When he finishes, Eddie pours himself another drink with a hand not completely steady. He looks at Beverly and says, “You saw It, didn’t you? You saw It take Patrick Hockstetter the day after you all signed my cast.”
The others lean forward.
Beverly pushes her hair back in a reddish cloud. Beneath it her face looks extraordinarily pale. She fumbles a fresh cigarette out of her pack—the last one—and flicks her Bic. She can’t seem to guide the flame to the tip of her cigarette. After a moment Bill holds her wrist lightly but firmly and puts the flame where it’s supposed to go. Beverly looks at him gratefully and exhales a cloud of bluish-gray smoke.
“Yeah,” she says. “I saw that happen.”
She shivers.
“He was cruh-cruh-crazy,” Bill says, and thinks: Just the fact that Henry let a flako like Patrick Hockstetter hang around as that summer wore on . . . that says something, doesn’t it? Either that Henry was losing some of his charm, some of his attraction, or that Henry’s own craziness had progressed far enough so that the Hockstetter kid seemed okay to him. Both came to the same thing—Henry’s increasing . . . what? degeneration? Is that the word? Yes, in light of what happened to him, where he ended up, I think it is.
There’s something else to support the idea, too, Bill thinks, but as yet he can only remember it vaguely. He and Richie and Beverly had been down at Tracker Brothers—early August by then, and the summer-school that had kept Henry out of their hair for most of the summer was just about to end—and hadn’t Victor Criss approached them? A very frightened Victor Criss? Yes, that had happened. Things had been rapidly approaching the end by then, and Bill thinks now that every kid in Derry had sensed it—the Losers and Henry’s group most of all. But that had been later.
“Oh yeah you got that right,” Beverly says flatly. “Patrick Hockstetter was crazy. None of the girls would sit in front of him in school. You’d be sitting there, doing your arithmetic or writing a story or a composition, and all at once you’d feel this hand . . . almost as light as a feather, but warm and sweaty. Meaty.” She swallows, and there is a small click in her throat. The others watch her solemnly from around the table. “You’d feel it on your side, or maybe on your breast. Not that any of us had much in the way of breasts back then. But Patrick didn’t seem to care about that.
“You’d feel that . . . that touch, and you’d jerk away from it, and turn around, and there Patrick would be, grinning with those big rubbery lips. He had a pencil box—”
“Full of flies,” Richie says suddenly. “Sure. He’d kill em with this green ruler he had and then put em in his pencil box. I even remember what it looked like—red, with a wavy white plastic cover that slid open and closed.”
Eddie is nodding.
“You’d jerk away and he’d grin and then maybe he’d open his pencil box so you could see the dead flies inside,” Beverly says. “And the worst thing—the horrible thing—was the way he’d smile and never say anything. Mrs. Douglas knew. Greta Bowie told on him, and I think Sally Mueller said something once, too. But . . . I think Mrs. Douglas was scared of him, too.”
Ben has rocked back on the rear legs of his chair, and his hands are laced behind his neck. She still cannot believe how lean he is. “I’m pretty sure you’re right,” he says.
“Wh-What h-happened to h-h-him, Beverly?” Bill asks.
She swallows again, trying to fight off the nightmarish power of what she saw that day in the Barrens, her roller skates tied together and hung over her shoulder, one knee a stinging net of pain from a fall she had taken on Saint Crispin’s Lane, another of the short tree-lined streets that dead-ended where the land fell (and still falls) sharply into the Barrens. She remembers (oh these memories, when they come, are so clear and so powerful) that she was wearing a pair of denim shorts—really too short, they came only to just below the hem of her panties. She had become more conscious of her body over the last year—over the last six months, actually, as it began to curve and become more womanly. The mirror was one reason for this heightened consciousness, of course, but not the main one; the main one was that her father seemed even sharper just lately, more apt to use his slapping hand or even his fists. He seemed restless, almost caged, and she was more and more nervous when she was around him, more and more on her mark. It was as if there was a smell they made between them, a smell that wasn’t there when she was in the apartment alone, one that had never been there when they were in it together—not until this summer. And when Mom was gone it was worse. If there was a smell, some smell, then he knew it too, maybe, because Bev saw less and less of him as the hot weather wore on, partly because of his summer bowling league, partly because he was helping his friend Joe Tammerly fix cars . . . but she suspects it was partly that smell, the one they made between them, neither of them meaning to but making it just the same, as helpless to stop it as either was helpless to stop sweating in July.
