It (52 page)

Richie begins to laugh. He is only chuckling at first, and then his own ludicrousness strikes him—standing here in the dawnlight of a Maine morning, thirty-four hundred miles from home, shouting at a deer in the accents of an Irish cop. The chuckles become a string of giggles, the giggles become guffaws, the guffaws become howls, and he is finally reduced to holding on to his car while tears roll down his face and he wonders dimly if he's going to wet his pants or what. Every time he starts to get control of himself his eyes fix on that little clump of pellets and he goes off into fresh gales.

Snorting and snickering, he is at last able to get back into the driver's seat and restart the Mustang's engine. An Orinco chemical-fertilizer truck snores by in a blast of wind. After it passes him, Rich pulls out and heads for Derry again. He feels better now, in control . . . or maybe it's just that he's moving again, making miles, and the dream has reasserted itself.

He starts thinking about Mr. Nell again—Mr. Nell and that day by the dam. Mr. Nell had asked them who thought this little trick up. He can see the five of them looking uneasily at each other, and remembers how Ben finally stepped forward, cheeks pale and eyes downcast, face trembling all over as he fought grimly to keep from blabbering. Poor kid probably thought he was going to get five-to-ten in Shawshank for back-flooding the drains on Witcham Street, Rich thinks now, but he had owned up to it just the same. And by doing that he had forced the rest of them to come forward and back him up. It was either that or consider themselves bad guys. Cowards. All the things their TV heroes were not. And that had welded them together, for better or worse. Had apparently welded them together for the last twenty-seven years. Sometimes events are dominoes. The first knocks over the second, the second knocks over the third, and there you are.

When, Richie wonders, did it become too late to turn back? When he and Stan showed up and pitched in, helping to build the dam? When Bill told them how the school picture of his brother had turned its head and winked? Maybe . . . but to Rich Tozier it seems that the dominoes really began to fall when Ben Hanscom stepped forward and said “I showed them

how to do it. It's my fault.”

Mr. Nell simply stood there looking at him, lips pressed together, hands on his creaking black leather belt. He looked from Ben to the spreading pool behind the dam and then back to Ben again, his face that of a man who can't believe what he is seeing. He was a burly Irishman, his hair a premature white, combed back in neat waves beneath his peaked blue cap. His eyes were bright blue, his nose bright red. There were small nests of burst capillaries in his cheeks. He was a man of no more than medium height, but to the five boys arrayed before him he looked at least eight feet tall.

Mr. Nell opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Bill Denbrough had stepped up beside Ben.

“Ih-Ih-Ih-It w-wuh-wuh-was m-my i-i-i-i-idea,” he finally managed to say. He heaved in a gigantic, gulping breath and as Mr. Nell stood there regarding him impassively, the sun tossing back imperial flashes from his badge, Bill managed to stutter out the rest of what he needed to say: it wasn't Ben's fault; Ben just happened to come along and show them how to do better what they were already doing badly.

“Me too,” Eddie said abruptly, and stepped up on Ben's other side.

“What's this ‘me too'?” Mr. Nell asked. “Is that yer name or yer address, buckaroo?”

Eddie flushed brightly—the color went all the way up to the roots of his hair. “I was with Bill before Ben even came,” he said. “That was all I meant.”

Richie stepped up next to Eddie. The idea that a Voice or two might cheer Mr. Nell up a little, get him thinking jolly thoughts, popped into his head. On second thought (and second thoughts were, for Richie, extremely rare and wonderful things), maybe a Voice or two might only make things worse. Mr. Nell didn't look like he was in what Richie sometimes thought of as a chuckalicious mood. In fact, Mr. Nell looked like maybe chucks were the last thing on his mind. So he just said, “I was in on it too,” in a low voice, and then made his mouth shut up.

“And me,” Stan said, stepping next to Bill.

Now the five of them were standing before Mr. Nell in a line. Ben looked from one side to the other, more than dazed—he was almost
stupefied by their support. For a moment Richie thought ole Haystack was going to burst into tears of gratitude.

“Jaysus,” Mr. Nell said again, and although he sounded deeply disgusted, his face suddenly looked as if it might like to laugh. “A sorrier bunch of boyos I ain't nivver seen. If yer folks knew where you were, I guess there'd be some hot bottoms tonight. I ain't sure there won't be anyway.”

