Page 104 of Bobby Green
“That’s nice,” she said, eyebrows still doing that thing that said she knew Bobby had spent his Friday night out drinking with friends behind the Frostie after the football game and not at someone’s house like he said. “It’s nice that you two boys just sort of hit it off.”
“Yeah,” Reg said, taking a bite of lunch. He closed his eyes. “Oh man. Bobby, you gotta try this—it’s amazing.”
Bobby did and had to agree—Mom’s cooking wasn’t getting any worse.
“This is good, Mom. You’ll have to give me the recipe.”
“Sure. So, Reg—you got a girlfriend?”
Reg took another bite and closed his eyes. “Nope. Mostly my sister keeps me busy. She’s sort of crazy. Most girls don’t want to hang around when she’s there.”
“That’s a shame,” his mom said, her eyebrows untangling long enough for some honest concern to show through. “That doesn’t allow for much of a life of your own.”
Reg avoided Bobby’s eyes too. “Is there any milk?” he asked out of the blue. “I’m sorry to trouble you—this is just so awesome, I’d love a glass of milk to wash it down.”
“How silly of me,” she said, moving to the fridge.
Bobby met her eyes then, because usually milk would have been the first thing on the table. She used to complain that Bobby sucked it out of the refrigerator through his pores as he walked by, and she hadn’t stopped buying a gallon of it when he visited.
She looked levelly back at him as she reached for it, her mouth pursed in suspicion.
“I’ll get the glasses, Mom.” He stood up belatedly, and she waved him down.
“No, no, not at all. So, Bobby has told me your sister’s sort of a handful. How have you managed so far?”
“The guys from John-uh-Carey.” Reg carved off another bite and nodded before he took it. “There’s a few of us who’ve been there awhile.”
“That’s really nice of them,” she said. “What about—”
Reg was starting to sweat. “Mom, stop it,” Bobby said, keeping his good humor in his voice. “Reg is going to think you don’t like him.”
And oh, God bless his mom. “I think he’s a very nice young man, honey.”
Reg looked up guiltily and swallowed. “I’m not that young,” he confessed. “I’m twenty-nine, actually. Bobby’s way younger than I am.”
“That doesn’t seem to have stopped him,” she murmured, and now Bobby was sweating. He stayed that way—sweating and uncomfortable—for pretty much the rest of lunch.
HE HELPEDhis mother do the dishes while Reg took a walk outside. Bobby directed him to the west side of the house, where he could see the horse pens of Frank Gilmore’s stable.
“Don’t go in the pen,” Bobby warned him, pulling out a little bag of carrots from the fridge. “But if you hold the carrot like this”—he demonstrated on his palm—“they’ll nibble it out of your hand. But only if you hold your hand flat—otherwise they’ll bite.”
“Can I pet them?” Reg asked, wide-eyed. Bobby smiled, remembering Reg hadn’t ever seen a horse up close.
“Like this,” he said, holding his palm gently to the bridge of Reg’s nose, cupping his forehead. “Firm-like. They like that. But don’t give them any flesh to bite, okay? They like to explore that way. I got dragged by a snotty little pony when I was a kid—”
“Those scars under your arm?” Reg asked guilelessly, butting his face up against Bobby’s palm. Bobby worked hard not to wince and look at his mom to see if she thought there was anything odd about Reg knowing that. Well, hell—they worked out together, right?
“Yeah,” Bobby confirmed, moving his hand and looking only at Reg. “There. Just be careful. Move slowly. They’re big animals—and they can be like really big dogs, but they can also be like those hippos in the documentary.” One of the things they’d watched since V had gone to the hospital.
“Yeah,” Reg said seriously. “Gotcha.” He took the carrots and smiled.
“I’ll be right out there. If you see anyone, tell ’em you’re my friend, okay? But remember—Vern Roberts, right?”
Reg grimaced. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ll ever get that right. You’ll always be Bobby to me.”
He turned around then and waved briefly at Bobby’s mom before setting out across the icy meadow that separated the Robertses’ yard from the more developed parts of Frank Gilmore’s land. Once or twice a year, Frank would mow this big meadow and sell the hay, so he did keep it seeded nicely—not too many thistles. Bobby had always yearned for a dog, but by the time his dad had moved away, making that possible, his mom had been desperate for money. He’d started helping Frank Gilmore at fourteen for money under the table.
“He going to be okay?” his mom asked as she packaged up the leftover stromboli and put it in the fridge.
