Стивен Кинг - It

“I was a regular butterball. Never played baseball or basketball, always got caught first when we played tag, couldn’t keep out of my own way. I was fat, all right. And there were these fellows in my home town who used to take after me pretty regularly. There was a fellow named Reginald Huggins, only everyone called him Belch. A kid named Victor Criss. A few other guys. But the real brains of the combination was a fellow named Henry Bowers. If there has ever been a genuinely evil kid strutting across the skin of the world, Ricky Lee, Henry Bowers was that kid. I wasn’t the only kid he used to take after; my problem was, I couldn’t run as fast as some of the others.”

Hanscom unbuttoned his shirt and opened it. Leaning forward, Ricky Lee saw a funny, twisted scar on Mr. Hanscom’s stomach, just above his navel. Puckered, white, and old. It was a letter, he saw. Someone had carved the letter “H” into the man’s stomach, probably long before Mr. Hanscom had been a man.

“Henry Bowers did that to me. About a thousand years ago. I’m lucky I’m not wearing his whole damned name down there.”

“Mr. Hanscom—”

Hanscom took the other two lemon-slices, one in each hand, tilted his head back, and took them like nose-drops. He shuddered wrackingly, put them aside, and took two big swallows from the stein. He shuddered again, took another gulp, and then groped for the padded edge of the bar with his eyes closed. For a moment he held on like a man on a sailboat clinging to the rail for support in a heavy sea. Then he opened his eyes again and smiled at Ricky Lee.

“I could ride this bull all night,” he said.

“Mr. Hanscom, I wish you wouldn’t do that anymore,” Ricky Lee said nervously.

Annie came over to the waitresses’ stand with her tray and called for a couple of Millers. Ricky Lee drew them and took them down to her. His legs felt rubbery.

“Is Mr. Hanscom all right, Ricky Lee?” Annie asked. She was looking past Ricky Lee and he turned to follow her gaze. Mr. Hanscom was leaning over the bar, carefully picking lemon-slices out of the caddy where Ricky Lee kept the drink garnishes.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“Well get your thumb out of your ass and do something about it.” Annie was, like most other women, partial to Ben Hanscom.

“I dunno. My daddy always said that if a man’s in his right mind—”

“Your daddy didn’t have the brains God gave a gopher,” Annie said. “Never mind your daddy. You got to put a stop to that, Ricky Lee. He’s going to kill himself.”

Thus given his marching orders, Ricky Lee went back down to where Ben Hanscom sat. “Mr. Hanscom, I really think you’ve had en—”

Hanscom tilted his head back. Squeezed. Actually sniffed the lemon-juice back this time, as if it were cocaine. He gulped whiskey as if it were water. He looked at Ricky Lee solemnly. “Bing-bang, I saw the whole gang, dancing on my living-room rug,” he said, and then laughed. There was maybe two inches of whiskey left in the stein.

“That is enough,” Ricky Lee said, and reached for the stein.

Hanscom moved it gently out of his reach. “Damage has been done, Ricky Lee,” he said. “The damage has been done, boy.”

“Mr. Hanscom, please—”

“I’ve got something for your kids, Ricky Lee. Damn if I didn’t almost forget!”

He was wearing a faded denim vest, and now he reached something out of one of its pockets. Ricky Lee heard a muted clink.

“My dad died when I was four,” Hanscom said. There was no slur at all in his voice. “Left us a bunch of debts and these. I want your kiddos to have them, Ricky Lee.” He put three cartwheel silver dollars on the bar, where they gleamed under the soft lights. Ricky Lee caught his breath.

“Mr. Hanscom, that’s very kind, but I couldn’t—”

“There used to be four, but I gave one of them to Stuttering Bill and the others. Bill Denbrough, that was his real name. Stuttering Bill’s just what we used to call him . . . just a thing we used to say, like ‘You bet your fur.’ He was one of the best friends I ever had—I did have a few, you know, even a fat kid like me had a few. Stuttering Bill’s a writer now.”

Ricky Lee barely heard him. He was looking at the cartwheels, fascinated. 1921, 1923, and 1924. God knew what they were worth now, just in terms of the pure silver they contained.

“I couldn’t,” he said again.

“But I insist.” Mr. Hanscom took hold of the stein and drained it. He should have been flat on his keister, but his eyes never left Ricky Lee’s. Those eyes were watery, and very bloodshot, but Ricky Lee would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that they were also the eyes of a sober man.

“You’re scaring me a little, Mr. Hanscom,” Ricky Lee said. Two years ago Gresham Arnold, a rumdum of some local repute, had come into the Red Wheel with a roll of quarters in his hand and a twenty-dollar bill stuck into the band of his hat. He handed the roll to Annie with instructions to feed the quarters into the juke-box by fours. He put the twenty on the bar and instructed Ricky Lee to set up drinks for the house. This rumdum, this Gresham Arnold, had long ago been a star basketball player for the Hemingford Rams, leading them to their first (and most likely last) high-school team championship. In 1961 that had been. An almost unlimited future seemed to lie ahead of the young man. But he had flunked out of L.S.U. his first semester, a victim of drink, drugs, and all-night parties. He came home, cracked up the yellow convertible his folks had given him as a graduation present, and got a job as head salesman in his daddy’s John Deere dealership. Five years passed. His father could not bear to fire him, and so he finally sold the dealership and retired to Arizona, a man haunted and made old before his time by the inexplicable and apparently irreversible degeneration of his son. While the dealership still belonged to his daddy and he was at least pretending to work, Arnold had made some effort to keep the booze at arm’s length; afterward, it got him completely. He could get mean, but he had been just as sweet as horehound candy the night he brought in the quarters and set up drinks for the house, and everyone had thanked him kindly, and Annie kept playing Moe Bandy songs because Gresham Arnold liked ole Moe Bandy. He sat there at the bar—on the very stool where Mr. Hanscom was sitting now, Ricky Lee realized with steadily deepening unease—and drank three or four bourbon-and-bitters, and sang along with the juke, and caused no trouble, and went home when Ricky Lee closed the Wheel up, and hanged himself with his belt in an upstairs closet. Gresham Arnold’s eyes that night had looked a little bit like Ben Hanscom’s eyes looked right now.

“Scaring you a bit, am I?” Hanscom asked, his eyes never leaving Ricky Lee’s. He pushed the stein away and then folded his hands neatly in front of those three silver cartwheels. “I probably am. But you’re not as scared as I am, Ricky Lee. Pray to Jesus you never are.”

“Well, what’s the matter?” Ricky Lee asked. “Maybe—” He wet his lips. “Maybe I can give you a help.”

“The matter?” Ben Hanscom laughed. “Why, not too much. I had a call from an old friend tonight. Guy named Mike Hanlon. I’d forgotten all about him, Ricky Lee, but that didn’t scare me much. After all, I was just a kid when I knew him, and kids forget things, don’t they? Sure they do. You bet your fur. What scared me was getting about halfway over here and realizing that it wasn’t just Mike I’d forgotten about—I’d forgotten everything about being a kid.”

Ricky Lee only looked at him. He had no idea what Mr. Hanscom was talking about—but the man was scared, all right. No question about that. It sat funny on Ben Hanscom, but it was real.