Chapter Text
And if you ask what bird I want to be,
I’ll say a blue jay!
If you ask what time I want to leave,
I’ll change the conversation–
If you lean in close and kiss me,
I won’t mind…
I’ll probably respond in kind.
OCTOBER 8, 1990 : DERRY CEMETERY
Stan lived a little on the edge of town, only a block or so away from Derry Cemetery. He had avoided it for most of his childhood, because cemeteries were sad and spooky and every time he passed by he had to hold his breath. After the summer of 89’, though, he had lost his fear of the place and began to find it appealing to go on walks there when he was bored of Bassey park or the Standpipe (and he never really liked to go near the Standpipe anymore).
The cemetery had two sections. There was the old section, which Stan mostly avoided–that part, he thought, was still kind of creepy–and the new one. The old section was shady, with great towering maples and hemlocks and elms that had spent centuries feeding on the remains of Derry residents. Or, Stan imagined that was what they had done. He wasn’t sure how recent embalming and preservation methods reached the standard of keeping out the local flora. In the old section, all of the gravestones were cracked and covered in mint-green lichen, and no one ever came by to leave flowers or smoke cigarettes by those graves. Stan preferred to leave them alone.
The new section had wider footpaths, the occasional bench, and clean gray headstones surrounded by flowers and sometimes little American flags. There was a willow with a birdbath under it that Stan liked to sit under, observing the birds and sometimes bringing seeds for them. He thought that the ghosts in the new side of the cemetery seemed much friendlier, much less likely to bite.
Eddie clearly thought it was weird.
“You come here all the time?” Eddie asked, looking around at the wrought-iron fence and the tidy lanes of headstones, interspersed through the grass.
“Not all the time,” Stan said, leading him towards the willow tree and his favorite spot. “Just when I don’t want to go too far from the house.”
“Creepy.” Eddie said. “I’m pretty sure my dad is kicking around here somewhere.”
“You better hope he’s not kicking!” Stan said, grinning. He blinked as they passed every other row of headstones, a habit he’d formed when he started coming here.
“Well,” was all Eddie said.
Stan laughed. “Do you want to find him?”
“No,” Eddie shook his head. He opened his mouth like he was going to add more to that statement, but then he didn’t.
Stan hadn’t heard him talk about his father much.
“I don’t think I’ll want to be buried.” Stan said. “Seems pointless.”
Eddie looked up from the path. “Why?”
“I mean, why go to so much effort to make you look all nice and fancy for all of eternity when no one can even see you down there?” Stan said. “Probably smells bad. I’d want to be cremated.”
“I think I would too,” Eddie said after a pause. “As long as I get scattered. Otherwise I think my mom would just hold on to me forever.”
“Now there’s an afterlife I wouldn’t want!” Stan said. They had reached his favorite willow tree and he pointed Eddie to the bench where he usually liked to sit.
Eddie shuddered. “You don’t know the half of it. She’d probably stick my little urn in the medicine cabinet.”
Stan almost giggled, but then he was a little scandalized. “What would you cure? Impulsivity? Risk-taking?”
“Oh my gosh, she wouldn’t take me as medicine!” Eddie gaped. “She’d just keep me there next to it, because… I don’t know what the joke was. It didn’t make much sense.”
“O-okay.” Stan blinked. “I thought it didn’t make sense but sometimes I’m wrong about that.”
Eddie looked at Stan, a little smile on his face. “You’re weird, Stan.”
Stan looked rather pale at that suggestion. “I know.”
With Eddie, who was unusually short, and Stan, who was a little tall, the two made an odd pair sitting next to each other. They sat there, talking and watching the birds at the feeder–these were not the type that one needed to be quiet for–and sometimes glanced up or down at each other’s faces. Stan never held eye contact for very long.
“Greta Keene told me once that all my medicine is fake.” Eddie said. “Just… placebos.”
“What’s that?” Stan asked.
“It means they give you fake medicine that doesn’t do anything, but sometimes people feel better anyway because they think they’ve been cured.” Eddie said. “I looked it up.”
Stan nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think she was just pulling your arm?”
“That’s what I thought for a while,” Eddie said. “I guess telling someone to stop taking their life-saving medicine is a pretty good way to get that person killed.”
“That’s unsettling, though.” Stan said, frowning. “Are doctors allowed to lie like that?”
“Apparently they can,” Eddie shrugged. “Made me feel kind of crazy. Like, if you can convince a person that they’ve been cured and they really do feel better, can you convince a person that they’re sick?”
“That would make sense,” Stan said. “You said you only used to think she was lying to you?”
“Yeah.” Eddie said. He waited a moment, getting his words in order, before he continued. “I don’t know anymore. I think maybe she wasn’t lying to me. I got mad once–right after, you know, the fight. The final one. Didn't take any of my pills for three days. Nothing happened. I was basically fine.”
Sure, there had been a series of hours where he had felt like his throat was slowly closing, where he’d counted his individual heartbeats and waited with bated breath for them to stop, where he’d wheezed and panted and locked himself in the bathroom for long periods of time to wait for the world to stop spinning and for his brain to stop fixating on the feeling of all of his skin at once. Stan didn’t need to know about that. That happened sometimes when he took his meds, too, so he wasn’t sure that there was any connection between them.
Stan watched a robin land in the birdfeeder with mild interest. “So you think your mom was lying to you too?”
Eddie looked glum. “Maybe.”
He didn’t know what he thought Stan was going to say. It wasn’t like he would know whether or not Mrs. Kaspbrak and Mr. Keene were playing a big prank on him. It sounded pretty implausible, when Eddie said it out loud. But Stan probably already thought he was stupid.
“Wait, that’s why you threw your fanny pack before we went into Neibolt that day,” Stan said, something clicking for him.
“Yeah.” Eddie said resentfully. “My mom was so pissed about that.”
“She made you start taking them again, didn’t she?”
Eddie nodded. He was remembering how later on, he’d gone back to Neibolt and gathered his pills back, blowing dirt out of the plastic containers, trying to tell himself it was because the fanny pack itself was still useful. He fidgeted with his inhaler.
“Stan, do you think I could be crazy?” Eddie asked. His face was all pinched and tight.
“No, I don’t think so.” Stan said. “I mean, Patrick Hockstetter, Henry Bowers–they were crazy. You’re not crazy like that. If you are crazy, I mean. I think you’d only be a little crazy. Like how Richie’s a little crazy.”
“Is he?” Eddie frowned.
“Just a little. You know how he can’t sit still, and he’s always talking nonsense,” Stan shrugged. “A lot of people are just a little crazy, I think.”
