atmosphere has changed in the room while Mike recalled the incident with the bird out at the Ironworks and reminded them about his father’s photograph album and the picture that had moved.
Richie had felt a mad, exhilarating kind of energy growing in the room. He had done cocaine nine or ten times over the last couple of years-at parties, mostly; coke wasn’t something you wanted just lying around your house if you were a bigga-time disc jockey-and the feel was something like that, but not exactly. This feeling was purer, more of a mainline high. He thought he recognized the feeling from his childhood, when he had felt it every day and had come to take it merely as a matter of course. He supposed that, if he had ever thought about that deep-running aquifer of energy as a kid (he could not recall that he ever had), he would have simply dismissed it as a fact of life, something that would always be there, like the color of his eyes or his disgusting hammertoes.
Well, that hadn’t turned out to be true. The energy you drew on so extravagantly when you were a kid, the energy you thought would never exhaust itself-that slipped away somewhere between eighteen and twenty-four, to be replaced by something much duller, something as bogus as a coke high: purpose, maybe, or goals, or whatever rah-rah Junior Chamber of Commerce word you wanted to use. It was no big deal; it didn’t go all at once, with a bang. And maybe, Richie thought, that’s the scary part. How you don’t stop being a kid all at once, with a big explosive bang, like one of that clown’s trick balloons with the Burma-Shave slogans on the sides. The kid in you just leaked out, like the air out of a tire. And one day you looked in the mirror and there was a grownup looking back at you. You could go on wearing blue-jeans, you could keep going to Springsteen and Seger concerts, you could dye your hair, but that was a grownup’s face in the mirror just the same. It all happened while you were asleep, maybe, like a visit from the Tooth Fairy.
No, he thinks. Not the Tooth Fairy. The Age Fairy.
He laughs aloud at the stupid extravagance of this-image, and when Beverly looks at him questioningly, he waves a hand at her. “Nothing, babe, he says. “Just thinkin me thinks.”
But now that energy is back. No, not all the way back-not yet, anyway-but coming back. And it’s not just him; he can feel it filling the room. Mike looks okay to Richie for the first time since they all got together for that hideous lunch out by the mall. When Richie walked into the lobby and saw Mike sitting there with Ben and Eddie, he thought, shocked: There’s a man who’s going crazy, getting ready to commit suicide, maybe. But that look is gone now. Not just sublimated; gone. Richie has sat right here and watched the last of it slip out of Mike’s face while he relived the experience of the bird and the album. He’s been energised. And it is the same with all of them. Its in their faces, their voices, their gestures.
Eddie pours himself “another gin-and-prune juice. Bill knocks back some bourbon, and Mike cracks another beer. Beverly glances up at the balloons Bill has tethered to the microfilm recorder at the main desk and finishes her third screwdriver in a hurry. They have all been drinking pretty enthusiastically, but none of them are drunk. Richie doesn’t know where that energy he feels is coming from, but its not out of a liquor bottle.
DERRY NIGGERS GET THE BIRD: Blue
THE LOSERS ARE STILL LOSING, BUT STANLEY URIS IS FINALLY AHEAD: Orange
Richie thinks, opening a fresh beer for himself, it isn’t bad enough It can be any damn monster It wants to be, and it isn’t bad enough that It can feed off our fears. It also turns out to be Rodney Dangerfield in drag.
It’s Eddie who breaks the silence. “How much do you think It knows about what we’re doing now?” he asks.
“It was here, wasn’t It?” Ben says.
“I’m not sure that means much,” Eddie replies.
Bill nods. “Those are just images,” he says. “I’m not sure that means It can see us, or know what we’re up to. You can see a news commentator on TV, but he can’t see you.”
“Those balloons aren’t just images,” Beverly says, and jerks a thumb over her shoulder at them. “They’re real.”
“That’s not true, though,” Richie says, and they all look at him. “Images are real. Sure they are. They-
And suddenly something else clicks into place, something new: it clicks into place with such firm force that he actually puts his hands to his ears. His eyes widen behind his glasses.
“Oh my God!” he cries suddenly. He gropes for the table, half-stands, then falls back into his chair with a boneless thud. He knocks his can of beer over reaching for it, picks it up, and drinks what’s left. He looks at Mike while the others look at him, startled and concerned.
“The burning!” he almost shouts. “The burning in my eyes! Mike! The burning in my eyes-”
Mike is nodding, smiling a little-
“R-Richie?” Bill asks. “What i-is it?”
But Richie barely hears him. The force of the memory sweeps through him like a tide, turning him alternately hot and cold, and he suddenly understands why these memories have come back one at a time. If he had remembered everything at once, the force would have been like a psychological shotgun blast let off an inch from his temple. It would have torn off the whole top of his head.
“We saw It come!” he says to Mike. “We saw It come, didn’t we? You and me… or was it just me?” He grabs Mike’s hand, which lies on the table. “did you see it too, Mikey, or was it just me? Did you see it? The forest fire? The crater?”
“I saw it,” Mike says quietly, and squeezes Richie’s hand. Richie closes his eyes for a moment, thinking he has never felt such a warm and powerful wave of relief in his life, not even when the PSA jet he had taken from LA to San Francisco skidded off the runway and just stopped there-nobody killed, nobody even hurt. Some luggage had fallen out of the overhead bins and that was all. He had jumped onto the yellow emergency slide and helped a woman away from the plane. The woman had turned her ankle on a hummock concealed in the high grass. She was laughing and saying, “I can’t believe I’m not dead, I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it.” So Richie, who was half-carrying the woman with one arm and waving with the other to the firemen who were making frantic come-on gestures to the deplaning passengers, said: “Okay, you’re dead, you’re dead, you feel better now?” and they both laughed crazily. That had been relief-laughter… but this relief is greater.