The vision of the birds, hundreds and thousands of them, descending on the roofpeaks of houses, on telephone wires, on TV aerials, intervenes again.
“And poison ivy,” she says aloud.
“W-W-What?” Bill asks.
“Something about poison ivy,” she says slowly, looking at him. “But it wasn’t. It just felt like poison ivy. Mike—?”
“Never mind,” Mike says. “It will come. Tell us what you do remember, Bev.”
I remember the blue shorts, she would tell them, and how faded they were getting; how tight around my hips and butt. I had half a pack of Lucky Strikes in one pocket and the Bullseye in the other—
“Do you remember the Bullseye?” she asks Richie, but they all nod.
“Bill gave it to me,” she says. “I didn’t want it, but it . . . he . . .” She smiles at Bill, a little wanly. “You couldn’t say no to Big Bill, that was all. So I had it and that’s why I was out by myself that day. To practice. I still didn’t think I’d have the guts to use it when the time came. Except . . . I used it that day. I had to. I killed one of them . . . one of the parts of It. It was terrible. Even now it’s hard for me to think of. And one of the others got me. Look.”
She raises her arm and turns it over so they can all see a puckery scar on the roundest part of her upper forearm. It looks as if a hot circular object about the size of a Havana cigar had been pressed against her skin. It is slightly sunken, and looking at it gives Mike Hanlon a chill. This is one of the parts of the story which, like Eddie’s unwilling heart-to-heart with Keene, he has suspected but never actually heard.
“You were right about one thing, Richie,” she says. “That Bullseye was a killer. I was scared of it, but I sorta loved it, too.”
Richie laughs and claps her on the back. “Shit, I knew that back then, you stupid skirt.”
“You did? Really?”
“Yeah, really,” he says. “It was something in your eyes, Bevvie.”
“I mean, it looked like a toy, but it was real. You could blow holes in things.”
“And you blew a hole in something with it that day,” Ben muses.
She nods.
“Was it Patrick you—”
“No, God no!” Beverly says. “It was the other . . . wait.” She crushes out her cigarette, sips her drink, and gets herself under control again. Finally she is. Well . . . no. But she has a feeling it’s the closest she’s going to get tonight. “I was roller-skating, you see, and I fell down and gave myself a good scrape. Then I decided I’d go down to the Barrens and practice. I went by the clubhouse first to see if you guys were there. You weren’t. Just that smoky smell. You guys remember how long that place went on smelling of smoke?”
They all nod, smiling.
“We never really did get the smell out, did we?” Ben says.
“So then I headed down to the dump,” she says, “because that’s where we had the . . . the tryouts, I guess you’d call them, and I knew there’d be lots of things to shoot at. Maybe even, you know, rats.” She pauses. There’s a fine misty sweat on her forehead now. “That’s what I really wanted to shoot at,” she says finally. “Something that was alive. Not a seagull—I knew I couldn’t shoot a gull—but a rat . . . I wanted to see if I could.
“I’m glad I came from the Kansas Street side instead of the Old Cape side, though, because there wasn’t much cover over there by the railroad embankment. They would have seen me and God knows what would have happened then.”
“Who would have suh-suh-seen y-you?”
“Them,” Beverly says. “Henry Bowers, Victor Criss, Belch Huggins, and Patrick Hockstetter. They were down in the dump and—”
Suddenly, amazing all of them, she begins to giggle like a child, her cheeks turning rose-red. She giggles until tears stand in her eyes.
“What the hell, Bev,” Richie says. “Let us in on the joke.”
“Oh it was a joke, all right,” she says. “It was a joke, but I think they might have killed me if they knew I’d seen.”
“I remember now!” Ben cries, and he begins to laugh, too. “I remember you telling us!”
Giggling wildly, Beverly says, “They had their pants down and they were lighting farts.”
There is an instant of thunderstruck silence and then they all begin to laugh—the sound echoes through the library.