“I guess.” Eddie said. “I don’t really think I’m crazy crazy. But sometimes I’ll have these days where I can just tell that everything’s about to go to shit, you know?” Eddie swallowed. “Sometimes things really do go to shit, sometimes they don’t. But I just know that something bad is going to happen, and I can’t breathe, and I have to use my inhaler and I go through it really fast.” He paused, catching his breath. “Then I feel a little crazy.”
Stan considered this. “I don’t think it’s that crazy that you get scared. Considering what we went through.”
“Do you get days like that?”
Stan tipped his head to the side. “Every now and then. Especially in the summer. I don’t have an inhaler, so I just…” He blushed at this.
“What?” Eddie sat up now, sensing that there was some juicy secret about to be revealed. “What? What?”
“I… I recite birds, in my head.” Stan said. “I list them all out. As many as I can think of, Latin names and everything. It calms me down.”
Eddie laughed. “That’s so weird. But not as weird as sucking on pretend medicine.”
“You don’t know if it’s pretend or not,” Stan pointed out.
“I guess I don’t!” Eddie said.
“I do that thing with the birds whenever I think about, y’know-” It. “Scary stuff. Like if I don’t, then…” He trailed off. “It’s a superstition, I guess.”
In fact he would like to be doing that now. He should be doing that now. He should be-
“That IS crazy.” Eddie said, though he didn’t say it in a mean way. He said it more appreciatively, as if they were exchanging stories of mean teachers or annoying parents.
Stan had never told anyone about the bird thing before, and he was heartened to think that Eddie might understand–or, if not understand, confirm something for him.
“With the medicine thing,” Stan said. “Did you ever think, before Greta said that to you, that it could be fake?”
“Not really,” Eddie shook his head.
“Or like,” Stan struggled for words. “Do you ever really think about it now? Like, worry if everyone’s lying to you? Like everyone knows something about you that you don’t?”
Eddie turned pale. “Is that how you feel?”
Stan’s gaze flicked away. “Y-yeah.”
Eddie looked off into the distance, his face tense and unhappy. “I worry that you guys don’t really like me at all and you’re just pretending to be nice. And that when I’m not around, you’re all happy about it.”
“Sometimes I think that too!” Stan said. He was almost excited to hear that they had this in common. “People don't make any sense. Sometimes they think something's funny, sometimes they look at me like I'm insane, and I made the exact same joke both times. I don't know what their problem is.”
“Well,” Eddie said. “I think you're pretty funny.”
“Thanks,” Stan said.
“I don't know how Richie does it,” Eddie said. “He's so good with things like that. With people.”
“Richie? Good with people?” Stan laughed. “That's funny. That's hilarious. Now, Bev? Yeah. Bill and Mike too. They just have a way about them.” Stan paused. Then he added, “I’ve never heard anyone complain about you, by the way. Except for Richie.”
“That’s good.” Eddie said. “And eh, I don’t care what he thinks.”
Stan was pretty sure that was a lie, unless it was a joke. Eddie didn’t deliver it like a joke, though. Stan didn’t say anything, in case this would only reveal how deep his craziness went.
Eddie seemed to flip on the issue immediately. “But he’s just joking, right? Richie?”
“When he complains about you? Yeah, I’m pretty sure.” Stan said.
“Okay.” Eddie said. “You’ll tell me if he does say something for real, though, right? I have a right to know. I’m one of his best friends, I should know what he really thinks of me.”
“I…” Stan was pretty sure he couldn’t do that, seeing as how he’d already promised Richie his silence on such matters. “I don’t think I can do that.”
Eddie looked at Stan like he had stabbed him in the chest. “Why?”
Stan gulped, tapping his hands together and his feet on the ground to manage his discomfort. “I… I promised him I wouldn’t. But I can say that he doesn’t hate you!”
“Why did he make you promise that?” Eddie cried, ashen-faced and stricken.
“I can’t say!” Stan held up his hands. “I promised him I wouldn’t say! It’s not bad, though. He didn’t say anything about you that was bad.”
If Eddie mentions this to him, Richie will throttle me, Stan thought to himself. He was bungling this one, that was for sure.
“So he…” Eddie was befuddled. “He made you promise not to tell me that he thought nice things about me?”
Stan kept his mouth firmly shut, afraid of the things it might reveal.
“Why would anyone do that? Everyone knows you only keep secrets like that when you’re mad at someone,” Eddie said. He began to breathe rapidly and reached for his inhaler, and then held it up in one hand, the other pressing on his chest.
Stan watched him, perplexed. “I’m sorry, Eddie! I promised! I’ve said too much already!”
Eddie didn’t react, only held up his inhaler and began to laugh.
“Administer as needed!” He wheezed. “Administer as needed…”
Stan began to panic himself. Carolina wren, thryothorus ludovicianus. American goldfinch, spinus tristis, black-capped chickadee…
Eddie was laughing so hard through his wheezing that he began to cough and gasp, clutching his chest now and sliding down on the bench.
Stan unfroze.
“Um, um–your inhaler,” Stan stood and grabbed the thing from his friend’s hands and held it up to Eddie’s mouth so that he could use it, but Eddie slapped it away. He held up one hand, indicating Stop, and Stan paused, unsure of what to do next.
“It’s-” Eddie choked out the word and then returned to gasping, clutching the wooden slats of the bench so hard that Stan worried he would get splinters.
Stan sat down again, counting bird names in his head. Eventually Eddie grabbed one of his hands and clutched it awkwardly, heaving air in and out, in and out.
Eventually, Eddie’s breathing began to return to normal. He let go of Stan’s hand and closed his eyes, relieved.
“Do you… water?” He asked, his voice still light and wheezy.
Stan passed him the bottle he kept in the pack he always brought with him on walks. It was full neatly to the brim, even though Stan hadn’t expected to need it.
“What was that about?” Stan asked. “‘Administer as needed?’”
“It says that…” Eddie said. “...on the inhaler. It… it says that.”
Stan held up the plastic and metal device. “So it does.”
“Don’t you think,” Eddie gasped, “if it were real, there would be more… more warnings?”
Stan pursed his lips. “I’ve never seen medicine without it.”
Eddie lifted his hand and dropped it in a half-hearted gesture that Stan couldn’t decode. “…Yeah.”
“Man, you really are crazy.” Stan said. Now he began to laugh, and Eddie joined him.
“We’re both crazy!” Eddie giggled. “We’re both just a little crazy!”
Stan laughed harder, and the way that they were laughing only convinced him that they were crazy, just a little, and that seemed all the more hilarious. The two dissolved into a fit of hysteria that lasted for a long time.
DECEMBER 19, 1990 : MIKE’S HOUSE
“Does anyone remember Eddie’s number? I know I had it written down somewhere,” Mike said.
