Lost Boy Lost Girl by Peter Straub Read Free Book Online

here were walking toward the movie setup on Jefferson Street. Did you stay there long?”
    A startled, wary glance from Mark; Jimbo opened and closed his mouth.
    “Only a little while,” Mark said. “They were doing the same thing over and over. Your room was on that side of the hotel?”
    “I saw you, didn’t I?”
    Mark’s face jerked into what may have been a smile but was gone too soon to tell. He edged sideways and pulled at Jimbo’s sleeve.
    “Aren’t you going to stay?” his father asked.
    Mark nodded, swallowing and rocking back on his heels while looking down at his scuffed sneakers. “We’ll be back soon.”
    “But where are you going?” Philip asked. “In about an hour, we have to be at the funeral home.”
    “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry.” Mark’s eyes were sliding from his father to the front door and back again. “We’re just going out.”
    He was in a nervous uproar, Tim saw. His engine was racing, and he was doing everything in his power to conceal it. Mark’s body wanted to behave exactly as it had on Jefferson Street: it wanted to wave its arms and leap around. In front of his father these extravagant gestures had to be compressed into the most minimal versions of themselves. The energy of misery was potent as a drug. Tim had seen men uncaringly risk their lives under its influence, as if they had been doing speed. The boy was aching to get through the door; Jimbo would soon have to resist more high-pressure pleading. Tim hoped he could stand up to it; whatever Mark had in mind almost had to be reckless, half crazy.
    “I hate this deliberate vagueness,” Philip said. “What’s
ou
t
? Where is it?”
    Mark sighed. “Out is just out, Dad. We got tired of sitting in my room, and now we want to walk around the block or something.”
    “Yo, that’s all,” Jimbo said, focusing on a spot in the air above Philip’s head. “Walk around the block.”
    “Okay, walk around the block,” Philip said. “But be back here by quarter to seven. Or before. I’m serious, Mark.”
    “I’m serious, too!” Mark shouted. “I’m just going outside, I’m not running away!”
    His face was a bright pink. Philip backed off, waving his hands before him.
    Mark glanced at Tim for a moment, his handsome face clamped into an expression of frustration and contempt. Tim’s heart filled with sorrow for him.
    Mark pivoted away, clumped to the door, and was gone, taking Jimbo with him. The screen door slammed shut.
    “Good God,” Philip said, looking at the door. “He does blame me, the little ingrate.”
    “He has to blame someone,” Tim said.
    “I know who it should be,” Philip said. “Killed herself three times, didn’t she?”
    Nodding meaninglessly, Tim went toward the big front window. Mark and Jimbo were moving north along the sidewalk much as they had proceeded down Jefferson Street. Mark was leaning toward his friend, speaking rapidly and waving his hands. His face was still a feverish pink.
    “You see them?”
    “Yep.”
    “What are they doing?”
    “Philip, I think they’re walking around the block.”
    “Didn’t Mark seem awfully tense to you?”
    “Kind of, yes.”
    “It’s the viewing and the funeral service,” Philip said. “Once they’re history, he can start getting back to normal.”
    Tim kept his mouth shut. He doubted that Philip’s concept of “normal” would have any real meaning to his son.
    On the grounds that the overall roominess more than made up for the added cost, whenever possible Tim Underhill rented Lincoln Town Cars. At a quarter to seven, the boys having returned from their walk in good time, he volunteered to drive everyone to Highland Avenue. They were standing on the sidewalk in the heat. Philip looked at the long black car with distaste.
    “You never got over the need to show off, did you?”
    “Philip, in this car I don’t feel like I’ve been squeezed into a tin can.”
    “Come on, Dad,” put in Mark, who was looking at the car as if he