Thinking of exactly how to tell them of Patrick Hockstetter’s death, the thing she fixes on first is how approaching the town dump from the Kansas Street side was like entering some weird asteroid belt. There was a rutted dirt track (a town road, actually; it even had a name, Old Lyme Street) that ran from Kansas Street to the dump, the only actual road into the Barrens—the city’s dump trucks used it. Beverly walked near Old Lyme Street but didn’t take it—she had grown more cautious—she supposed all of them had—since Eddie’s arm had been broken. Especially when she was alone.
She wove her way through the heavy undergrowth, skirting a patch of poison ivy with its reddish oily leaves, smelling the dump’s smoky rot, hearing the seagulls. On her left, through occasional breaks in the foliage, she could see Old Lyme Street.
The others are looking at her, waiting. She checks her cigarette pack and finds it empty. Wordlessly, Richie tosses her one of his.
She lights up, looks around at them, and says: “Heading toward the dump from the Kansas Street side was a little like . . .
. . . entering some weird asteroid belt. The dumpoid belt. At first there was nothing but the underbrush growing from the spongy ground underfoot, and then you would see your first dumpoid: a rusty can that had once contained Prince Spaghetti Sauce, maybe, or an S’OK soda bottle crawling with bugs attracted by the sweet-sticky remains of cream soda or birch beer. Then there would be a bright wink of sun kicking off a scrap of tinfoil caught in a tree. You might see a bedspring (or trip over it, if you weren’t watching where you were going) or a bone some dog had carried away, gnawed, dropped.
The dump itself wasn’t so bad—was, in fact, sort of interesting, Beverly thought. What was nasty (and sort of creepy) was the way it had of spreading. Of creating this dumpoid belt.
She was getting closer now; the trees were bigger, mostly firs, and the bushes were thinning out. The gulls cheeped and cried in their shrill querulous voices, and the air was smudgy with the smell of burning.
Now, on Beverly’s right, leaning at an angle against the base of a spruce tree, was a rusty Amana refrigerator. Beverly glanced at it, thinking vaguely of the state policeman who had visited her class when she had been in the third grade. He had told them that such things as discarded refrigerators were dangerous—a kid could climb into one while playing hide-and-go-seek, for instance, and smother to death inside. Although why anyone would want to get in a scroungy old—
She heard a shout, so close it made her jump, followed by laughter. Beverly grinned. So they were here. They had left the clubhouse because of the smoky smell and had come down here. They were maybe breaking bottles with rocks, maybe just dump-picking.
She began to walk a little faster, the nasty scrape she had gotten earlier now forgotten in her eagerness to see them . . . to see him, with his red hair so much like hers, to see if he would smile at her in that oddly endearing one-sided way of his. She knew she was too young to love a boy, too young to have anything but “crushes,” but she loved Bill just the same. And she walked a little faster, her skates swinging heavily from her shoulder, the sling of his Bullseye beating soft time against her left buttock.
She almost walked into them before realizing it wasn’t her gang at all, but Bowers’s.
She walked out of the screening bushes and the dump’s steepest side lay about seventy yards ahead, a twinkling avalanche of junk lying along the high angle of the gravel-pit. Mandy Fazio’s bulldozer was off to the left. Much closer in front of her was a wilderness of junked cars. At the end of each month these were crushed and hauled off to Portland for scrap, but now there were a dozen or more, some sitting on bare wheel-rims, some on their sides, one or two lying on their roofs like dead dogs. They were arranged in two rows and Beverly walked down the rough trash-littered aisle between them like some punk bride of the future, wondering idly if she could break a windshield with the Bullseye. One of the pockets of her blue shorts bulged with the small ball-bearings that were her practice ammo.
The voices and laughter were coming from beyond the junked-out cars and to the left, at the edge of the dump proper. Beverly rounded the last one, a Studebaker with its entire front end missing. Her hail of greeting died on her lips. The hand she had put up to wave did not exactly fall back to her side; it seemed to wilt.
Her first furiously embarrassed thought was: Oh dear God, why are they all naked?
This was followed by the scary realization of who they were. She froze there in front of the half-Studebaker with her shadow stapled to the heels of her low-topped sneakers. For that one moment she was totally visible to them; if any of the four had looked up from the circle they were squatting in, he could not have missed her, a girl of slightly more than medium height, a pair of skates over one shoulder, the knee of one long coltish leg still oozing blood, her mouth slack-jawed, her cheeks scarlet.