Richie, Mike, Stan, Ben and Bill were all gathered around the Hanlon farm telephone. They had gathered at Mike’s almost immediately upon the news that Derry High would be cancelling class due to snow, after Mike called each of them one by one.
Mike’s eyes were shining. He was clearly thrilled about the whole concept of a “snow day,” which was new to him, like many things about their freshman year of high school. Ben liked watching his reactions. It was nice that someone else was out of the loop when it came to the Derry public school system.
“Let me, let me.” Richie said. Mike handed him the phone and he began to dial, messing it up almost immediately.
“Mike, you said you had a good hill for us?” Ben was still dressed head to toe in snow gear from his walk to the farm.
“The perfect hill,” Mike said, grinning.
“Oh Eddie!” Richie said in a sing-song voice, though they could all hear the phone continue to ring through the line. “Where is that guy?”
“Just be quiet, what if his mom picks up?” Stan said.
“Nahhhh,” Richie said. “I trust in Eds.”
Ben heard a murmur from the phone speaker and then Richie’s eyes went wide.
He covered the speaker and hissed, “Shit! It’s his mom!”
“She’s never gonna let him come out,” Stan said regretfully.
Bill shook his head.
Richie paused, a half-smirk on his face. Then he put the phone back to his ear.
“Hello, is this Sonia Kaspbrak?” He’d made his voice deeper and taken up a stronger Maine accent, in an imitation they all immediately recognized. Ben put his hands over his mouth to muffle his laughter.
“This is Joseph Lewis, your son’s History teacher?”
Bill bit his lip to hold back a grin. Ben was shaking with the effort holding in his laughter. Stan looked petrified. Mike was watching Richie with amazement. Faint sounds emanated from the phone speaker.
“I do remember you from parent-teacher conferences, of course!” Richie said. “Ayuh, I’d like to speak with Eddie if he’s available.” Richie was grinning now.
“Holy sh-shit!” Bill whispered.
Joseph Lewis, who had perpetual cold sores on his lips and a habit of pounding on his desk when someone showed interest in his lectures, which Ben often did. The man had clearly never encountered a child who expressed any genuine interest in the French and Indian War. His classroom always smelled like tobacco, even though none of the students (and Richie had searched) could find any evidence of it. Ben liked that class, if only because everyone else seemed grateful that he was answering Mr. Lewis's questions so that they could nap in the dusty sunbeams instead of paying attention. The worst Ben got was eye-rolls, and he could handle that.
Richie’s face went slightly pale. “Yes, er, I was hoping to tell him myself, but he’s achieved top marks on the qualifying exam for the state Geography Bee.”
The imitation was on-the-nose, but it was also terrible. Ben couldn’t hold in his laughter any longer and he pulled up his neckwarmer to muffle them. It was still damp and slightly crusty from the snow still falling in the morning air.
“Yes, he’s an exemplary child.” Richie continued. “May I speak to him, please?”
Stan shook his head frantically, eyes wide.
“Risky,” Mike whispered.
A grin spread across Richie’s face.
“Oh my god, did he do it?” Ben whispered.
“Hey there Eds!” Richie said.
The Losers cheered.
“I can’t BELIEVE that worked,” Ben said.
“Richie th-that was s-sick!” Bill pounded him on the back. Mike grabbed Richie’s shoulder and shook him, grinning. [1]
Richie continued speaking into the phone. “I had to! She wasn’t gonna talk to me! Just tell her you backed out because they’d make you take a plane to DC or something!”
“That was such a bad idea,” Stan said, though he was smiling now.
“Is he gonna show?” Mike asked.
Richie raised his eyebrows in a silent “i dunno!”
“What if she tries to bring it up to Mr. Lewis?” Ben asked.
“We’re all at Mike’s, he’s got the perfect sledding hill,” Richie said. He began to explain their idea.
“Th-this fucking rules,” Bill said.
Richie hung up the phone. “He’s gonna wait a bit before he heads out so his mom doesn’t figure it out. But I think he’s coming!”
“Yes!” Mike cheered.
“Okay,” Ben said, grinning. “Let’s see this perfect hill.”
The Hanlon farm was set apart from its neighbors by a long road, and along that road, a good stretch of unused land. In the summer, it was a scraggly field of knotweed and dusty grass. Now, it was covered in several feet of fresh powder, with more coming down overhead.
“Technically this is part of the farm,” Mike explained as he led the Losers out to the hill. He was wearing a thick coat, and Ben had seen him layer two sweatshirts under it before they left the house. Behind him, a bright yellow plastic sled bounced over the snow. It was Ben’s sled, and he’d brought it all the way from his house with him. “The reason we don’t use it for anything is because it’s not flat. Lots of times we dump rocks out here. I think that’s where the hill came from.”
“Lovely. Who doesn’t want to sled down into a bunch of soft, pillowy rocks?” Richie said. Snow was beginning to gather on top of his navy blue hat.
“There’s plenty of snow on top,” Ben said. His legs sank into the snow halfway up his calves with every step, but he could tell there was more underneath him, packed down.
“There it is,” Mike gestured, his eyes bright from inside his hood.
The hill, which was better described as a slope, was ginormous. It sat in the bend of the road that led up to the farmhouse, and it curved up from the valley of the driveway to the higher land which would eventually turn into pastures. Now, the road was almost invisible, blanketed in the same smooth layer of white that had coated the rest of Derry. The only sign that it was there were the tentative car treads from Margaret Tozier’s van, which had brought Richie, Stan and Bill to the Hanlon farm all together.
Ben immediately saw what should be done.
At the steepest point, they could roll one solid snowball down straight to make a fast track. That snow could be re-shaped to make a jump at the bottom, which would send them flying—potentially all the way over the road!—and into the opposite snowbank. Beside that, where the slope was gentler and broader, they could carve out something with twists, like a water slide…
“What are you planning, Ben?” Stan asked.
“I think we have enough room to make two tracks,” Ben said, taking heavy steps towards the hill.
“Tracks? Who needs tracks?” Richie asked, bounding ahead with enviable agility. “We can just sled straight down!”
“It’ll be faster if we carve out a channel,” Ben said, “Let me show you!”
And so they got to work. Bill and Richie began work on the straight track with the jump, while Ben directed Stan and Mike on constructing the double-turn track. Mike eventually made a trip back to his house to grab shovels.
Ben was in his element. He and Stan smoothed down the sides of the channel with their mittens, packing down piles of snow on the bank to secure the edges and shore up the corners. The snowfall lessened, until it stopped entirely, leaving only the work of smoothing it down.
This was the kind of thing he’d wanted to do for years. There’d been a good sledding hill behind his house when he lived in Saco, but he’d never made use of it because putting so much effort into sledding by himself would make his mom sad.