Richie could hold back no longer; his mouth simply fell open and then ran away like the gingerbread man, as it so often did.

“How's things back in the auld country, Mr. Nell?” it bugled. “Ah, yer a sight for sore eyes, sure an begorrah, yer a lovely man, a credit to the auld sod—”

“I'll be a credit to the seat of yer pants in about three seconds, my dear little friend,” Mr. Nell said dryly.

Bill turned on him, snarled: “For G-G-God's s-sake R-R-Richie shuh-shuh-hut
UP!”

“Good advice, Master William Denbrough,” Mr. Nell said. “I'll bet Zack doesn't know you're down here in the Bar'ns playing amongst the floating turdies, does he?”

Bill dropped his eyes, shook his head. Wild roses burned in his cheeks.

Mr. Nell looked at Ben. “I don't recall your name, son.”

“Ben Hanscom, sir,” Ben whispered.

Mr. Nell nodded and looked back at the dam again. “This was your idea?”

“How to build it, yeah.” Ben's whisper was now nearly inaudible.

“Well, yer a hell of an engineer, big boy, but you don't know Jack Shit about these here Bar'ns or the Derry drainage system, do you?”

Ben shook his head.

Not unkindly, Mr. Nell told him, “There's two parts to the system. One part carries solid human waste—shit, if I'd not be offendin yer tender ears. The other part carries gray water—water flushed from toilets or run down the drains from sinks and washin-machines and showers; it's also the water that runs down the gutters into the city drains.

“Well, ye've caused no problems with the solid-waste removal, thank God—all of that gets pumped into the Kenduskeag a bit farther down. There's probably some almighty big patties down that
way half a mile dryin in the sun thanks to what you done, but you can be pretty sure that there ain't shit stickin to anyone's ceiling because of it.

“But as for the gray water . . . well, there's no pumps for gray water. That all runs downhill in what the engineer boyos call gravity drains. And I'll bet you know where all them gravity drains end up, don't you, big boy?”

“Up there,” Ben said. He pointed to the area behind the dam, the area they had in large part submerged. He did this without looking up. Big tears were beginning to course slowly down his cheeks. Mr. Nell pretended not to notice.

“That's right, my large young friend. All them gravity drains feed into streams that feed into the upper Barrens. In fact, a good many of them little streams that come tricklin down are gray water and gray water only, comin out of drains you can't even see, they're so deep-buried in the underbrush. The shit goes one way and everythin else goes the other, God praise the clever mind o man, and did it ever cross yer minds that you'd spent the whole live-long day paddlin around in Derry's pee an old wash-water?”

Eddie suddenly began to gasp and had to use his aspirator.

“What you did was back water up into about six o the eight central catch-basins that serve Witcham and Jackson and Kansas and four or five little streets that run between em.” Mr. Nell fixed Bill Denbrough with a dry glance. “One of em serves yer own hearth an home, young Master Denbrough. So there we are, with sinks that won't drain, washin-machines that won't drain, outflow pipes pourin merrily into cellars—”

Ben let out a dry barking sob. The others turned toward him and then looked away. Mr. Nell put a large hand on the boy's shoulder. It was callused and hard, but at the moment it was also gentle.

“Now, now. No need to take on, big boy. Maybe it ain't that bad, at least not yet; could be I exaggerated just a mite to make sure you took my point. They sent me down to see if a tree blew down across the stream. That happens from time to time. There's no need for anyone but me and you five to know it wasn't just that. We've got more important things to worry about in town these days than a little backed-up water. I'll say on my report that I located the blowdown and some boys came along and helped me shift it out o the way o
the water. Not that I'll mention ye by name. Ye'll not be gettin any citations for dam-building in the Bar'ns.”

He surveyed the five of them. Ben was furiously wiping his eyes with his handkerchief; Bill was looking thoughtfully at the dam; Eddie was holding his aspirator in one hand; Stan stood close by Richie with one hand on Richie's arm, ready to squeeze—hard—if Richie should show the slightest sign of having anything to say other than thank you very much.