Before darting back behind the Studebaker she saw that they weren’t entirely naked after all; they had their shirts on, and their pants and underpants were simply pulled down to their shoetops, as if they had to Go Number Two (in her shock, Beverly’s mind had automatically reverted to the euphemism she had been taught as a toddler)—except whoever heard of four boys Going Number Two at the same time?
Once out of sight again, her first thought was to get away—get away fast. Her heart was pumping hard, her muscles heavy with adrenaline. She looked around, seeing what she hadn’t bothered to notice walking up here, when she had thought the voices she heard belonged to her friends. The row of junked cars on her left was really pretty thin—they were by no means packed in door to door as they would be in the week or so before the crusher came to turn them into rough blocks of twinkling metal. She had been exposed to the boys several times walking up to where she was now; if she retreated, she would be exposed again, and this time she might be seen.
Also, she felt a certain shameful curiosity: what in the world could they be doing?
Carefully, she peeked around the Studebaker.
Henry and Victor Criss were more or less facing in her direction. Patrick Hockstetter was on Henry’s left. Belch Huggins had his back to her. She observed the fact that Belch had an extremely large, extremely hairy ass, and half-hysterical giggles suddenly bubbled up her throat like the head on a glass of ginger ale. She had to clap both hands over her mouth and withdraw behind the Studebaker again, struggling to hold the giggles in.
You’ve got to get out of here, Beverly. If they catch you—
She looked back down between the junked cars, still holding her hands over her mouth. The aisle was maybe ten feet wide, littered with cans, twinkling with little jigsaw pieces of Saf-T-Glas, scruffy with weeds. If she so much as made a sound, they might hear her . . . particularly if their absorption in whatever strange thing they were doing flagged. When she thought of how casually she had walked up here, her blood ran cold. Also . . .
What in the world can they be doing?
She peeked again, seeing more of the details this time. There was a careless scatter of books and papers nearby—schoolbooks. They had just come from their summer classes, then, what most of the kids called Dummy School or Make-up School. And, because Henry and Victor were facing her way, she could see their things. They were the first things she had ever seen in her life, other than pictures in a smudgy little book that Brenda Arrowsmith had showed her the year before, and in those pictures you really couldn’t see very much. Bev observed now that their things were little tubes that hung down between their legs. Henry’s was small and hairless, but Victor’s was quite big, and there was a cloudy fuzz of fine black hair just over it.
Bill has one of those, she thought, and suddenly her whole body seemed to flush at once—heat rushed through her in a wave that made her feel giddy and faint and almost sick to her stomach. In that moment she felt much the way Ben Hanscom had felt on the last day of school, looking down at her ankle bracelet and observing the way it flashed in the sun . . . but he had not felt the intermixed sense of terror she felt now.
She looked behind her once more. Now the pathway between the cars leading to the shelter of the Barrens seemed much longer. She was scared to move. If they knew she had seen their things, they would probably hurt her. And not just a little. They would hurt her badly.
Belch Huggins bellowed suddenly, making her jump, and Henry yelled: “Three feet! No shit, Belch! It was three feet! Wasn’t it, Vic?”
Vic agreed it was, and they all roared with troll-like laughter.
Beverly tried another look around the junked Studebaker.
Patrick Hockstetter had turned and half-risen so that his butt was nearly in Henry’s face. In Henry’s hand was a silvery, glinting object. After a moment’s study she made it out as a lighter.
“I thought you said you felt one coming on,” Henry said.
“I do,” Patrick said. “I’ll tell you when. Get ready! . . . Get ready, it’s coming! Get . . . now!”
Henry flicked the lighter. At the same moment there was the unmistakable ripping sound of a really good fart. There was no mistaking that sound; Beverly had heard it enough in her own house, usually on Saturday night, after the beans and franks. A regular bear for his beans was her father. As Patrick blew off and Henry flicked the lighter, she saw something that made her jaw drop. A bright blue jet of flame appeared to roar directly out of Patrick’s bum. To Bev it looked like the pilot-light on a gas-burner.