“Oh man, I grabbed these for nothing!” Mike said. He was back with shovels under his arms. “You guys look almost done!”
“No, no—we can make ‘em deeper,” Ben said. “And we still have to smooth down the snow in the middle. I think we can use the sled for that, so we stop leaving tracks.”
He, Stan, and Mike brought the sled up to the top of the hill.
“Hey Mike, what are those woods over there?” Stan pointed in the distance, beyond the blinding white fields, where Ben saw a dark line of trees.
“They’re woods,” Mike said. “Been there forever, I don’t know.”
Stan squinted. His hat pushed his curls, now wet from snow, down almost to his eyes. “They look deep. Wish I had a spot like that by my house, I’m sick of cowbirds and robins. I bet out there you could see a hawk up close. Maybe even a scarlet tanager.”
“Hawks, definitely.” Mike said. “We get them flying around all the time. What’s a scarlet tanager look like?”
“I bet it’s purple.” Ben said.
Stan looked at him, brow furrowed, and then he began to laugh. Ben and Mike joined, giggling at the thought of a little violet songbird.
“Yeah. Bright purple.” Stan said when he recovered.
“I can take you out back there sometime,” Mike said. “Maybe when it’s not the dead of winter.”
“They’re red with black wings,” Stan said, answering the earlier question. Then he paused. “That’d be cool.”
Ben grabbed the plastic sled and angled it at the top of their track. “Let’s get to work, boys! We might finish before Eddie shows up!”
They didn’t finish before Eddie showed up. They might’ve, if Richie hadn’t started throwing snowballs at Stan and caused an impromptu battle. Just after their icy melee concluded, leaving all of them collapsed and giggling or hiding behind improvised snow barriers, Eddie tromped up the road with a frown on his face. His coat, which was at least twice as puffy as any of the other’s, went down to his knees.
“It is so much farther to walk than I thought,” He said. “This better be good. What the fuck happened to you guys?”
Stan emerged from behind the hill. “Richie started it.”
“Haystack got me good,” Richie said, sitting up from a snowdrift and rubbing his arm. “Yeouch!”
“We’re making tracks for the sleds,” Ben said, brushing snow off his jacket. “We’re almost done, too.”
“My socks got wet,” Stan observed with a grimace on his face.
“Probably pissed yourself when you saw my incredible might,” Richie flexed.
“Gross, Richie.” Eddie said.
“I wouldn’t mind going in for a bit,” Ben said. “My socks got wet too.”
“What a bunch of pussies!” Richie said. “You seeing this, Big Bill?”
“I’m g-going in,” Bill said, grinning. “Really nice of you to volunt-t-teer to finish the tracks by yourself, th-though.”
Richie crossed his arms. “Nice try.”
“Mike, do you have hot chocolate?” Eddie asked. The six of them began to trudge back towards Mike’s house. “Richie’s gonna need it when he gets frostbite on his huge nose.”
“No hot chocolate,” Mike laughed. “Just coffee and some weird tea.”
Eddie gagged. “Coffee tastes like shit! Don’t you have like, chocolate syrup or something?”
Mike grimaced. “We might have chocolate chips?”
“Oh, you can use those!” Ben said. “My mom showed me. You just melt them down and mix them in milk, it works fine. Do you have cocoa powder? That’s all that hot chocolate mix really is. And some sugar.”
“We can check,” Mike said. He opened a squeaking screen door and held it open as the rest of them stepped onto his porch. Then commenced the violent stomping of boots that all children are taught to remove snow from their shoes.
The Hanlon farmhouse was drafty, but cozy. Ben always appreciated the shelves of books on one side of the parlor. The old cloth spines gave the shelf an aura of curation. He imagined Mike’s Granddad, who seemed to Ben both intimidating and wise, going through those shelves every so often. He might pull out one title, weigh its value to the collection, and then swap it out with another that he had found in an old shop. When Ben looked at it now, he saw one of the cats walk across the top and settle into watchful repose.
The Losers soon upended the Hanlon kitchen, under the supervision of Mike’s Gran, who shook her head and smiled silently. She was perhaps the skinniest old person Ben had ever seen, with big, cloudy eyes and a shock of thin, but shining silver hair.
“Mikey, bring out the mugs.” She said in her warbling southern voice. “The nice ones. Been a while since this little one’s had friends over.”
“Watch the handle,” Eddie said, watching over Richie’s shoulder as he melted chocolate chips in a saucepan. “The metal gets hot.”
“I know the metal gets hot! What, do you think I was born yesterday?” Richie said.
Stan had been hanging up their wet things on the porch, where he had insisted they remain as long as they continued to be wet. Now he walked in, hiding shivers in his cable sweater. “I think I understand what astronauts talk about when they talk about the cold vacuum of space.”
“I can try to dry your socks for you!” Mike said. “I’ll put them on the radiator.”
“You-you don’t have to, that’s okay,” Stan looked embarrassed.
“Can you put mine on the radiator?” Eddie said. “I want warm socks.”
“Me too,” Ben said.
Stan seemed relieved. The three of them peeled off their socks and handed them to Mike, who made a big show of wrinkling his nose.
“You asked for it,” Bill said, laughing.
“He didn’t know what he was getting into!” Richie said from the stove. Ben could hear a worrying sizzling from the pan. “You know Eddie’s smell like rotten pizza.”
Eddie exhaled, exasperated. “No they don’t. How would you even know what pizza smells like rotten? Do you just like to go hang out in like, the dumpster behind Pizza Hut? Just huffing garbage all day?”
Ben heard Mike’s Gran whisper to her grandson as he walked past. “They seem like nice boys. Don’t let them get into any trouble, eh?”
Ben flushed with pride.
“I’ll be in the den watching my soaps if you need anything,” The woman patted Mike’s arm and turned to shuffle out of the room.
“Thank you very much for letting us come over!” Ben said before she disappeared. She smiled at him and waved a hand.
“I think that’s definitely melted.” Stan said, pointing into the saucepan over Richie’s shoulder.
Richie shook the pan to toss its contents. He adopted a ridiculous french accent. “Vat do you know of ze cooking, Stanley, huh? I have it on goooood author-ay-tee zat all ze best chefs au Paris use extra melt in zer chocolahh!”
“That’s burning.” Stan said, and turned off the electric burner.
“Did anyone add the cocoa?” Ben asked.
“I’ve g-got it,” Bill said, holding up the box.
Eddie stepped in now. “Don’t pour it too fast. You’re gonna add too much. That was–whatever. It's fine. Oh my god that smells so good. Mix it, idiot!”
They stirred this concoction into a mixture that looked slightly chunky but which, according to Bill, who tested it, tasted delicious.
