Bad Boy by Jim Thompson Read Free Book Online Page A

not disturb Mrs. Cole when he left, and when we arose she was still abed. She was pretty sick, I guess, with a hangover from her “medicine,” and declared pitifully that she could not arise.
    “Just don’t bother me, now,” she whined. “Warm you up some of that nice good succotash.”
    Maxine and I bought some pie, soda pop and potato chips for our breakfast. We had Hershey bars and bologna for lunch. By supper time, Mrs. Cole was getting pretty hungry herself and became active long enough to open a can of chili and fry some hamburger.
    Things went on like that for weeks. Pop had to be out of town the greater part of the time, and when he wasn’t he spent little time at home. His mind was more than occupied with financial matters. Anyway, he had never been inclined to concern himself with family routine except on the periodic sprees I have mentioned. And those weren’t much fun without Mom around.
    Once in a while he would ask us how we were feeling or if we shouldn’t clean up a little, but I doubt if he heard our answers. We couldn’t see Mom often, and then for only a few minutes, and we were made fairly presentable for those visits.
    So we went on for weeks, unfed, unwashed and in the main unschooled, for Mrs. Cole never knew whether we went or not, and the attendance laws (if there were any) were unenforced. We slept with our clothes on, a labor-saving and warmth-promoting trick Mrs. Cole had taught us. We ate almost nothing but pie, chili and hamburger. We spent our days in prowling the dime stores, seeing picture shows and loafing.
    One noon while we were seated on the porch eating a lunch of pie and pop, Mom came home. She had left the hospital without the doctor’s permission. She had had a premonition, she said, that she was needed at home.
    Maxine and I dashed out to the taxi, jumping up and down with delight. We asked her if she was going to stay with us, and we tried to take Freddie away from her, and—and then we kind of stood back, shuffling our feet.
    “What’s the matter, Mom?” I said. “What you crying about?”
    “N-nothing,” said Mom. “Oh, you poor babies! Where is that woman? ”
    “Mrs. Cole? She’s still in bed. She don’t get up this early.”
    Mom’s eyes flashed, and she brushed her nose angrily against Freddie’s blanket. “Oh, doesn’t she?” she said. “Well!”
    She was so weak she could hardly walk, but she went up the stairs ahead of us. She laid Freddie down on the lounge and looked around the living room. An angry moan, like that of a spurred horse, broke from her lips. She moaned again as she surveyed the filthy dining room. Glancing into the kitchen, she moaned loudest of all.
    Stepping to the door of her bedroom, she drew back her fist. But she lowered it in a gentle knock, and the second knock was no more than firm.
    Inside the room the bed creaked, and Mrs. Cole grunted sleepily.
    “Now, you just stop botherin’ me,” she whined. “I told you not to call me till you seen your pappy comin’.”
    A terrible smile spread over Mom’s face. She knocked again.
    “You hear me?” called Mrs. Cole. “You want anything to eat, go down to the store an’ get it. I got all I can do lookin’ after myself.”
    Mom knocked again.
    “Now you better get away from there,” Mrs. Cole shouted. “Go to a pitcher show. Go down by the river an’ play. Get away from there afore I come out to you!”
    Mom began knocking steadily, and Mrs. Cole’s warnings grew more dire. At last she arose, lumbered to the door and flung it open.
    As I have indicated she was not a fast-thinking woman, and it was fixed in her mind that it was Maxine and I who had been doing the knocking. So, glaring angrily at Mom, she spoke the words that were intended for us.
    “Now, you’re gonna get it,” she declared. “I’ll warm your britches for you. You won’t be able to set down for a week when—when—when—”
    “Go ahead,” said Mom. “Cat got your tongue?”
    “W-who—who