The boys roared their troll-like laughter and Beverly withdrew behind the sheltering car, stifling mad giggles again. She was laughing, but not because she was amused. In some very weird way it was funny, yes, but mostly she was laughing because she felt a deep revulsion accompanied by a sort of horror. She was laughing because she knew of no other way to cope with what she had seen. It had something to do with seeing the boys’ things, but that was by no means all or even the great part of what she felt. She had known, after all, that boys had things, the same way she knew that girls had different things; this was only what you might call a confirmed sighting. But the rest of what they were doing seemed so strange, so ludicrous and yet at the same time so deadly-primitive that she found herself, in spite of the giggling fit, groping for the core of herself with some desperation.
Stop, she thought, as if this were the answer, stop, they’ll hear you, so just you stop it, Bevvie!
But that was impossible. The best she could do was to laugh without engaging her vocal cords, so that the sounds came out of her in a series of almost inaudible chuffs, her hands pasted over her mouth, her cheeks as red as Mac apples, her eyes swimming with tears.
“Holy shit, that hurts!” Victor roared.
“Twelve feet!” Henry bellowed. “I swear to God, Vic, twelve fuckin feet! I swear it on my mother’s name!”
“I don’t care if it was twenty fuckin feet, you burned my ass off!” Victor howled, and there was more bellowing laughter; still trying to giggle silently from behind the sheltering car, Beverly thought of a movie she had seen on TV. Jon Hall had been in it. It was about this jungle tribe, they had a secret rite, and if you saw it, you got sacrificed to their god, which was this big stone idol. This did not stop her giggles, but infused them with a nearly frantic quality. They were becoming more and more like silent screams. Her belly hurt. Tears streamed down her face.
Henry, Victor, Belch, and Patrick Hockstetter ended up in the dump lighting each others’ farts on that hot July afternoon because of Rena Davenport.
Henry knew what resulted from consuming large amounts of baked beans. This result was perhaps best expressed in a little ditty he had learned at his father’s knee when he was still in short pants: Beans, beans, the musical fruit! The more you eat, the more you toot! The more you toot, the better you feel! Then you’re ready for another meal!
Rena Davenport and his father had been courting for nearly eight years. She was fat, forty, and usually filthy. Henry supposed that Rena and his father sometimes fucked, although he could not imagine anyone squashing his body down on Rena Davenport’s.
Rena’s beans were her pride. She soaked them Saturday nights and baked them over a slow fire all day Sunday. Henry supposed they were okay—they were something to shovel into your mouth and chew up, anyway—but after eight years anything lost its charm.
Nor was Rena content to make just a few beans; she cooked them in job lots. When she turned up Sunday evenings in her old green De Soto (a naked rubber babydoll hung from the rearview mirror, looking like the world’s youngest lynch-mob victim), she usually had the Bowerses’ beans steaming on the seat beside her in a twelve-gallon galvanized-steel pail. The three of them would eat the beans that night (Rena raving about her own cooking all the while, crazy Butch Bowers grunting and mopping up bean juice with a piece of Sonny Boy bread or simply telling her to shut up if there was a ballgame on the radio, Henry just eating, staring out the window, thinking his own thoughts—-it was over a plate of Sunday-night beans that he had conceived the idea of poisoning Mike Hanlon’s dog Mr. Chips), and Butch would reheat a mess of them the next night. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays Henry would take a Tupperware box full of them to school. By Thursday or Friday, neither Henry nor his father could eat any more. The house’s two bedrooms would smell of stale farts in spite of the open windows. Butch would take the remains and mix them into the other slops and feed them to Bip and Bop, the Bowerses’ two pigs. Rena would like as not show up the following Sunday with another steaming pail, and the cycle would start all over again.
That morning Henry had put up an enormous quantity of leftover beans, and the four of them had eaten the whole lot at noon, sitting out on the playground in the shade of a big old elm. They had eaten until they were nearly bursting.
It had been Patrick who suggested they go down to the dump, which would be fairly quiet in the middle of a working-day summer afternoon. By the time they arrived, the beans were doing their work quite nicely.
Little by little, Beverly got herself under control again. She knew she had to get out; beating a retreat was ultimately less dangerous than hanging around. They were absorbed in what they were doing, and even if worse came to worst, she could get a head-start (and in the back of her mind she had also decided that, if worst came to terrible, a few shots from the Bullseye might discourage them).
