Page 110 of Bobby Green

Bobby held him tighter. “She’ll still likeyou,” he said, his voice sounding like it was laughing. “It’s me she’s gonna yell at. Wait for it….”

Sure enough, she stomped into the living room and stood in front of the television.

Reg closed his eyes. “Oh God.”

“Porn?” she asked, hands on her hips.

“Yup,” Bobby replied laconically.

“Both of you?”

“It’s where we met,” Bobby said, arm still around Reg’s chest. “But we haven’t done any scenes together, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Reg opened his eyes and saw that she was glaring at Bobby but seemed to have forgotten him entirely.

“Vern Carl Roberts—”

“Mom, are you going to make us leave?” he asked simply.

“No! But are you seriously—”

“Then maybe go back into the kitchen, calm down a little, and talk to us about it during dinner. I’m serious, Mom. My body hurts, Reg looks like he’s gonna disintegrate, and my knuckles feel like they’re on fire. If we could maybe, just for the next hour, pretend like I’m still your kid and this ain’t a big deal.”

She let out a sigh. “Youarestill my kid, and thisisa big deal.”

“Sorry,” Reg squeaked, wishing he could burrow behind Bobby like a cat or something.

Her mouth twisted as she noticed he was still there. “You are killing me,” she said on a sigh. Then, to her son, “You are so lucky he’s… he’s frickin’him. Because he could be the only thing saving you from getting your ass whupped with a shoe.”

With that she stomped back into the kitchen, and they both winced as they heard her throwing around pots and pans.

“Is she going to be mad all night?” Reg whispered.

“Not if we bring out the cookies and chocolate we brought her,” Bobby said, with undue optimism, Reg felt.

But the movie, in all its inanity, beckoned. Just as Reg lost himself in it, he realized Bobby was right. They still had a roof over their heads. She was still cooking them dinner. And she seemed to like him, even if she was apparently pissed at Bobby.

UNLIKE LUNCH,dinner started out to be a grim and silent affair. Bobby’s mom did a lot of glaring, and Bobby did a lot of eating and pretending his mom wasn’t glaring.

“So, uh, flat spaghetti with white sauce?” Reg said encouragingly into the silence.

“Fettuccine Alfredo,” Isabelle said with a tight smile. Then she shook her head and sighed. “How old were you,” she asked, “when you started working for John Carey Industries?”

“Johnnies?” Reg shrugged. “Bobby’s age. Nineteen. McDonald’s wasn’t cutting it for property taxes, and V couldn’t work anymore. I was, uh”—Reg tried hard not to scratch behind his ear—“on a website and saw an ad. John was real nice to me. It felt like, you know. The one thing I could do. I mean, besides McDonald’s, but they yell a lot.”

“Oh Lord,” she muttered. Then she turned to Bobby. “So?”

Bobby sighed. “The construction guy was a sham,” he said baldly. “I didn’t have a place to stay. I was crashing on people’s couches and showering at the Y, Mom. What do you want me to tell you? Dex—he’s our other boss—spotted me when I was bussing tables. Gave me their card.”

“What were you doing?” she asked skeptically. “How do you go from bussing tables to having sex for money?”

Bobby appeared to think about it. “Mostly I was just wearing really tight jeans,” he said, and then he caught Reg’s eye. “The ones with no rips in the knees?”

Reg grinned. “Oh yeah. I like those ones. They show off your….” He swallowed and went back to his white spaghetti. “They make you look good,” he mumbled.

“You were wearing tight jeans?” Her head was still cocked, and Bobby finally had the grace to look uncomfortable.

“I don’t know, Mom. It’s not like I mail-ordered what was in them. You changed my diapers—you know what’s there.”