Stephen King - Dreamcatcher

“No,” Jonesy said, “because nothing’s going to blow up. Besides, I’m not Mel Gibson and you’re too fucking white to be Danny Glover. Listen, Beav. I’m going out to the shed-”

“Huh-uh, no way, don’t leave me here all by myself-”

“Shut up and listen. There’s friction tape out there, isn’t there?”

“Yeah, hangin on a nail, at least I think-”

“Hanging on a nail, that’s right. Near the paint-cans, I think. A big fat roll of it. I’m going to get that, then come back and tape the Ed down. Then-”

It leaped again, furiously, as if it could hear and understand. Well, how do we know it can’t? Jonesy thought. When it hit the bottom of the lid with a hard, vicious thud, the Beav winced.

“Then we’re getting out of here,” Jonesy finished.

“On the Cat?”

Jonesy nodded, although he had in fact forgotten all about the snowmobile. “Yeah, on the Cat. And we’ll hook up with Henry and Pete-'The Beav was shaking his head. “Quarantine, that’s what the guy in the helicopter said. That must be why they haven’t come back yet, don’t you think? They musta got held out by the-”

Thud!

Beaver winced. So did Jonesy.

“-by the quarantine.”

“That could be,” Jonesy said. “But listen, Beav-I’d rather be quarantined with Pete and Henry than here with… than here, wouldn’t you?”

“Let’s just flush it down,” Beaver said. “How about that?” Jonesy shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Because I saw the hole it made getting out,” Jonesy said, “and so did you. I don’t know what it is, but we’re not going to get rid of it just by pushing a handle. It’s too big.”

“Fuck.” Beaver slammed the heel of his hand against his forehead.

Jonesy nodded.

“All right, Jonesy. Go get the tape.”

In the doorway, Jonesy paused and looked back. “And Beaver…?”

The Beav raised his eyebrows.

“Sit tight, buddy-”

Beaver started to giggle. So did Jonesy. They looked at each other, Jonesy in the doorway and the Beav sitting on the closed toilet seat, snorting laughter. Then Jonesy burned across the big central room (still giggling-sit tight, the more he thought about it the funnier it seemed) toward the kitchen door. He felt hot and feverish, both horrified and hilarious. Sit tight. Jesus-Christ-Bananas.

Beav could hear Jonesy giggling all the way across the room, still giggling when he went out the door. In spite of everything, Beav was glad to hear that sound. It had already been a bad year for Jonesy, getting run over the way he had-for awhile there at first they’d all thought he was going to step out, and that was awful, poor old Jonesy wasn’t yet thirty-eight. Bad year for Pete, who’d been drinking too much, a bad year for Henry, who sometimes got a spooky absence about him that Beav didn’t understand and didn’t like… and now he guessed you could say it had been a bad year for Beaver Clarendon, as well. Of course this was only one day in three hundred and sixty-five, but you just didn’t get up in the morning thinking that by afternoon there’d be a dead guy laying naked in the tub and you’d be sitting on a closed toilet seat in order to keep something you hadn’t even seen from-

“Nope,” Beaver said. “Not going there, okay? Just not going there.”

And he didn’t have to. Jonesy would be back with the friction tape in a minute or two, three minutes tops. The question was where did he want to go until Jonesy returned? Where could he go and feel good?

Duddits, that was where. Thinking about Duddits always made him feel good. And Roberta, thinking about her was good, too. Undoubtedly.

Beav smiled, remembering the little woman in the yellow dress who’d been standing at the end of her walk on Maple Lane that day. The smile widened as he remembered how she’d caught sight of them. She had called her boy that same thing. She had called him.

“ Duddits! ” she cries, a little graying wren of a woman in a flowered print dress, then runs up the sidewalk toward them.

Duddits has been walking contentedly with his new friends, chattering away six licks to the minute, holding his Scooby-Doo lunchbox in his left hand and Jonesy’s hand in his right, swinging it cheerfully back and forth. His gabble seems to consist almost entirely of open vowel-sounds. The thing which amazes Beaver the most about it is how much of it he understands.

Now, catching sight of the graying birdie-woman, Duddits lets go of Jonesy’s hand and runs toward her, both of them running, and it reminds Beaver of some musical about a bunch of singers, the Von Cripps or Von Crapps or something like that. “Ah-mee, Ah-mee!” Duddits shouts exuberantly- Mommy! Mommy!

“Where have you been? Where have you been, you bad boy, you bad old Duddits!”

They come together and Duddits is so much bigger-two or three inches taller, too-that Beaver winces, expecting the birdie-woman to be flattened the way Coyote is always getting flattened in the Roadrunner cartoons. Instead, she picks him up and swings him around, his sneakered feet flying out behind him, his mouth stretched halfway up to his ears in an expression of joyful ecstasy.

“I was just about to go in and call the police, you bad old late thing, you bad old late D-”

She sees Beaver and his friends and sets her son down on his feet. Her smile of relief is gone; she is solemn as she steps toward them over some little girl’s hopscotch grid-crude as it is, Beav thinks, even that will always be beyond Duddits. The tears on her checks gleam in the glow of the sun that has finally broken through.

“Uh-oh,” Pete says. “We’re gonna catch it.”

“Be cool,” Henry says, speaking low and fast. “Let her rant and then I’ll explain.”

But they have misjudged Roberta Cavell-have judged her by the standard of so many adults who seem to view boys their age as guilty until proven innocent. Roberta Cavell isn’t that way, and neither is her husband, Alfie. The Cavells are different. Duddits has made them different.

“Boys,” she says again. “Was he wandering? Was he lost? I’ve been so afraid to let him walk, but he wants so much to be a real boy…” She gives Beaver’s fingers a strong squeeze with one hand and Pete’s with the other. Then she drops them, takes Jonesy’s and Henry’s hands, and gives them the same treatment. “Ma’am…” Henry begins.

Mrs Cavell looks at Henry with fixed concentration, as if she is trying to read his mind. “Not just lost,” she says. “Not just wandering.” “Ma’am Henry tries again, and then gives up any thought of dissembling. It is Duddits’s green gaze looking up at him from her face, only intelligent and aware, keen and questioning. “No, ma’am.” Henry sighs. “Not just wandering.”

“Because usually he comes right home. He says he can’t get lost because he sees the line. How many were there?”

“Oh, a few,” Jonesy says, then shoots a swift look at Henry. Beside them, Duddits has found a last few gone-to-seed dandelions on the neighbors” lawn and is down on his belly, blowing the fluff off them and watching it float away on the breeze. “A few boys were teasing him, ma’am.”

“Big boys,” Pete says.

Again her eyes search them, from Jonesy to Pete, from Pete to Beaver, and then back to Henry again. “Come up to the house with us,” she says. “I want to hear all about it. Duddits has a big glass of ZaRex every afternoon-it’s his special drink-but I’ll bet you guys would rather have iced tea. Wouldn’t you?”

The three of them look at Henry, who considers and then nods. “Yes, ma’am, iced tea would be great.”