She was about to begin creeping away when Victor said, “I gotta go, Henry. My dad wants me to help him pick corn this afternoon.”
“Oh shit,” Henry said. “He’ll live.”
“No, he’s mad at me. Because of what happened the other day.”
“Fuck him if he can’t take a joke.”
Beverly listened more closely now, suspecting it might be the scuffle which had ended with Eddie’s broken arm that they were talking about.
“No, I gotta go.”
“I think his ass hurts,” Patrick said.
“Watch your mouth, fuckface,” Victor said. “It might grow on you.”
“I got to go too,” Belch said.
“Your father want you to pick corn?” Henry asked angrily. This was what might have passed for a jest in Henry’s mind; Belch’s father was dead.
“No. But I got a job delivering the Weekly Shopper. I gotta do that tonight.”
“What’s this Weekly Shopper crap?” Henry asked, now sounding upset as well as angry.
“It’s a job,” Belch said with ponderous patience. “I make money.”
Henry made a disgusted sound, and Beverly risked another peek around the car. Victor and Belch were standing, buckling their belts. Henry and Patrick were still squatting with their pants down. The lighter glinted in Henry’s hand.
“You’re not chickening out, are you?” Henry asked Patrick.
“Nope,” Patrick said.
“You don’t have to pick corn or go do some pussy job?”
“Nope,” Patrick said again.
“Well,” Belch said uncertainly, “see you around, Henry,”
“Sure,” Henry said, and spat near one of Belch’s clodhopping workshoes.
Vic and Belch started off together toward the two rows of wrecked cars . . . toward the Studebaker behind which Beverly was crouching. At first she could only cringe, frozen with fear like a rabbit. Then she slid around the left side of the Studebaker and backed down the gap between it and the battered, doorless Ford next to it. For a moment she paused, looking from side to side, hearing them approach. She hesitated, her mouth cottony-dry, her back itchy with sweat; a part of her mind was numbly wondering how she’d look in a cast like Eddie’s, with the Losers’ names signed on it. Then she dived into the Ford on the passenger side. She curled up on the filthy floormat, making herself as small as possible. It was boiling hot inside the junked-out Ford, and it smelled so thickly of dust, rotting upholstery, and elderly rat-crap that she had to struggle grimly to keep from sneezing or coughing. She heard Belch and Victor pass close by, talking in low voices. Then they were gone.
She sneezed three times, quickly and quietly, into her cupped hands.
She supposed she could go now, if she was careful. The best way to do it would be to shift over to the driver’s side of the Ford, sneak back to the aisle, and then just do a fade. She believed she could manage it, but the shock of almost being discovered had robbed her of her courage, at least for the time being. She felt safer here in the Ford. And maybe, now that Victor and Belch had gone, the other two would also go soon. Then she could go back to the clubhouse. She had lost all interest in target-shooting.
Also, she had to pee.
Come on, she thought. Come on, hurry up and go, hurry up and go, puh-LEEZE!
A moment later she heard Patrick roar with mixed laughter and pain.
“Six feet!” Henry bellowed. “Just like a fuckin blowtorch! Swear to God!”
Silence then for awhile. Sweat trickling down her back. The sun beating through the Ford’s cracked windshield on the nape of her neck. Heaviness in her bladder.
Henry bellowed so loud that Beverly, who had been close to dozing in spite of her discomfort, almost cried out herself. “Damn it, Hockstetter! You burned my frigging ass! What are you doing with that lighter?”
“Ten feet,” Patrick giggled (just the sound of it made Bev feel cold and revolted, as if she had seen a worm squirm its way out of her salad). “Ten feet if it was an inch, Henry. Bright blue. Ten feet if it was an inch. Swear to God!”
“Gimme that,” Henry grunted.
Come on, come on, you stupidniks, go, get out!
When Patrick spoke again his voice was so low Bev could barely hear it. If there had been the slightest breath of wind on the air that baking afternoon, she would not have done.
“Let me show you something,” Patrick said.
“What?” Henry asked.
“Just something.” Patrick paused. “It feels good.”
“What?” Henry asked again.
Then there was silence.
I don’t want to look, I don’t want to see what they’re doing now, and besides, they might see me, in fact they probably will because you’ve used up all your luck today, girly-o. So just stay right here. No peeking . . .