“What are you guys talking about?” Eddie asks, looking from one to the other.
Richie looks at Mike, but Mike shakes his head. “You go ahead, Richie. I’ve had my say for the evening.”
“The rest of you don’t know or maybe don’t remember, because you left,” Richie tells them. “Me and Mikey, we were the last two Injuns in the smoke-hole.”
“The smoke-hole,” Bill muses. His eyes are far and blue.
“The burning sensation in my eyes,” Richie says, “under my contact lenses. I felt it for the first time right after Mike called me in California. I didn’t know what it was then, but I do now. It was smoke. Smoke that was twenty-seven years old.” He looks at Mike. “Psychological, would you say? Psychosomatic? Something from the subconscious?”
“I would say not,” Mike answers quietly. “I would say that what you felt was as real as those balloons, or the head I saw in the icebox, or the corpse of Tony Tracker that Eddie saw. Tell them, Richie.”
Richie says: “It was four or five days after Mike brought his dad’s album down to the Barrens. Sometime just after the middle of July, I guess. The clubhouse was done. But… the smoke-hole thing, that was your idea, Haystack. You got it out of one of your books.”
Smiling a little, Ben nods.
Richie thinks: It was overcast that day. No breeze. Thunder in the air. Like the day a month or so later when we stood in the stream and made a circle and Stan cut our hands with that chunk of Coke bottle. The air was just sitting there, waiting for something to happen, and later Bill said that was why it got so bad in there so quick, because there was no draft.
July 17th. Yes, that was it, that had been the day of the smoke-hole. July 17th, 1958, almost a month after summer vacation began and the nucleus of the Losers-Bill, Eddie, and Ben-had formed down in the Barrens. Let me look up the weather forecast for that day almost twenty-seven years ago, Richie thinks, and I’ll tell you what it said before I even read it: Richard Tozier, aka the Great Mentalizer. “Hot, humid, chance of thundershowers. And watch out for the visions that may come while you’re down in the smoke-hole…”
It had been two days after the body of Jimmy Cullum was discovered, the day after Mr Nell had come down to the Barrens again and sat right on the clubhouse without knowing it was there, because by then they had capped it off and Ben himself had carefully overseen the replacement of the sods. Unless you got right down on your hands and knees and crawled around, you’d have no idea anything was there. Like the dam, Ben’s clubhouse had been a roaring success, but this time Mr Nell didn’t know anything about it.
He had questioned them carefully, officially, taking down their answers in his black notebook, but there had been little they could tell him-at least about Jimmy Cullum-and Mr Nell had gone away again, after reminding them once more that they were not to play in the Barrens alone… ever. Richie guessed that Mr Nell would have told them simply to get out if anyone in the Derry Police Department had really believed that the Cullum boy (or any of the others) had actually been killed in the Barrens. But they knew better; because of the sewer and stormdrain system, that was simply where the remains tended to finish up.
Mr Nell had come on the 16th, yes, a hot and humid day also, but sunny. The 17th had been overcast.
“Are you going to talk to us or not, Richie?” Bev asks. She is smiling a little, her lips full and a pale rose-red, her eyes alight.
“I’m just thinking about where to start,” Richie says. He takes his glasses off, wipes them on his skirt, and suddenly he knows where: with the ground opening up at his and Bill’s feet. Of course he knew about the clubhouse-so did Bill and the rest of them, but it still freaked him out, seeing the ground suddenly open on a slit of darkness like that.
He remembers Bill riding him double on the back of Silver to the usual place on Kansas Street and then stowing his bike under the little bridge. He remembers the two of them walking along the path toward the clearing, sometimes having to turn sideways because the brush was so thick-it was midsummer now, and the Barrens was at that year’s apogee oflushness. He remembers swatting at the mosquitoes that hummed maddeningly close to their ears; he even remembers Bill saying (oh how clearly it all comes back, not as if it happened yesterday, but as if it is happening now), “H-H- Hold it a s-s-s-
2
–econd, Ruh-Richie. There’s a damn guh-guh-hood one on the b-back of your neh-neck.”
“Oh Christ,” Richie said. He hated mosquitoes. Little flying vampires, that’s all they were when you got right down to the facts. “Kill it, Big Bill.”
Bill swatted the back of Richie’s neck.
“Ouch!”
“Suh-suh-see?”
Bill held his hand in front of Richie’s face. There was a broken mosquito body in the center of an irregular patch of blood. My blood, Richie thought, which was shed for you and for many. “Yeeick,” he said.
“D-Don’t w-worry,” Bill said. “Li’l fucker’ll neh-never dance the tuh-tuh-tango again.”
They walked on, slapping at mosquitoes, waving at the clouds of noseeums attracted by something in the smell of their sweat-something which would years later be identified as “pheromones.” Whatever they were.
“Bill, when you gonna tell the rest of em about the silver bullets?” Richie asked as they approached the clearing. In this case “the rest of them” meant Bev, Eddie, Mike, and Stan-although Richie guessed Stan already had a good idea of what they were studying up on down at the Public Library. Stan was sharp-too sharp for his own good, Richie sometimes thought. The day Mike brought his father’s album down to the Barrens Stan had almost flipped out. Richie had, in fact, been nearly convinced that they wouldn’t see Stan again and the Losers” Club would become a sextet (a word Richie liked a lot, always with the emphasis on the first syllable). But Stan had been back the next day, and Richie had-respected him all the more for that. “You going to tell them today?”
“Nuh-not t-today,” Bill said.
“You don’t think they’ll work, do you?”
Bill shrugged, and Richie, who maybe understood Bill Denbrough better than anyone ever would until Audra Phillips, suspected all the things Bill might have said if not for the roadblock of his
