Dreamcatcher

doool, eee doool!” Which in this case meant Read Pool! Read Pool! The book was McElligot’s Pool, by Dr. Seuss, the first memorable couplet of which went, “Young man,” (argued the farmer) “You’re sort of a fool!

You’ll never catch fish in McElligot’s Pool!” But there had been fish, at least in the imagination of the little boy in the story. Plenty of fish. Big fish.

No splashes from beneath him, though. No bumps on the underside of the lid, either. Not for awhile now. He could maybe risk one quick look, just raise the lid a little and slam it back down if anything-

But sit tight, buddy was the last thing Jonesy had said to him, and that was what he’d better do.

Jonesy’s most likely a mile down the road by now, the vile voice estimated. A mile down the road and still picking up speed.

“No, he ain’t,” Beaver said. “Not Jonesy.”

He shifted a little bit on the closed seat, waiting for the thing to jump, but it didn’t. It might be sixty yards away by now and swimming with the turds in the septic tank. Jonesy had said it was too big to go down, but since neither of them had actually seen it, there was no way to tell for sure, was there? But in either case, Monsieur Beaver Clarendon was going to sit right here. Because he’d said he would. Because time always seemed slower when you were worried or scared. And because he trusted Jonesy. Jonesy and Henry had never hurt him or made fun, not of him and not of Pete. And none of them had ever hurt Duddits or made fun of him, either.

Beav snorted laughter. Duddits with his Scooby-Doo lunchbox. Duddits on his belly, blowing the fluff off dandelions. Duddits running around in his back yard, happy as a bird in a tree, yeah, and people who called kids like him special didn’t know the half of it. He had been special, all right, their present from a fucked-up world that usually didn’t give you jack-shit. Duddits had been their own special thing, and they had loved him.

5

They sit in the sunny kitchen nook-the clouds have gone away as if by magic-drinking iced tea and watching Duddits, who drank his ZaRex (awful-looking orange stuff) in three or four huge splattering gulps and then ran out back to play.

Henry does most of the talking, telling Mrs Cavell that the boys were just “kinda pushing him around.” He says that they got a little bit rough and ripped his shirt, which scared Duddits and made him cry. There is no mention of how Richie Grenadeau and his friends took off his pants, no mention of the nasty after-school snack they wanted Duddits to eat, and when Mrs Cavell asks them if they know who these big boys were, Henry hesitates briefly and then says no, just some big boys from the high school, he didn’t know any of them, hot by name. She looks at Beaver, Jonesy, and Pete; they all shake their heads. It may be wrong-dangerous to Duddits in the long run, as well-but they can’t step that far outside the rules which govern their lives. Already Beaver cannot understand where they found the sack to intervene in the first place, and later the others will say the same. They marvel at their courage; they also marvel that they aren’t in the fuckin hospital.

She looks at them sadly for a moment, and Beaver realizes she knows a lot of what they aren’t telling, probably enough to keep her awake that night. Then she smiles. Right at Beaver she smiles, and it makes him tingle all the way down to his toes. “What a lot of zippers you have on your jacket!” she says.

Beaver smiles. “Yes, ma’am. It’s my Fonzie jacket. It was my brother’s first. These guys make fun of it, but I like it just the same.”

“Happy Days,” she says. “We like it, too. Duddits likes it. Perhaps you’d like to come over some night and watch it with us. With him.” Her smile grows wistful, as if she knows nothing like that will ever happen.

“Yeah, that’d be okay,” Beav says.

“Actually it would,” Pete agrees.

They sit for a little without talking, just watching him play in the back yard. There’s a swing-set with two swings. Duddits runs behind them, pushing them, making the swings go by themselves. Sometimes he stops, crosses his arms over his chest, turns the clockless dial of his face up to the sky, and laughs.

“Seems all right now,” Jonesy says, and drinks the last of his tea. “Guess he’s forgotten all about it.”

Mrs Cavell has started to get up. Now she sits back down, giving him an almost startled look. “Oh no, not at all,” she says. “He remembers. Not like you and I, perhaps, but he remembers things. He’ll probably have nightmares tonight, and when we go into his room-his father and me-he won’t be able to explain. That’s the worst for him; he can’t tell what it is he sees and thinks and feels. He doesn’t have the vocabulary.”

She sighs. “In any case, those boys won’t forget about him. What if they’re laying for him now? What if they’re laying for you?” “We can take care of ourselves,” Jonesy says, but although his voice is stout enough, his eyes are uneasy,

“Maybe,” she says. “But what about Duddits? I can walk him to school-I used to, and I suppose I’ll have to again, for awhile at least, anyway-but he loves to walk home on his own so much.”

“It makes him feel like a big boy,” Pete says. She reaches across the table and touches Pete’s hand, making him blush. “That’s right, it makes him feel like a big boy. “'You know,” Henry says, “we could walk him. We all go together to the junior high, and it would be easy enough to come down here from Kansas Street. “-Roberta Cavell only sits there without saying anything, a little birdie-woman in a print dress, looking at Henry attentively, like someone waiting for the punchline of a joke. “Would that be okay, Missus Cavell?” Beaver asks her. “Because we could do it, easy. Or maybe you don’t want us to.”