Mike pawed through a drawer and pulled out a ladle. “Grab a mug, boys!”
Ben took one of the green ceramic mugs from the collection that Mike had set out and stepped up to receive his portion of the hot chocolate. “Thanks, Mike.”
Richie elbowed his way in behind Ben, who stepped away with his steadily warming mug. “Fill me up, senor!”
“Asshole, do lines mean anything to you?” Eddie said. “I was next!”
“I made plenty enough for all of us, lads,” Richie said, gesturing broadly with his hands. “The trashmouth provides!”
“I’m p-pretty sure it’s Mike who provided,” Bill said.
“Yeah, and you would’ve burned it if it hadn’t been for Stan.” Eddie said.
Suddenly there was a crash.
Ben turned and saw Stan, cheeks still red from the cold, staring down in horror at a splash of green ceramic shards on the floor.
“Good going, dumbass,” Eddie said.
“It’s okay!” Mike said, before Stan could recover from his shock.
“I’m so–I’m so sorry, Mike.” Stan looked like he might cry. His hands, quivering slightly, went to his mouth. “I’m so sorry, my hands were stiff and-”
“It’s okay! It’s fine,” Mike repeated, “You didn’t mean to, it was just an accident.”
“Your grandma’s gonna whoop your ass.” Richie said.
“Beep beep, Richie.” Bill said.
“I–I’ll ask my parents for money, we can pay to replace it,” Stan said. “I’m so sorry, please tell your grandma it was all my fault.”
“No, tell her it’s me.” Eddie said. “She won’t hit me. Hey, I’ll come by with five bucks tomorrow.”
“Those were more than five bucks,” Richie said. “I’ll chip in ten. You give him two, Eds. You don’t get as big of an allowance.”
“But I dropped it.” Stan said. His face was pale now, and he was staring at all of them with wide eyes.
“Let’s clean this up,” Ben said, setting his mug down. “Mike, do you have a dustpan?”
“Yeah, I’ll get the broom.” Mike leapt over the broken mug and clasped Stan on the shoulder,[2] though in the hallway he shot a nervous glance in the direction his Gran had gone. “It’s okay, man. Really.”
“I’ll chip in two,” Ben said, kissing his comics savings goodbye in his mind.
“Why are you offering to-” Stan furrowed his brow. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Don’t g-get worked up about it,” Bill said. “We’ll all chip in four.”
Mike came back and Ben held the dustpan as he swept up the shards.
“We’ll all pitch in four, does that cover it, you think?” Richie said to Mike.
“You’re going to give me twenty dollars for a mug?” Mike was wide-eyed.
“Sixteen.” Eddie corrected. “Stan’s not paying.”
“Yes I will,” Stan said. “Why wouldn’t I pay? I’m the one who–”
“No you won’t.” Bill cut him off. “Do you th-think that’ll be enough?”
Mike raised his eyebrows. “My Gran will kill me if I accept sixteen dollars from you guys.”
“Well, as long as the funeral’s not on Tuesday, I should be able to make it.” Eddie said. “I’ve got an appointment.”
“What, your hepatitis acting up again?” Richie said.
“No, I’m hiring an assassin to poison your godawful Pepsis.” Eddie said.
There was a moment of silence, and then Stan snorted. Then they were all giggling, the tension releasing, Bill almost spilling hot chocolate on his hoodie.
“That’s more like it.” Mike grinned, slapping Stan on the back. [3]“Let’s get you a new mug.”
Ben dumped out the dustpan in the trash and took up his own cocoa. It tasted like a melted Hershey’s bar, which was, in Ben’s opinion, perfect. Well, actually it could use a peppermint stick, but Ben didn’t have one of those, and he was far too polite to ask.
“I don’t know what to say,” Stan said as Mike handed him a fresh mug filled with hot chocolate, this one white plastic from the cabinet.
“‘Thank you’ is traditional, you ungrateful jerk.” Eddie said.
Stan blinked, and then Richie started to laugh. Ben giggled.
“Yeah, man!” Bill grinned. “Where’s our th-thanks?”
“You really want me to tell her it was you?” Mike asked Eddie.
“Yeah, dipshit. You think I’d just lie?” Eddie sounded almost offended.
“Wh-why are you guys doing this?” Stan asked, staring at the cup in his hands.
Ben shrugged. “Losers stick together. Can we drink our cocoa please? I want to actually sled.”
MARCH 23, 1991 : STAN’S HOUSE
“I always forget how nice your house is, Stan.”
“It’s not too different from yours. Only thing is we know how to open cabinets and drawers, put our things in there, and close them again. And we actually use our cleaning supplies for their intended purpose.” Stan said.
Richie ignored this attack on his cherished home. “It really beats sleeping every night in the arms of Eddie’s snoring mom.”
“Fuck you,” Eddie snapped. “She does NOT snore.”
“Fuck you!” Richie cackled.
“Do you ever say things that are true?!”
“Do you ever ask the pharmacy to prescribe you a chill pill?”
“Shut up, you g-guys,” Bill said, interrupting their back-and-forth before it could escalate too far. He unrolled a sleeping bag on the floor of Stan’s room. “It’s way too late to be s-screaming like that.”
“I don’t know, Eddie’s mom was screaming into the wee hours…” Richie sprawled out on a sleeping bag of his own.
“You are the stupidest goddamn liar that there’s ever been, do you know that Richie? The stupidest, dumbest-”
“Let’s play a game or s-something. Truth or dare?” Bill suggested, interrupting Eddie.
“Ugh, that’ll be boring! I already know everything about you guys and we can’t do anything crazy or Stan’s parents will wake up.” Eddie complained. “Can I have a glass of water? I need to take my evening meds.”
“Hey Eddie, truth or dare.” Stan said, getting up.
“Dare.” Eddie crossed his arms.
“I dare you not to argue or complain about anything for the rest of the night.” Stan said, and turned to get Eddie’s water.
“Ohhhhh!” Richie put up a hand to high five Bill.
“I-” Eddie’s face was the color of a tomato. “I can do that!”
Stan walked back and passed Eddie his glass of water (“Thanks,” he muttered), and closed the door.
“Okay, my turn.” Richie said.
“No, assho- I thought whoever was asked goes next,” Eddie said, gritting his teeth slightly.
“Careful there, tiger!” Richie laughed. “Almost sounds like you were going to be disagreeable!”
Eddie made a strangled noise of rage.
“You sound like a fucking Gremlin,” Richie said. “Why’d you give him water, Stan? He’ll go rabid!”
“G-go ahead,” Bill said to Eddie.
“Richie, truth or dare.” Eddie said.
“Truth.”
Eddie frowned. “Do you have a crush?”
“Yeah,” Richie put his hands to his cheeks. “Her name starts with an S…”
“Wait, actually?” Bill said.
