Stephen King - It

He sipped some of his soda as Ruby went out, hardly tasting it.

Mr Keene waited until the door was shut and then smiled his dry sun-on-mica smile again. “Loosen up, Eddie. I’m not going to bite you, or hurt you.”

Eddie nodded, because Mr Keene was a grownup and you were supposed to agree with grownups at all costs (his mother had taught him that), but inside he was thinking: Oh, I’ve heard that bullshit before. It was about what the doctor said when he opened his sterilizer and the sharp frightening smell of alcohol drifted out, stinging his nostrils. That was the smell of shots and this was the smell of bullshit and both came down to the same thing: when they said it was just going to be a little prick, something you hardly felt at all, that meant it was going to hurt plenty.

He tried another half-hearted suck on his soda straw, but it was no good; he needed all the space in his narrowing throat just to suck in air. He looked at the aspirator sitting in the middle of Mr Keene’s blotter, wanted to ask for it, didn’t quite dare. A weird thought occurred to him: maybe Mr Keene knew he wanted it but didn’t dare ask for it, that maybe Mr Keene was

(torturing)

teasing him. Except that was a really stupid idea, wasn’t it? A grownup-particularly a health-dispensing grownup-wouldn’t tease a little kid that way, would he? Surely not. It wasn’t even to be considered, because consideration of such an idea might necessitate a terrifying reappraisal of the world as Eddie understood it.

But there it was, there it was, so near and yet so far, like water just beyond the reach of a man who was dying of thirst in the desert. There it was, standing on the desk below Mr Keene’s smiling mica eyes.

Eddie wished, more than anything else, that he was down in the Barrens with his friends around him. The thought of a monster, some great monster, lurking under the city where he had been born and where he had grown up, using the sewers and drains to creep from place to place-that was a frightening thought, and the thought of actually fighting that creature, of taking it on, was even more frightening… but somehow this was worse. How could you fight a grownup who said it wasn’t going to hurt when you knew it was? How could you fight a grownup who asked you funny questions and said obscurely ominous things like This has gone on long enough? And almost idly, in a kind of side-thought, Eddie discovered one of his childhood’s great truths. Grownups are the real monsters, he thought. It was no big deal, not a thought that came in a revelatory flash or announced itself with trumpets and bells. It just came and was gone, almost buried under the stronger, overriding thought: I want my aspirator and I want to be out of here.

“Loosen up,” Mr Keene said again. “Most of your trouble, Eddie, comes from being so tight and stiff all the time. Take your asthma, for instance. Look here.”

Mr Keene opened his desk drawer, fumbled around inside, and then brought out a balloon. Expanding his narrow chest as much as possible (his tie bobbed like a narrow boat riding a mild wave), he huffed into it and blew it up. CENTER STREET DRUG, the balloon said. PRESCRIPTIONS, SUNDRIES, OSTOMY SUPPLIES. Mr Keene pinched the balloon’s rubber neck and held the balloon out in front of him. “Now pretend for just a moment that this is a lung,” he said. “Your lung. I should really blow up two, of course, but since I only had one left from the sale we had just after Christmas-”

“Mr Keene, could I have my aspirator now?” Eddie’s head was starting to pound. He could feel his windpipe sealing itself up. His heartrate was up, and sweat stood out on his forehead. His chocolate ice-cream soda stood on the corner of Mr Keene’s desk, the cherry on top sinking slowly into a goo of whipped cream.

“In a minute,” Mr Keene said. “Pay attention, Eddie. I want to help you. It’s time somebody did. If Russ Handor isn’t man enough to do it, I’ll have to. Your lung is like this balloon, except it’s surrounded by a blanket of muscle; these muscles are like the arms of a man operating a bellows, you understand? In a healthy person, those muscles help the lungs to expand and contract easily. But if the owner of those healthy lungs is always getting stiff and tight, the muscles begin to work against the lungs rather than with them. Look!”

Mr Keene wrapped a bunched, bony, liverspotted hand around the balloon and squeezed. The balloon bulged over and under his fist and Eddie winced, trying to get ready for the pop. Simultaneously he felt his breathing stop altogether. He leaned over the desk and grabbed for the aspirator on the blotter. His shoulder struck the heavy ice-cream-soda glass. It toppled off the desk and shattered on the floor like a bomb.

Eddie heard that only dimly. He was clawing the top off the aspirator, slamming the nozzle into his mouth, triggering it off. He took a tearing heaving breath, his thoughts a ratrun of panic as they always were at moments like this: Please Mommy I’m suffocating I can’t BREATHE oh my dear God oh dear Jesus meekandmild I can’t BREATHE phase I don’t want to die don’t want to die oh please -

Then the fog from the aspirator condensed on the swollen walls of his throat and he could breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, nearly crying. “I’m sorry about the glass… I’ll clean it up and pay for it… just please don’t tell my mother, okay? I’m sorry, Mr Keene, but I couldn’t breathe -

There was that double tap at the door again and Ruby poked her head in. “Is everything-”

“Everything’s fine,” Mr Keene said sharply. “Leave us.”

“Well I’m saw-ry!” Ruby said. She rolled her eyes and closed the door.

Eddie’s breath was starting to whistle in his throat again. He took another pull at the aspirator and then began his fumbling apology once more. He ceased only when he saw that Mr Keene was smiling at him-that peculiar dry smile. Mr Keene’s hands were laced over his middle. The balloon lay on his desk. A thought came to Eddie; he tried to hold it back and couldn’t. Mr Keene looked as if Eddie’s asthma attack had tasted better to him than his half-finished coffee soda.

“Don’t be concerned,” he said. “Ruby will clean up the mess later, and if you want to know the truth, I’m rather glad you broke the glass. Because I promise not to tell your mother that you broke it if you promise not to tell her we had this little talk.”

“Oh, I promise that,” Eddie said eagerly.

“Good,” Mr Keene said. “We have an understanding. And you feel much better now, don’t you?”

Eddie nodded.

“Why?”

“Why? Well… because I had my medicine.” He looked at Mr Keene the way he looked at Mrs Casey in school when he had given an answer he wasn’t quite sure of.

“But you didn’t have any medicine,” Mr Keene said. “You had a placebo. A placebo, Eddie, is something that looks like medicine and tastes like medicine but isn’t medicine. A placebo isn’t medicine because it has no active ingredients. Or, if it is medicine, it’s medicine of a very special sort. Head-medicine.” Mr Keene smiled. “do you understand that, Eddie? Head-medicine.”

Eddie understood, all right; Mr Keene was telling him he was crazy. But through numb lips he said, “No, I don’t get you.”

“Let me tell you a little story,” Mr Keene said. “In 1954, a series of medical tests on ulcer patients was run at DePaul University. One hundred ulcer patients were given pills. They were all told the pills would help their ulcers, but fifty of the patients really got placebos… They were, in fact, M amp;M’s given a uniform pink coating.” Mr Keene uttered a strange shrill giggle-that of a man describing a prank rather than an experiment. “Of those one hundred patients, ninety-three said they felt a definite improvement, and eighty-one showed an improvement. So what do you think? What conclusion do you draw from such an experiment, Eddie?”