“You boys got no business at all in a dirty place like this,” Mr. Nell went on. “There's probably sixty different kinds o disease breeding down here.”
Breeding
came out
braidin,
as in what a girl may do with her hair in the morning. “Dump down one way, streams full of piss an gray water, muck an slop, bugs an brambles, quickmud . . . you got no business at all in a dirty place like this. Four clean city parks for you boyos to be playin ball in all the day long and I catch you down here. Jaysus Christ!”

“Wuh-Wuh-We l-l-l-like it d-d-down h-here,” Bill said suddenly and defiantly. “Wh-When w-w-we cuh-hum down h-here, nuh-ho-hobody gives us a-a-any stuh-stuh-hatic.”

“What'd he say?” Mr. Nell asked Eddie.

“He said when we come down here nobody gives us any static,” Eddie said. His voice was thin and whistling, but it was also unmistakably firm. “And he's right. When guys like us go to the park and say we want to play baseball, the other guys say sure, you want to be second base or third?”

Richie cackled. “Eddie Gets Off A Good One! And . . .
You Are There!”

Mr. Nell swung his head to look at him.

Richie shrugged. “Sorry. But he's right. And Bill's right, too. We like it down here.”

Richie thought Mr. Nell would become angry again at that, but the white-haired cop surprised him—surprised them all—with a smile. “Ayuh,” he said. “I liked it down here meself as a boy, so I did. And I'll not forbid ye. But hark to what I'm tellin you now.” He levelled a finger at them and they all looked at him soberly. “If ye come down here to play, ye come in a gang like ye are now. Together. Do you understand me?”

They nodded.

“That means together
all the time.
No hide-an-seek games where yer split up one an one an one. You all know what's goin on in this town. All the same, I don't forbid you to come down here, mostly because ye'd be down here anyway. But for yer own good, here or anywhere around, gang together.” He looked at Bill. “Do you disagree with me, young Master Bill Denbrough?”

“N-N-No, sir,” Bill said. “W-We'll stay tuh-tuh-tuh—”

“That's good enough for me,” Mr. Nell said. “Yer hand on it.”

Bill stuck out his hand and Mr. Nell shook it.

Richie shook off Stan and stepped forward.

“Sure an begorrah, Mr. Nell, yer a prince among men, y'are! A foine man! A foine, foine man!” He stuck out his own hand, seized the Irishman's huge paw, and flagged it furiously, grinning all the time. To the bemused Mr. Nell the boy looked like a hideous parody of Franklin D. Roosevelt.

“Thank you, boy,” Mr. Nell said, retrieving his hand. “Ye want to work on that a bit. As of now, ye sound about as Irish as Groucho Marx.”

The other boys laughed, mostly in relief. Even as he was laughing, Stan shot Richie a reproachful look:
Grow up, Richie!

Mr. Nell shook hands all around, gripping Ben's last of all.

“Ye've nothing to be ashamed of but bad judgment, big boy. As for that there . . . did you see how to do it in a book?”

Ben shook his head.

“Just figured it out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well if that don't beat Harry! Ye'll do great things someday, I've no doubt. But the Barrens isn't the place to do em.” He looked around thoughtfully. “No great thing will ever be done here. Nasty place.” He sighed. “Tear it down, dear boys. Tear it right down. I believe I'll just sit me down in the shade o this bush here and bide a wee as you do it.” He looked ironically at Richie as he said this last, as if inviting another manic outburst.

“Yes, sir,” Richie said humbly, and that was all. Mr. Nell nodded, satisfied, and the boys fell to work, once again turning to Ben—this time to show them the quickest way to tear down what he had shown them how to build. Meanwhile, Mr. Nell removed a brown bottle from inside his tunic and helped himself to a large gulp. He coughed,
then blew out breath in an explosive sigh and regarded the boys with watery, benign eyes.

“And what might ye have in yer bottle, sor?” Richie asked from the place where he was standing knee-deep in the water.

“Richie, can't you ever shut up?” Eddie hissed.

“This?” Mr. Nell regarded Richie with mild surprise and looked at the bottle again. It had no label of any kind on it. “This is the cough medicine of the gods, my boy. Now let's see if you can bend yer back anywhere near as fast as you can wag yer tongue.”

Bill and Richie were walking up Witcham Street together later on. Bill was pushing Silver; after first building and then tearing down the dam, he simply did not have the energy it would have taken to get Silver up to cruising speed. Both boys were dirty, dishevelled, and pretty well used up.