Stan rolled his eyes.
“...and then an O… and an N…”
“You’re spelling my mom’s name aren’t you? Tha-” Eddie clamped his mouth shut.
Richie guffawed. “Ohh my god, does anyone else think this is the cutest shit ever?”
Stan rolled his eyes harder. “Answer the question, dickhead.”
“No, I don’t have a crush.” Richie said. Stan blinked at him. “Big Bill, truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“Does Beverly still send you those letters?” He made a kissy face.
“No,” Bill said, looking self-conscious. His stutter suddenly returned with full force. “S-s-she stop- sto-pped last year. With s-sc-school.” He paused. “I think s-she forgot about us.”
“I still don’t think she forgot about us,” Eddie sounded incredulous. “Not with everything that happened.”
“You, Bill?” Richie shook his head. “Your face is so hot it’s probably burned into her eyeballs like Eddie with that one picture of Nancy Reagan.”
Eddie looked like he was moments away from slitting Richie’s throat with his fingernails.
“Richie, can it.” Stan said. “He’ll die.” [4]
“Sorry Eds. Don’t go having an aneurysm.” Richie said, though he was pretty pleased with himself.
“Don’t c– urggghhhh.” Eddie stopped himself.
“Anyway,” Bill said. “I haven’t g-gotten a letter from her since eighth grade. The weird thing is,” he paused. “Once I made a joke about th-the clown, and she asked me what I was t-talking about.”
“What?” Stan said.
“That’s weird,” Richie said, wrinkling his nose.
Privately, he thought about the time he called her. The way she’d paused when he said hello. The slight confusion in her voice throughout the conversation. It was weird, but somehow he wasn’t surprised that Bill had experienced it too.
“You know, I’ve heard about stuff like this. Sometimes when something really bad happens to you, you repress the memories.” Eddie nodded. “But then if they hypnotize you, you can remember what really happened.”
“Is that how they got your mother to admit giving birth to you?” Richie said.
“That’s not even funny,” Stan said, so that Eddie could breathe. “Did you hear about that from all those fundamentalists on TV? Because my dad says that Jerry Falwell is full of bullshit. Like he actually said, ‘bullshit.’”
“Okay, my turn,” Bill said. “S-Stan, truth or dare?”
“Truth,” Stan said.
Bill quirked his mouth to one side, considering. “Do you th-think… do you think we’d still hang out s-sometimes if I lived in Bangor?”
“What kind of question is that?” Richie cried, sitting up.
Stan looked a little distressed. “I don’t know,” he said. “Are you moving?”
“Not my turn,” Bill chuckled lightly.
“Well I’d still want to hang out with you,” Eddie said. “For the record.”
“It’s not your question, dipshit,” Richie said.
“Then why are you talking?” Eddie spat back.
“Ah ah ah!” Richie wagged a finger at Eddie. “Noooo arguing!”
“Both of you shut up!” Stan said, and they did, because Stan looked upset. “Bill, if you lived in Bangor I’d buy a bus pass.”
Bill nodded, satisfied.
“A bus pass? Make him drive here!” Richie said. “He’s the one who’s gonna get his dad’s old truck!”
“I’m not s-s-sixteen for another year,” Bill said.
Richie squinted at him. “You could lie.”
“Yeah, Trashmouth, I’ll lie jus-s-st so I can come back and s-squash your face in every once and a while.”
Eddie laughed uproariously at that, pointing at Richie and guffawing in an exaggeratedly mean way. Richie shook his head, almost smiling but not quite getting to it.
“You’ll miss me and you know it.” He said. “When are you moving?”
“Probably over the s-summer,” Bill said. “After school gets out.”
“Well that’s not too soon,” Eddie said, sounding relieved. “We should try to get the Losers back together before then.”
Stan was grim. “Ben might be moving this summer too. He said his mom was talking to him about it.”
Bill looked mildly distressed. “Sh-shit!”
“Man, our numbers are dwindling so fast, they’ll put us on the endangered species list.” Richie moaned, but he left it there.
“It’s my turn,” Stan said, sounding just a little unhappy. “Eddie. Truth or Dare?”
“Truth.” Eddie said, glancing mournfully at Bill.
“If you get a new dare, you’ll be released from your misery, you know.” Stan said.
“What? Nooo,” Richie scoffed. “You said 'for the rest of the night'.”
Stan shook his head, ignoring Richie. “What about you, Eddie? You got a crush?”
Eddie turned pink. “Nope.”
“I don’t believe it,” Richie said. “No one’s caught his fancy for the past two years! Not still moony over Greta Keene, are you?”
“I don’t answer to you,” Eddie said. “And I don’t lie. I wouldn’t do that!”
“Come on,” There was a small smile on Stan’s lips, slightly amused but also encouraging. “Nobody?”
“Nobody!” Eddie repeated, now the color of pepto bismol.
“Oh he’s so lying,” Richie grinned. “He just doesn’t want to tell us about his secret boyfriend. I bet they meet out in the Barrens under the stars and-”
“BEEP BEEP! BEEP BEEP!” Eddie screeched, with all the urgency of a dozing trucker slamming on the emergency brakes when faced with a jaywalking child in the street.
“-write each other poetry.” Richie finished. He pulled out a new voice now, something he wanted vaguely to sound like a New York queen. He leaned toward Eddie, expression full of mock sincerity. “‘Edward my dahling, roses are red, violets are blue, and you look just like a toddler doused in ketchup-’”
“Beep beep! Beep beep!” Stan, Bill and Eddie continued in their chorus of beeps until Richie dissolved into laughter, too amused with himself to continue.
“That’s-s not even a good g-gay voice,” Bill said, looking somewhere between amused and mildly disgusted.
Richie cracked up even harder at this, to which Stan rolled his eyes.
“Don’t worry Eddie,” Stan said, though Eddie didn’t look any less uncomfortable. “Richie’s just mad because if he were into guys, maybe one of this town’s lonely queers would get desperate enough to finally give him a chance.”
They all burst up at that one, though Richie’s laughter subsided first and he flipped Stan off. Stan quirked an eyebrow as if to say, what? You want me to tell them? You were being mean anyway.
Richie did feel a little bad about pummeling Eddie on the crush thing, though he also thought his new voice was pretty funny. But he had to be careful.
“‘s my turn,” Eddie said. “Richie. Truth or Dare.”
“Dare!” Richie cried. “I’m not a coward like all of you!”
Eddie smiled, in a most terrifying way.
“I dare you,” He began dramatically. “To keep my mother’s name out of your filthy fucking mouth and NOT make any your-mom jokes until we leave tomorrow. And if you do,” he added over Richie’s gruesome choking noises, “You have to give me a dollar. Per. Joke.”