But her curiosity had overcome her good sense. There was something strange in that silence, something a little bit scary. She raised her head inch by inch until she could look through the Ford’s cracked cloudy windshield. She needn’t have worried about being seen; both of the boys were concentrating on what Patrick was doing. She didn’t understand what she was seeing, but she knew it was nasty . . . not that she would have expected anything else from Patrick, who was just so weird.
He had one hand between Henry’s thighs and one hand between his own. One hand was flogging Henry’s thing gently; with his other hand Patrick was rubbing his own. Except he wasn’t exactly rubbing it—he was kind of . . . squoozing it, pulling it, letting it flop back down.
What is he doing? Beverly wondered, dismayed.
She didn’t know, not for sure, but it scared her. She didn’t think she had been this scared since the blood had vomited out of the bathroom drain and splattered all over everything. Some deep part of her cried out that if they discovered she had seen this, whatever it was, they might do more than hurt her; they might actually kill her.
Still, she couldn’t look away.
She saw that Patrick’s thing had gotten a little longer, but not much; it still dangled between his legs like a snake with no backbone. Henry’s, however, had grown amazingly. It stood up stiff and hard, almost poking his bellybutton. Patrick’s hand went up and down, up and down, sometimes pausing to squeeze, sometimes tickling that odd, heavy sac under Henry’s thing.
Those are his balls, Beverly thought. Do boys have to go around with those all the time? God, I’d go crazy! Another part of her mind then whispered: Bill has those. On its own, her mind visualized her holding them, cupping them in her hand, testing their texture . . . and that hot feeling raced through her again, sparking off a furious blush.
Henry stared at Patrick’s hand as if hypnotized. His lighter lay on the rocky scree beside him, reflecting hot afternoon sun.
“Want me to put it in my mouth?” Patrick asked. His big, livery lips smiled complacently.
“Huh?” Henry asked, as if startled from some deep dream.
“I’ll put it in my mouth if you want. I don’t m—”
Henry’s hand flashed out, half-curled, not quite a fist. Patrick was knocked sprawling. His head thudded on the gravel. Beverly dived down again, her heart crashing in her chest, her teeth locked against a little whimpering moan. After knocking Patrick down, Henry had turned and for a moment, just before she dropped back into her little huddled ball on the passenger side of the driveshaft hump, it seemed that her eyes and Henry’s had locked.
Please God the sun was in his eyes, she prayed. Please God I’m sorry I peeked. Please God.
There was an agonizing pause then. Her white blouse was plastered to her body with sweat. Droplets like seed pearls gleamed on her tanned arms. Her bladder throbbed painfully. She felt that very soon she would wet her pants. She waited for Henry’s furious crazy face to appear in the opening where the Ford’s passenger door had been, sure it was going to happen—how could he have missed seeing her? He would drag her out and hurt her. He would—
A new and even more terrible thought now occurred to her, and once again she had to engage in a painful, crampy struggle to keep from wetting her pants. Suppose he did something to her with his thing? Suppose he wanted her to put it in her somewhere? She knew where it was supposed to go, all right; it seemed that knowledge had suddenly sprung into her mind full-blown. She thought that if Henry tried to put his thing in her she would go crazy.
Please no, please God don’t let him have seen me, please, okay?
Then Henry spoke, and to her growing horror his voice was coming from someplace much closer. “I don’t go for that queer stuff.”
From farther off, Patrick’s voice: “You liked it.”
“I didn’t like it!” Henry shouted. “And if you tell anyone I did, I’ll kill you, you fucking little pansy!”
“You got a boner,” Patrick said. He sounded like he was smiling. As much as she feared Henry Bowers, the smile would not have surprised Beverly. Patrick was crazy, crazier than Henry, maybe, and people that crazy weren’t afraid of anything. “I saw it.”
Footsteps crunched over the gravel—closer and closer. Beverly looked up, her eyes bulging. Through the Ford’s old windshield she could now see the back of Henry’s head. He was looking toward Patrick now, but if he turned around—
“If you tell anyone, I’ll say you’re a cocksucker,” Henry said. “Then I’ll kill you.”
“You don’t scare me, Henry,” Patrick said, and giggled. “But I might not tell if you gave me a dollar.”
