa come home.

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.

You can tell your husbands—lucky fellas they are to have you, too, may I say—that Mr. Herb McQuown, the Monte Man at Savin Rock, paid for your day’s parking. Or what about a quarter? Point out the queen of hearts and I give you back fifty cents.”

He gave it to Ian-the-Snot, who had actually been good for a change—hadn’t thrown any tantrums, wet his pants, or tried to sock either Sully or Bobby in the nuts. Ian hugged the bear and looked at Bobby as if Bobby were God.

“He had his day, but his day is over,” I. Kleindienst said. “If Eddie goes six, I’m going to send my boy to bed without his supper.” “Irving Kleindienst’s a ka-mai,” Ted said. “A what?” “A fool.” Ted was looking out the window toward the sound of Mrs. O’Hara’s dog.

“You don’t know me, but I think you know Jimmy Girardi,” Ted said politely. “He told me you were the man to see . . . if you’re Len Files, that is.” “I’m Len,” the man said. All at once he seemed considerably warmer.

Thanks but no thanks.” “CARTS CORRALLED, LOCAL MAN ARRESTED?” “First paragraph, Bobby.” “ ‘When police showed up at his Pond Lane residence late yesterday, John T. Anderson of Harwich told them all about his hobby, which he claims is collecting supermarket shopping carts.

… Juan said. He looked sideways at Dee to see if Dee was laughing. Dee wasn’t; he only nodded for Juan to keep going. “They something else.” “I think they’re alive,” Bobby said. Juan’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! Like alive! And ’ose men—” “What did they look like? I’ve seen one …

“He was very interesting on the subject,” said Officer Kirby Malloy of the Harwich P.D., “but we weren’t entirely satisfied that he’d come by some of the carts in his collection honestly.” Turns out Malloy was “right with Eversharp.”

“You don’t know me, but I think you know Jimmy Girardi,” Ted said politely. “He told me you were the man to see . . . if you’re Len Files, that is.” “I’m Len,” the man said. All at once he seemed considerably warmer.

Nagged it out of him, more than likely. “I never touched him,” Bobby told Raymer, and met Raymer’s gaze firmly with his own as he said it. Mary Doolin gasped, shocked. Even Harry, to whom lying must have been a way of life by the age of sixteen, looked surprised.

They washed up on a little island with palm trees and jungles and a volcano, and as they lay on the beach Miss Harrington was shivering and saying she was cold, so cold, couldn’t he please hold her and warm her up, which he of course could and did, my …

“Well,” she said, “maybe we can skip that part. Get along home, boys. And Harry, when you see Moira Dedham, tell her Rionda says she still goes to the Bingo over in Bridgeport every week, if she ever wants a ride.” “I will, sure,” Harry said.

He didn’t confide that he had begun shoplifting or that he had been drunk four or five times (once with Morrie, the other times by himself) or that sometimes he walked over to the train tracks and wondered if getting run over by the South Shore Express would be the …

“He don’t need no lesson from you,” Dee said. “You want one from me, Moso?” Moso stepped back, frowning, and took a cigarette out of his pocket. One of the others snapped him a light, and Dee drew Bobby a little farther down the street.

He put the books under his bed—deep under. If his mom found them he would say Mr. Burton had given them to him. That was a lie, but if he told the truth she’d take the books away. Besides, lying no longer seemed so bad. Lying might become a necessity.

Sully-John grinned. “Yeah, man! Seventy names in the hat, seventy at least, and the one that bald old bastard Mr. Coughlin pulled out was John L. Sullivan, Junior, 93 Broad Street. My mother just about weewee’d her pants.” “When do you go?” “Two weeks after school lets out.

He skipped the story of how he had told Mr. Hurley, the assistant principal at Danvers Elementary, to kiss his rosy red ass and how Mr. Hurley had responded by slapping him across the face and calling him an insolent, wearisome little boy.

Not this week she didn’t. Bobby had seen both the electric bill and the check for the rent in its envelope marked Mr. Monteleone last Wednesday. And she couldn’t claim he would soon need clothes because this was the end of the school-year, not the beginning.

“Has he ever . . . does he ever . . .” There she stopped, looking uncharacteristically flustered. Kids sometimes looked that way when Mrs. Bramwell sent them to the blackboard to pick the nouns and verbs out of a sentence and they couldn’t. “Has he ever what, Mom?”