“I’ve fallen!” Richie cried, clutching his chest as if he were dying. “There’s no hope for me! Someone call the priest!”
“Don’t bother,” Bill said, already laughing. “You’re not g-getting into Heaven, dumbass.”
They fell into another fit of laughter.
Stan shook his head at Richie. “You should’ve seen that coming.”
An hour and a half later they were lying in the dark, sleeping bags settled, Stan and Bill likely asleep. By the end of their game, Eddie had reached what Stan drily termed “the boiling point,” because when Eddie was that exhausted, he became rather loud, shrill, and bouncy. Richie didn’t mind it, though, because most of Eddie’s giggling had been at things Richie said. Making Eddie laugh… that had him feeling just fine. Fine as art, you could say. He almost giggled at himself.
You could say he didn’t want to go to sleep just yet.
Richie loved sleepovers. There was nothing not to like; sleeping in the warm presence of his friends, laughing late into the night, the dream-like intimacy of secrets and sleepy whispers.
He was a little too warm in the sleeping bag Stan had lent him, but it would make so much noise if he moved. Stan’s bedroom was quiet, with not even the hum of appliances that Richie was used to in his own house. Bill was a deathly silent sleeper. Slightly unnerving, but consistently true. Stan’s breathing was only a little louder, but it was soft and rhythmic enough that Richie guessed he wasn’t awake. Eddie, he couldn't tell.
Richie didn’t sleep well in quiet.
He heard Eddie shift in his sleeping bag next to him, and that perked him up. He rolled over to face him, pulling his arms out of the bag into the cooler air.
“Eds?” He whispered.
“What?” Eddie replied immediately. Richie couldn’t make out more than just the blurriest silhouette in front of him, between the darkness and his lack of glasses.
“It’s just you and me, alone in the dark of the night!” Richie whispered with a grand tone.
“Shhhh,” Eddie scooched his sleeping bag in Richie’s direction, the sound of polyester scratching over Stan’s rug surprisingly loud in the silence.
“You’re being loud,” Eddie said in an even more hushed whisper. He sounded far closer to Richie now, his face barely inches away.
“I’ll be quiet,” Richie said, matching Eddie’s volume. It felt like hardly talking. They were just breathing in the shape of words. “Do you think Bill will still go by Big Bill in Bangor?”
Eddie paused. “I don’t know. Probably not, right?”
“Probably not,” Richie agreed.
That was frightening. To think that Bill might become something Richie didn’t recognize.
“What?” Eddie whispered.
“At least we won’t have to listen to him go on about Dune anymore,” Richie joked.
Eddie’s laugh was silent, just a puff of air that brushed Richie’s face. “You’ll miss him.”
“Yeah…” Richie trailed off. “I’ll really miss his brooding looks and his weird burps and his habit of being better at everything than me…”
Eddie was silent.
“If you’re making a face, I can’t see it,” Richie told him.
He reached a hand blindly into the dark. His fingers hit Eddie’s cheek, which was cool and velvety, and he pinched it gently—more of a squeeze, really. Eddie giggled.
“I knew it!” Richie whispered in mock-triumph. “I knew you were smiling. You think I'm funny. Admit it.”
He walked his fingers across Eddie’s face and tapped his nose.
“And now you’re frowning,” Richie guessed.
Eddie didn’t react. Richie withdrew his hand sheepishly.
“Wrong,” Eddie finally said.
“What?”
“Wasn’t frowning.” Eddie said. His voice was barely audible, low and strange.
Richie swallowed.
“Oh, okay.” He said, trying to keep the tone humorous. He wished he could see.
Suddenly, Eddie’s hand was touching Richie’s face. Richie’s heartbeat fell off the face of the planet.
Groping blindly, Eddie’s fingertips slid from his forehead along his hair line, down to Richie’s eyelids and nose. Light, soft, innocent.
Richie kept himself perfectly still.
Eddie was silent, his hand continuing to explore. There was the feather-gentle touch of his pinkie just under Richie’s eye. The warmth of his palm brushing Richie’s cheek. His thumb, swiping up under Richie’s jaw and sending his pulse fluttering. It was… it was tender. Slow. Deliberate.
Now the tips of his forefingers stroked Richie’s lips.
Unthinking—on reflex—Richie kissed them.
Just a peck, tiny and playful. Then he kissed the first knuckles, then the back of Eddie’s little hand, which was frozen, paralyzed. Richie felt half-delirious, like he was in a dream. He nudged his nose under Eddie’s palm and kissed the crease on the inside of his wrist, lips pressed against the heartbeat there.
He stopped himself.
He stopped himself so suddenly he imagined he could hear screeching car tires.
Eddie was still unmoving, his hand hovering a half inch away from Richie’s face. Richie could feel it there, like a ghost, electrifying every tiny hair on his body.
Suddenly Eddie jerked it back, his breathing rapidly returning at breakneck pace, sitting up with a start.
Now it was Richie who couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, He thought, and intended to say, but couldn’t. I’m sorry, I’m sorry (I know that it’s wrong) please come back-
Eddie was rifling through the pack next to his sleeping bag now, clumsily enough that Richie winced at the noise.
The wince was enough to break his paralysis. He managed to sit up and pulled his legs out of his sleeping bag. It was too warm in there.
“Eddie?” His own breathing was stopping and starting. “What are you looking for?”
His question was answered when he heard the telltale shaking and wheeze of Eddie’s inhaler—always first the rattle as Eddie shook it, and then the hiss of gas being pumped free.
Richie really had fucked it up, hadn’t he.
Eddie used his inhaler again—rattle, hiss—and then he lay back down flat on his back.
Richie followed suit, terrified.
“Eds?” He whispered hopelessly.
No response.
Richie bit his lip, hard. He dug his incisors in, viciously, until he tasted blood and felt sharp pain. He bit down again, and again, and this kept him from crying.
He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked the blood off his lips, maintaining control, staying silent.
When the flash-flood of panic had somewhat abated, he listened for Eddie’s breathing and heard nothing.
“Eds?” He breathed the question. So quiet he could barely hear himself.
Again, Eddie’s only response was silence.
Richie was under no illusions that Eddie was asleep, but he understood. He was playing dead.
Well.
Two could play that game.
MAY 7, 1991 : MIKE’S HOUSE
Mike held a little piece of paper in his hands with a phone number on it, and he re-read it nervously as he began to spin the dial on his family’s rotary phone. The number input, he waited as the sound of ringing echoed through the line.
It was a woman who picked up–Stan’s mom, probably. “Hello? This is the Uris household.”
“Good morning,” Mike said. “My name is Mike, I’m one of Stan’s friends?”