Henry shifted restlessly. He turned slightly; Beverly could now see one-quarter of his profile instead of just the back of his head. Please God please God, she begged incoherently, and her bladder throbbed more strongly.
“If you tell,” Henry said, his voice low and deliberate, “I’ll tell what you’ve been doing with the cats. With the dogs, too. I’ll tell them about your refrigerator. You know what’ll happen, Hockstetter? They’ll come and take you away and put you into the fucking-A looneybin.”
Silence from Patrick.
Henry drummed his fingers on the hood of the Ford Beverly was hiding in. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.” Patrick sounded sullen now. Sullen and a little scared. He burst out: “You liked it! You got a boner! Biggest boner I ever saw!”
“Yeah, I bet you seen a lot of em, you fuckin little homo faggot. You just remember what I said about the refrigerator. Your refrigerator. And if I see you around again, I’ll knock your block off.”
More silence from Patrick.
Henry moved away. Beverly turned her head and saw him pass by the driver’s side of the Ford. If he had looked to his left even a little bit, he would have seen her. But he didn’t look. A moment later she heard him heading off the way Victor and Belch had gone.
Now there was just Patrick.
Beverly waited, but nothing happened. Five minutes dragged by. Her need to urinate was now desperate. She might be able to hold out for another two or three minutes, but no more. And it made her uneasy not to know for sure where Patrick was.
She peeked through the windshield again and saw him just sitting there. Henry had forgotten his lighter. Patrick had put his schoolbooks back into a small canvas carrier sack and had slung it around his neck like a newsboy’s, but his pants and underpants were still down around his ankles. He was playing with the lighter. He would spin the wheel, produce a flame that was almost invisible in the bright day, snap the lighter closed, and then start all over again. He seemed hypnotized. A line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth to his chin, and his lips were swelling up on the right side. He seemed not to notice, and once again Beverly felt a squirmy sort of revulsion. Patrick was crazy, all right; she had never in her life wanted so badly to get away from someone.
Moving very carefully, she crawled backward over the Ford’s driveshaft hump and squeezed under the steering wheel. She put her feet out on the ground and crept to the back of the Ford. Then she ran quickly back the way she had come. When she had entered the pines beyond the junked cars, she looked back over her shoulder. No one was there. The dump dozed in the sun. She felt the bands of tension around her chest and stomach loosen with relief, and all that was left was the need to urinate, so great that she now felt sick with it.
She hurried down the path a short way and then ducked off to the right. She had her shorts unsnapped almost before the underbrush had closed behind her again. She took a quick look around to make sure there was no poison ivy at hand; then she squatted, holding the tough trunk of a bush for balance.
She was pulling her shorts up again when she heard approaching footsteps from the dump. All she could see through the bushes were flashes of blue denim and the faded plaid of a school-shirt. It was Patrick. She ducked down, waiting for him to pass by toward Kansas Street. She was more sanguine about her position here. The cover was good, she no longer had to pee, and Patrick was off in his own cuckoo world. When he was gone she would double back and head for the clubhouse.
But Patrick didn’t pass by. He stopped on the path almost directly opposite her and stood looking at the rusting Amana refrigerator.
Beverly could observe Patrick along a natural sight-line in the bushes without too much chance of being seen. Now that she was relieved, she found she was curious again—and if Patrick did happen to see her, she felt certain she could outrun him. He wasn’t as fat as Ben, but he was podgy. She pulled the Bullseye out of her back pocket, however, and put half a dozen steel pellets in the breast pocket of her old Ship ’n Shore. Crazy or not, a good one to the knee might discourage the likes of Patrick Hockstetter in a hurry.
She remembered the refrigerator well enough now. There were lots of discarded fridges at the dump, but it suddenly occurred to her that this was the only one she’d seen which Mandy Fazio hadn’t disarmed by either tearing out the latching mechanism with pliers or simply removing the door altogether.
Patrick began to hum and sway back and forth in front of the rusty old refrigerator, and Beverly felt a fresh chill course through her. He was like a guy in a horror movie trying to summon a dead body out of a crypt.
What’s he up to?
But if she had known that, or what was going to happen when Patrick finished his private ritual and opened the dead Amana’s rusty door, she would have run away as fast as she could.