Get off there! You’ll mash my flowers!” There wasn’t a flowerbed within ten feet of where Sully-John had fallen, but he leaped up at once. “Sorry, Mrs. Conlan.” She flapped a hand at him, dismissing his apology without a word, and watched closely as the children went on their way.

… good word to say about her all year long—Mrs. Evers dressed like a frump, Mrs. Evers dyed her hair, Mrs. Evers wore too much makeup, Bobby had just better tell Mom if Mrs. Evers laid so much as one finger on him, because she looked like the kind of woman …

Mrs. Godlow went nuts trying to get them to stand in line and shut up, not understanding that on Saturday afternoon you couldn’t get even basically well-behaved kids to act like they were in …

(There were mysteries and tower rooms in the stories about Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, but precious little blood and never any passion.) “Just remember that Mrs. Kelton on the desk is a friend of mine,” Mom said.

Ted was staring emptily out his window toward Colony Street and the hoarse, monotonous barking of Mrs. O’Hara’s dog. It was the second time he’d done it this morning, but the first lapse had lasted only a few seconds (Ted bent into the open refrigerator, eyes wide in the frosty …

The fights started, and not long after, so did the truancies. On the Comments section of his first report card, Mrs. Rivers wrote: “Robert is an extremely bright boy. He is also extremely troubled. Will you come and see me about him, Mrs. Garfield?”

It was growing dark now; Bobby’s 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.

Panic or something like it? “What’s Camp Winnie? What are you talking about?” Bobby explained about S-J winning the free week at Camp Winiwinaia and how Mrs. Sullivan was going to visit her parents in Wisconsin at the same time—plans which had now been finalized, Big Gray Dog and all.

… at Home Town Real Estate she had been on good terms with a woman named Myra Calhoun. (In Liz-ese she and Myra saw eye to eye, marched to the same drummer, were tuned to the same wavelength, etc., etc.) In those days Myra had been Don Biderman’s secretary and Liz …

I do!” “Wash em,” he said, getting in the back. “Go ahead, Ma, wash em now and save time.” Driving downtown, Officer Grandelle said, “I thought you was gonna straighten up and fly right, Bobby.” “Me too,” Bobby said. That time he was in Bedbug for six months.

Pete had been fourteen. That was old for a Collie. He had been Roy DeLois’s only real friend. Go on, big boy, eat up, it’s on me, Roy DeLois would say when he fed Pete. He said the same thing every night. Roy DeLois was divorced.

… like her, not good for even a lousy nickel, and so what if the late not-so-great Randall Garfield hadn’t left them well off? Why did she always make it sound like that was his fault? Who had married him? “You sure, Bobby-O? No more smartass comebacks?” The most dangerous sound …

His eyes were dazed, filled with sunbright tears. His pimples stood out in big purple and red dots. His mouth—thin and mean on the day Rionda Hewson had rescued them—was now a big loose quiver. “Owwwuuu, stop, I give, I give, oh Jeezis!” He doesn’t recognize me, Bobby realized.

… their bathing suits and their lunches in paper sacks, S-J more and more often sat with Ronnie Olmquist and Duke Wendell, boys with whom he had been at camp. They told the same old stories about short-sheeting beds and sending the little kids on snipe hunts until Bobby was bored …

You know, a puppy.” Roy DeLois was maybe fifty, but surprise made him look much younger. “How . . .” Then Bobby heard him decide he didn’t care how. Roy DeLois put his cab in gear and drove away, leaving Bobby in front of the Wo Fat Noodle Company.

Bobby walked home by himself that day; Sully-John had volunteered to stay and help put books away in the storeroom and Carol was going over to Tina Lebel’s for Tina’s birthday party.

Bobby could no longer sit. He got up and began pacing around the living room. He was sure that Tommy “Hurricane” Haywood was right now being photographed in his corner at The Garden, bruised but beaming as the flashbulbs splashed white light over his face.

At recess Carol talked about how she was going to her aunt Cora and uncle Ray’s farm in Pennsylvania for a week in July; S-J went on and on about the week of camp he’d won and how he was going to shoot arrows at targets and go out in …

“Now watch closely and never take your eyes from the cards.” He turned them over so their backs showed. “Now, dollface, where’s the queen?” Yvonne Loving pointed at the red back in the middle. “Is she right?” the man in the bowler asked the little party gathered around his table.