Something complicated happens to Mrs CaveE’s face-there are all those little twitches, mostly under the skin. One eye almost winks, and then the other one does wink. She takes a handkerchief from her pocket and blows her nose. Beaver thinks, She’s trying not to laugh at us. When he tells Henry that as they are walking home, Jonesy and Pete already dropped off, Henry will look at him with utter astonishment. Cry is what she was tryin not to do, he will say… and then, affectionately, after a pause: Dope.

“You would do that?” she asks, and when Henry nods for all of them, she changes the question slightly. “Why would you do that?” Henry looks around as if to say Someone else take this one, willya?

Pete says, “We like him, ma’am.”

Jonesy is nodding. “I like the way he carries his lunchbox over his head-”

“Yeah, that’s bitchin,” Pete says. Henry kicks him under the table. Pete replays what he just said-you can see him doing it and begins blushing furiously.

Mrs Cavell appears not to notice. She’s looking at Henry with fixed intensity. “He has to go by quarter of eight,” she says. “We’re always near here by then,” Henry replies. “Aren’t we, you guys?” And although seven forty-five is in fact a little early for them, they all nod and say yeah right sure yeah. “You would do that?” she asks again, and this time Beaver has no trouble reading her tone; she is incredyouwhatsis, the word that means you can’t fuckin believe it.

“Sure,” Henry says. “Unless you think Duddits wouldn’t… you know…”

“Wouldn’t want us to,” Jonesy finishes.

“Are you crazy?” she asks. Beaver thinks she is speaking to herself, trying to convince herself that these boys are really in her kitchen, that all of this is in fact happening. “Walking to school with the big boys? Boys who go to what Duddits calls “real school'? He’d think he was in heaven.”

“Okay,” Henry says. “We’ll come by quarter of eight, walk him to school. And we’ll walk home with him, too. “'He gets out at-”

“Aw, we know what time The Retard Academy gets out,” Beaver says cheerfully, and realizes a second before he sees the others” stricken faces that he’s said something a lot worse than bitchin. He claps his hands over his mouth. Above them, his eyes are huge. Jonesy kicks his shin so hard under the table that Beav almost tumbles over backward.

“Don’t mind him, ma’am,” Henry says. He is talking rapidly, which he only does when he’s embarrassed. “He just-”

“I don’t mind,” she says. “I know what people call it. Sometimes Alfie and I call it that ourselves.” This topic, incredibly, hardly seems to interest her. “Why?” she says again.

And although it’s Henry she’s looking at, it’s Beaver who answers, in spite of his blazing cheeks. “Because he’s cool,” he says. The others nod.

They will walk Duddits to school and back for the next five years or so, unless he is sick or they are at Hole in the Wall; by the end of it Duddits is no longer going to Mary M. Snowe, aka The Retard Academy, but to Derry Vocational, where he learns to bake cookies (baitin tooties, in Duddits-ese), replace car batteries, make change, and fie his own tie (the knot is always perfect, although it sometimes appears about halfway down his shirt). By then the Josie Rinkenhauer thing has come and gone, a little nine days” wonder forgotten by everyone except Josie’s parents, who will never forget. In those years when they walk with him to and from his school, Duddits will sprout up until he’s the tallest of all of them, a gangly teenager with a strangely beautiful child’s face. By then they will have taught him how to play Parcheesi and a simplified version of Monopoly; by then they will have invented the Duddits Game and played it incessantly, sometimes laughing so hard that Alfie Cavell (he was the tall one of the pair, but he also had a birdie look about him) would come to the head of the stairs in the kitchen, the ones that led to the rec room, and yell down at them, wanting to know what was going on, what was so funny, and maybe they would try to explain that Duddits had pegged Henry fourteen on a two hand or that Duddits had pegged Pete fifteen backward, but Alfie never seemed to get it; he’d stand there at the head of the stairs with a section of the newspaper in his hand, smiling perplexedly, and at last he’d always say the same thing, Keep it down to a dull roar, boys, and close the door, leaving them to their own devices… and of all those devices the Duddits Game was the best, totally bitchin, as Pete would have said. There were times when Beaver thought he might actually laugh until he exploded, and Duddits sitting there all the time on the rug beside the big old Parkmunn cribbage board, feet folded under him and grinning like Buddha. What a fuckaree! All of that ahead of them but now just this kitchen, and the surprising sun, and Duddits outside, pushing the swings. Duddits who had done them such a favor by coming into their lives. Duddits who is-they know it from the first-not like anyone else they know.

“I don’t see how they could have done it,” Pete says suddenly. “The way he was crying. I don’t see how they could have gone on teasing him.”

Roberta Cavell looks at him sadly. “Older boys don’t hear him the same way,” she says. “I hope you never understand.”

6

“Jonesy!” Beaver shouted. “Hey, Jonesy!”

This time there’s a response, faint but unmistakable. The snowmobile shed was a kind of ground-level attic, and one of the things out there was an old- fashioned bulb horn, the kind a bicycle deliveryman back in the twenties or thirties might have had mounted on the handlebars of his bike. Now Beaver heard it: Ooogah! How-oogah! A noise that surely would have made Duddits laugh until he cried-a sucker for big, juicy noises, that had been ole Duds.

The filmy blue shower curtain rustled and the Beav’s arms broke out in lush bundles of gooseflesh. For a moment he almost leaped up, thinking that it was McCarthy, then realized he’d brushed the curtain with his own elbow-it was close quarters in here, close quarters, no doubt-and settled back. Still nothing from beneath him, though; that thing, whatever it was, was either dead or gone. For certain.

Well… almost for certain.