Stephen King - It

“Okay.”

“You g-g-got any guh-guh-guns?”

“I got my Daisy air rifle,” Ben said. “My mom gave it to me for Christmas, but she gets mad if I shoot it off in the house.”

“B-Bring it d-d-down,” Bill said. “We’ll play g-guns, maybe.”

“Okay,” Ben said happily. “Listen, I got to split for home, you guys.”

“Uh-Us, too,” Bill said.

The three of them left the Barrens together. Ben helped Bill push Silver up the embankment. Eddie trailed behind them, wheezing again and looking unhappily at his blood-spotted shirt.

Bill said goodbye and then pedaled off, shouting “Hi-yo Silver, AWAYYY!” at the top of his lungs.

“That’s a gigantic bike,” Ben said.

“Bet your fur,” Eddie said. He had taken another gulp from his aspirator and was breathing normally again. “He rides me double sometimes on the back. Goes so fast it just about scares the crap outta me. He’s a good man, Bill is.” He said this last in an offhand way, but his eyes said something more emphatic. They were worshipful. “You know about what happened to his brother, don’t you?”

“No-what about him?”

“Got killed last fail. Some guy killed him. Pulled one of his arms right off, just like pulling a wing off n a fly.”

“Jeezum-crow!”

“Bill, he used to only stutter a little. Now it’s really bad. Did you notice that he stutters?”

“Well… a little.”

“But his brains don’t stutter-get what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, I just told you because if you want Bill to be your friend, it’s better not to talk to him about his little brother. Don’t ask him questions or anythin. He’s all frigged up about it.”

“Man, I would be, too,” Ben said. He remembered now, vaguely, about the little kid who had been killed the previous fall. He wondered if his mother had been thinking about George Denbrough when she gave him the watch he now wore, or only about the more recent killings. “did it happen right after the big flood?”

“Yeah.”

They had reached the corner of Kansas and Jackson, where they would have to split up. Kids ran here and there, playing tag and throwing baseballs. One dorky little kid in big blue shorts went trotting self-importantly past Ben and Eddie, wearing a Davy Crockett coonskin backward so that the tail hung down between his eyes. He was rolling a Hula Hoop and yelling “Hoop-tag, you guys! Hoop-tag, wanna?”

The two bigger boys looked after him, amused, and then Eddie said: “Well, I gotta go.”

“Wait a sec,” Ben said. “I got an idea, if you really don’t want to go to the Mergency Room.”

“Oh yeah?” Eddie looked at Ben, doubtful but wanting to hope.

“You got a nickel?”

“I got a dime. So what?”

Ben eyed the drying maroon splotches on Eddie’s shirt. “stop at the store and get a chocolate milk. Pour about half of it on your shirt. Then when you get home tell your mama you spilled all of it.”

Eddie’s eyes brightened. In the four years since his dad had died, his mother’s eyesight had worsened considerably. For reasons of vanity (and because she didn’t know how to drive a car), she refused to see an optometrist and get glasses. Dried bloodstains and chocolate milk stains looked about the same. Maybe…

’That might work,” he said.

“Just don’t tell her it was my idea if she finds out.”

“I won’t,” Eddie said. “seeya later, alligator.”

“Okay.”

“No,” Eddie said patiently. “When I say that you’re supposed to say, “After awhile, crocodile.”

“Oh. After awhile, crocodile.”

“You got it.” Eddie smiled.

“You know something?” Ben said. “You guys are really cool.”

Eddie looked more than embarrassed; he looked almost nervous. “Bill is,” he said, and started off.

Ben watched him go down Jackson Street, and then turned toward home. Three blocks up the street he saw three all-too-familiar figures standing at the bus stop on the corner of Jackson and Main. They were mostly turned away from Ben, which was damned lucky for him. He ducked behind a hedge, his heart beating hard. Five minutes later the Derry-Newport-Haven interurban bus pulled up. Henry and his friends pitched their butts into the street and swung aboard.

Ben waited until the bus was out of sight and then hurried home.

That night a terrible thing happened to Bill Denbrough. It happened for the second time.

His mom and dad were downstairs watching TV, not talking much, sitting at either end of the couch like bookends. There had been a time when the TV room opening off the kitchen would have been full of talk and laughter, sometimes so much of both you couldn’t hear the TV at all. “shut up, Georgie!” Bill would roar. “stop hogging all the popcorn and I will,” George would return. “Ma, make Bill give me the popcorn.” “Bill, give him the popcorn. George, don’t call me Ma. Ma’s a sound a sheep makes.” Or his dad would tell a joke and they would all laugh, even Mom. George didn’t always get the jokes, Bill knew, but he laughed because everyone else was laughing.

In those days his mom and dad had also been bookends on the couch, but he and George had been the books. Bill had tried to be a book between them while they were watching TV since George’s death, but it was cold work. They sent the cold out from both directions and Bill’s defroster was simply not big enough to cope with it. He had to leave because that kind of cold always froze his cheeks and made his eyes water.

“W-Want to h-hear a joke I heard today in s-s-school?” he had tried once, some months ago.

Silence from them. On television a criminal was begging his brother, who was a priest, to hide him.

Bill’s dad glanced up from the True he was looking at and glanced at Bill with mild surprise. Then he looked back down at the magazine again. There was a picture of a hunter sprawled in a snowbank and staring up at a huge snarling polar bear. “Mauled by the Killer from the White Wastes” was the name of the article. Bill had thought, I know where there’s some white wastes-right between my dad and mom on this couch.

His mother had never looked up at all.

“It’s about h-how many F-F-Frenchmen it takes to sc-c-herew in a luhhh-hightbulb,” Bill plunged ahead. He felt a fine mist of sweat spring out upon his forehead, as it sometimes did in school when he knew the teacher had ignored him as long as she safely could and must soon call on him. His voice was too loud, but he couldn’t seem to lower it. The words echoed in his head like crazy chimes, echoing, jamming up, spilling out again.

“D-D-Do you know h-h-how muh-muh-many?”

“One to hold the bulb and four to turn the house,” Zack Denbrough said absently, and turned the page of his magazine.

“Did you say something, dear?” his mother asked, and on Four Star Playhouse the brother who was a priest told the brother who was a hoodlum to turn himself in and pray for forgiveness.

Bill sat there, sweating but cold-so cold. It was cold because he wasn’t really the only book between those two ends; Georgie was still there, only now it was a Georgie he couldn’t see, a Georgie who never demanded the popcorn or hollered that Bill was pinching. This new version of George never cut up dickens. It was a one-armed Georgie who was palely, thoughtfully silent in the Motorola’s shadowy white-and-blue glow, and perhaps it was not from his parents but from George that the big chill was really coming; perhaps it was George who was the real killer from the white wastes. Finally Bill had fled from that cold, invisible brother and into his room, where he lay face down on his bed and cried into his pillow.

George’s room was just as it had been on the day he died. Zack had put a bunch of George’s toys into a canon one day about two weeks after he was buried, meaning them for the Goodwill or the Salvation Army or someplace like that, Bill supposed. Sharon Denbrough had spotted him coming out with the box in his arms and her hands had flown to her head like startled white birds and plunged themselves deep into her hair where they locked themselves into pulling fists. Bill had seen this and had fallen against the wall, the strength suddenly running out of his legs. His mother looked as mad as Elsa Lanchester in The Bride of Frankenstein.