Francie looked at Perry, her hands clenched in front of her; the ladylike gesture seemed grotesque in context.
“I see what you’re saying about Freed,” Perry said.
The boy smiled what looked like a genuine smile. “Then you understand about the car.”
“Sure,” Perry said.
“Do you know that game, ‘Mother May I?’ ” the boy said to Francie.
She looked again to Perry. He stood there with his arms at his side, his billfold in one hand, the other hand making a fist and releasing it.
“Does she know the game?” he said to Perry.
“No,” Perry said. He was wondering why some of their friends who were always around didn’t show up.
“It’s such an easy game!” the boy said. “I tell you to do something, Francie, and you have to ask, ‘Mother may I?’ before doing it. You lose if you do something without asking permission. You see? It’s a fucked-up game.”
The boy was the only one who smiled at this.
“If you want our money, you can have it,” Perry said again.
“I’m not talking about money now,” the boy said. “I’m talking about a game. If, for instance, you wish to ask, ‘Mother may I give you my money?’ and then wait for me to give an answer, I might say yes.”
“Mother may I give you our money?” Perry said quickly. He held out his billfold.
“I’m not your mother, you blind son of a bitch,” the boy said, and turned his smile into a laugh. “I used to work in a restaurant and carve centerpieces out of ice.”
“Please,” Perry said. “Take our money and whatever else you want from the house and go.”
“Why aren’t we playing the game?” the boy said. He seemed to be genuinely puzzled. “Are you too fucked-up to play this game?”
They stood there silently.
“I was Freed’s friend, but I’m not good enough to be your friend, am I? Do you think your brother doesn’t like me, Francie, and that’s why the car deal fell through?”
Perry held out his billfold again.
“You’re a fucking coward,” the boy said. “I don’t want to see that again.”
Perry put it in his pocket.
“Take out the money,” the boy said then.
Perry removed his billfold and took the money out of it. He couldn’t throw the bills at the boy because they wouldn’t reach him, and he didn’t want to go closer.
“Say, ‘Mother may I give you the money?’ ”
Perry didn’t say it. He took a few steps closer and held out his hand. When the boy made no move, Perry said what the boy wanted.
“No!” the boy said and laughed.
“Make him get out,” Francie said to Perry.
“And then you’d be so happy!” the boy said suddenly. “You’d have no money, and one of you would have lost a car, but they’d find the car for you, and I might not even have wrecked it, and you could get more money and you could buy a deadbolt lock for your door — that’s what you’re supposed to have, Francie, not leave your door swinging open.”
“I didn’t,” Francie said to Perry. She stared at him, wanting him to agree with her.
“You want to lock your doors,” the boy said. “There are so many crazy people. Your friend, for instance — Freed. I could tell from the way he was acting toward me that you didn’t understand what was going on. I came back to set you straight. I know you probably think I came back to kill you, but the truth is, I decided I needed a car and some money for gas, and I thought I’d turn on the radio while I waited. If you wanted to give me your car keys, Francie, and if you wanted to get your money, I’d be grateful.”
Francie turned toward the backpack that hung from one strap on the doorknob, and the knife whizzed past her shoulder and stuck in the door. Perry was going to dive for it, but the knife was in too deeply; he would never get it out in time.
“Mother may I?” the boy said.
Francie sucked in her breath. It was a long time before she spoke, and said, “Mother may I get my money?”
“I’ll get it,” the boy said. He got up and Francie jumped back, next to Perry. The boy looked at the two of them and nodded politely. He had the Swiss army knife drawn, and as he spoke he began clicking out the parts; Perry looked at the corkscrew snap out. With his free hand the boy groped through her backpack for her wallet, found it and put it in his shirt pocket.
“Just like that,” the boy said, “I got everything I wanted, and now I can be going. Only I want your assurance that you won’t call the police.”
“No,” Francie said. “We won’t.”
“We won’t call,” Perry said, his voice overlaying hers.
“Do you think you’ll get a bolt for your door, Francie?” the boy said.
Francie was looking at the sofa cushion.
“She learns fast,” the boy said to Perry. “She learned the game and she knows what to do now. I’ve actually performed quite a service for you, Francie.”
The boy’s T-shirt said NATIONAL HOTEL, BLOCK ISLAND, R.I. When he got up to cross the room, the fly fell off his temple. Under the smeared glue Perry could see blood — the fly had been glued there to cover a sore.
“Of course, I could stay much longer,” the boy said. He paused dramatically. “But I hate to drive in rush hour,” he said.
Then he was gone. Neither of them moved toward the door. All the time he had been pulling knives out of his pocket, Perry had seen the butt of a gun sticking out of his pants pocket. Except for coming together, neither of them moved again until they heard the car screeching out of the driveway. Then Francie exhaled and he put his arm around her. He noticed for the first time that his hands were trembling. When he locked his fingers together, he could feel the joints vibrating against each other.
“It’s the first time I ever wanted to be old,” Francie said. “I thought I was going to die.”
They went to the kitchen to call the police, but the boy had cut the phone cord. The receiver, with a stub of cord, was placed on the top of the refrigerator, in a basket of apples. He had also slashed through one of Francie’s self-portraits, the one that had been propped in the kitchen for months. He had slashed her head until it was unrecognizable, but the body was untouched. Francie put her hand over her mouth when she saw that. And since there was no way to call the police, Perry went back to her.
“What if Meagan had been there?” she whispered. “And what was he saying about Freed — was there any sense to that?”
Perry snapped off the radio. For the first time since coming down the stairs and seeing the boy, Francie was crying. She was crying as hard as she had been the night before, when she got to the top of the stairs.
“All right, let’s take it from the top,” T.W. said, banging a Bic pen instead of a baton on Perry’s table instead of on a conductor’s podium.
The band started up, perfectly together, until suddenly Roger, swaying back and forth, wearing his Harvard letter sweater and a pair of cut-offs, lifted his trumpet and blared out the first bars of “Young At Heart.”
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Borka said. She cupped her hand and pretended to be speaking into a microphone. “And now I’d like to do an old favorite of mine: ‘As Time Goes By.’ ” Borka leaned into her hand again.
Everybody in the band was convulsed except T.W., who said, “All right, you piss-holes, we get the song down right or we practice all night.”
Borka stepped back behind the bass. Roger put down his trumpet.
“Here we go,” T.W. said, tapping the pen.
The band started playing, perfectly together. Less than ten seconds into the song, Roger picked up his trumpet and loudly blew the beginning of “Young At Heart” again.