Стивен Кинг - It

He put on his underpants.

If we’d believed that, we never could have . . . have done whatever it was we did.

Because he didn’t really remember what it was they had done, or what had happened to turn Audra into a catatonic wreck. He only knew what he was supposed to do now, and he knew that if he didn’t do it now, he would forget that, too. Audra was sitting downstairs in Mike’s easy chair, her hair hanging lankly to her shoulders, staring with rapt attention at the TV, which was currently showing Dialing for Dollars. She didn’t speak and would only move if you led her.

This is different. You’re just too old, man. Believe it.

I won’t.

Then die here in Derry. Big fucking deal.

He put on athletic socks, the one pair of jeans he had brought, the tank top he’d bought at the Shirt Shack in Bangor the day before. The tank was bright orange. Across the front it said WHERE THE HELL IS DERRY, MAINE? He sat down on Mike’s bed—the one he had shared for the last week of nights with his warm but corpse-like wife—and put on his sneakers . . . a pair of Keds, which he had also bought yesterday in Bangor.

He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror again. He saw a man pressing middle age dressed up in a kid’s clothes.

You look ludicrous.

What kid doesn’t?

You’re no kid. Give this up!

“Fuck, let’s rock and roll a little,” Bill said softly, and left the room.

2

In the dreams he will have in later years, he is always leaving Derry alone, at sunset. The town is deserted; everyone has left. The Theological Seminary and the Victorian houses on West Broadway brood black against a lurid sky, every summer sunset you ever saw rolled up into one.

He can hear his footfalls echoing back as they rap along the concrete. The only other sound is water rushing hollowly through the stormdrains

3

He rolled Silver out into the driveway, put him on the kickstand, and checked the tires again. The front one was okay but the back one felt a little mushy. He got the bike pump that Mike had bought and firmed it up. When he put the pump back, he checked the playing cards and the clothespins. The bike’s wheels still made those exciting machine-gun sounds Bill remembered from his boyhood. Good deal.

You’ve gone crazy.

Maybe. We’ll see.

He went back into Mike’s garage again, got the 3-in-1, and oiled the chain and sprocket. Then he stood up, looked at Silver, and gave the bulb of the oogah-horn a light, experimental squeeze. It sounded good. He nodded and went into the house.

4

and he sees all those places again, intact, as they were then: the hulking brick fort of Derry Elementary, the Kissing Bridge with its complex intaglio of initials, high-school sweethearts ready to crack the world open with their passion who had grown up to become insurance agents and car salesmen and waitresses and beauticians; he sees the statue of Paul Bunyan against that bleeding sunset sky and the leaning white fence which ran along the Kansas Street sidewalk at the edge of the Barrens. He sees them as they were, as they always will be in some part of his mind . . . and his heart breaks with love and horror.

Leaving, leaving Derry, he thinks. We are leaving Derry, and if this was a story it would be the last half-dozen pages or so; get ready to put this one up on the shelf and forget it. The sun’s going down and there’s no sound but my footfalls and the water in the drains. This is the time of

5

Dialing for Dollars had given way to Wheel of Fortune. Audra sat passively in front of it, her eyes never leaving the set. Her demeanor did not change when Bill snapped the TV off.

“Audra,” he said, going to her and taking her hand. “Come on.”

She didn’t move. Her hand lay in his, warm wax. Bill took her other hand from the arm of Mike’s chair and pulled her to her feet. He had dressed her that morning much as he had dressed himself—she was wearing Levi’s and a blue shell top. She would have looked quite lovely if not for her wide-eyed vacant stare.

“Cuh-come on,” he said again, and led her through the door, into Mike’s kitchen and, eventually, outside. She came willingly enough . . . although she would have plunged off the back porch stoop and gone sprawling in the dirt if Bill had not put an arm around her waist and guided her down the steps.

He led her over to where Silver stood heeled over on his kickstand in the bright summer noonlight. Audra stood beside the bike, looking serenely at the side of Mike’s garage.

“Get on, Audra.”

She didn’t move. Patiently, Bill worked at getting her to swing one of her long legs over the carrier mounted on Silver’s back fender. At last she stood there with the package carrier between her legs, not quite touching her crotch. Bill pressed his hand lightly to the top of her head and Audra sat down.

He swung onto Silver’s saddle and put up the kickstand with his heel. He prepared to reach behind him for Audra’s hands and draw them around his middle, but before he could do it they crept around him of their own accord, like small dazed mice.

He looked down at them, his heart beating faster, seeming to pump in his throat as much as in his chest. It was the first independent action Audra had taken all week, so far as he knew . . . the first independent action she had taken since It happened . . . whatever It had been.

“Audra?”

There was no answer. He tried to crane his neck around and see her but couldn’t quite make it. There were only her hands around his waist, the nails showing the last chips of a red polish that had been put on by a bright, lively, talented young woman in a small English town.

“We’re going for a ride,” Bill said, and he began to roll Silver forward toward Palmer Lane, listening to the gravel crunch under the tires. “I want you to hold on, Audra. I think . . . I think I may go sort of f-f-fast.”

If I don’t lose my guts.

He thought of the kid he had met earlier during his stay in Derry, when It had still been happening. You can’t be careful on a skateboard, the kid had said.

Truer words were never spoken, kid.

“Audra? You ready?”

No answer. Had her hands tightened the tiniest bit across his middle? Probably just wishful thinking.

He reached the end of the driveway and looked right. Palmer Lane ran straight to Upper Main Street, where a left turn would take him onto the hill running downtown. Downhill. Picking up speed. He felt a tremor of fear at the image, and a disquieting thought (old bones break easy, Billy-boy)

ran through his mind almost too quickly to read and was gone. But . . . But it wasn’t all disquiet, was it? No. It was desire as well . . . the feeling he’d had when he saw the kid walking along with the skateboard under his arm. The desire to go fast, to feel the wind race past you without knowing if you were racing toward or running away from, to just go. To fly.

Disquiet and desire. All the difference between world and want—the difference between being an adult who counted the cost and a child who just got on it and went, for instance. All the world between. Yet not that much difference at all. Bedfellows, really. The way you felt when the roller-coaster car approached the top of the first steep grade, where the ride really begins.

Disquiet and desire. What you want and what you’re scared to try for. Where you’ve been and where you want to go. Something in a rock-and-roll song about wanting the girl, the car, the place to stand and be. Oh please God can you dig it.