“Nice to meet you, Mike. One second.” He heard her pull back from the phone and call for Stan, who now took the phone.
“Mike?” Stan answered cautiously.
“Stan the Man!” Mike said. “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I was wondering if you wanted me to show you the woods out back, now that it's spring.”
“Oh–the scarlet tanagers!” Stan said. “Have you seen any?”
“I don’t think so,” Mike said. “But I know they start migrating back by May.”
“They’re most active in the morning. How early do you get up?”
“5 AM,” Mike said. “Is that early enough?”
“I forgot you live on a farm. This is perfect,” Stan sounded excited.
Mike breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ll bring my bird book. Is it okay if I get there around 6?”
“Of course,”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, then!”
“Okay, see you soo-” The line went dead before Mike could finish his goodbye.
He grinned to himself. Now he just had to make sure his chores were done before Stan showed up.
Stan arrived the next morning at exactly 6 AM, wearing a red windbreaker and carrying a small bag containing binoculars, his bird book, and a collapsing umbrella–just in case. He followed Mike out through the fields, further and further from any building with more than two rooms. It was a cool morning, cloudy, and the boys’ boots left deep tracks in the mud.
“Scarlet tanagers like to be deep in the forest,” Stan explained. “That’s why I never see them out in the cemetery or even in the Barrens. They’re too exposed there, an owl or a raccoon are more likely to find their eggs. The deep woods are safer for them.”
“I don’t know how deep these woods go,” Mike said. He could see the treeline on the edge of the field they were passing through now, where the Hanlons usually planted the lettuce crop. “I’ve never made it out through the other side.”
“That’s a good sign,” Stan said. There was a confidence to his voice and a joy in his eyes that Mike had never seen.
They made it to the edge of the woods a few moments later and Mike began to trample his way through oak saplings, bushes, and thickets of thorns. Stan followed behind him at a more cautious pace.
“There aren’t really paths out here.” Mike said, half-apologetically. “We’ve got to bushwhack it. I should’ve brought my machete!”
“It’s okay,” Stan said. There was excitement building in his voice. “You hear that? The-” Stan paused, trying to find words to articulate the bird noise he was hearing. “Those little chirps?”
“I hear a lot of little chirps,” Mike said, walking on a fallen log to navigate a particularly muddy patch of ground. The forest birdsong was beautiful to Mike, but he wasn’t particularly skilled at picking out individual notes.
“Well, some of those chirps are a Carolina Wren.” Stan said.
“That’s cool!” Mike said.
They made their way into the forest, keeping to a fairly straight line so that they wouldn’t become lost. They were surrounded by chittering and buzzing, but somehow Stan was able to pick through the noise to identify specific calls–that was a woodpecker, that was a robin.
Eventually they came across a large boulder, covered in moss and pine needles, but a good shape for sitting. Mike brushed it off and they each took a seat. Stan tracked the canopy with a discerning gaze, pointing out chickadees and nuthatches with discreet whispers, while Mike watched, bewildered.
“I’ve heard the call described as a chirr-up, chip-chirrup,” Stan whispered, pulling out his book and flipping to a bookmarked page. Mike peered at the picture there with curiosity. There was an illustration of a small red bird with black wings perched on an oak branch. Stan tapped it sagely and then closed the book. “We’ve got to be quiet.”
Mike nodded, a smile breaking out across his face. It was thrilling to be whispered to, to be invited into Stan’s little world of avian delights, to be trusted with sharing it. He tried to focus on the chirps, the tweets, the trills of the creatures around him. What had once been an opaque feature of his morning, as mundane–if lovely–as the gray of the sky and the scent of the dirt, suddenly came alive with possibility.
Stan was unnervingly still beside him, his face tilted up towards the branches, his hands resting on his binoculars in his lap. Mike could almost take him for a statue if the wind didn’t ruffle his curls slightly, back and forth across his eyebrows.
Mike tried to find that stillness, to settle into that alert serenity that he saw on Stan’s face. He closed his eyes for a moment, eventually pulling up his feet so that he sat criss-crossed and it took less effort to balance on the rock. Stan twitched when his knee touched him, but then returned to his eerie vigil.
The rock was cold underneath Mike’s legs, seeping through his jeans and making him wish he’d sat down on a jacket.
Over the next twenty minutes, he began to pick out different calls. That buzzing, which faded in and out–that was probably an insect. There was the caw caw of crows in the distance, easy enough to identify. There were twittering melodies and blunt staccato cheeps, but each had a slightly different rhythm, a unique tone.
Suddenly, he thought he heard it–a chirr-up, chip-chirrup, chirrup, chip-chirrup, chirrup. He grabbed Stan’s arm and gestured indistinctly with his head. [5]
Stan went tense, cocking his head to the side. His eyes widened and he began to look around excitedly.
Mike held his breath, staring into the branches. The buds of leaves were only just beginning to appear, so they had a pretty good view into the forest as they scanned the gray and brown canopy for a flicker of red.
Stan seemed to remember that he had his binoculars and now he brought them up to his eyes, slowly adjusting them as he went.
Eventually, the calls faded. Stan set his binoculars down, clearly disappointed.
“Do you think that was really it?” Mike whispered. He was still gripping Stan’s arm, and he loosened his hold on it now.
“Could’ve been,” Stan said. He suddenly looked down at Mike’s hand with the intensity of someone who had just noticed a spider inches away from them, and Mike took his hand back self-consciously.
They returned to listening, though now Mike knew what he was on alert for. He tried to hold in his mind what the call had sounded like, replaying it in his head.
He noticed a long-legged insect slowly crawling its way up the rock beside him and hoped it would change course. Don’t come over here, little buddy. He thought. I don’t want to have to flick you away.
Suddenly Stan grabbed Mike’s hand and squeezed it, hard. Mike followed his gaze and saw–there it was.
A tiny flicker of red, the orangey-red of tulips rather than the rose red of a cardinal. The little thing’s wings were black, and it hopped from branch to branch on the hemlock across from them, occasionally pausing to twitch its head back and forth and ruffle its wings.
Stan lifted up his binoculars and Mike helped train them on the right spot, hearing a small intake of breath as Stan caught sight of the tanager. Mike squeezed Stan’s hand, a grin on his face.
Stan passed him the binoculars and he took them with his free hand and squinted through their curious lenses. Stan held the other side of the barrels and gently tilted it towards the hemlock, holding it steady so that Mike could see.
Up close, the bird was even more unmistakable. Its twiggy feet were wrapped around the branch underneath it, little black eyes darting to and fro. Mike watched it open its beak and let out another call-chirr-up, chip-chirrup–before it suddenly hopped out of view. He lowered the binoculars and heard Stan’s breath catch as they watched it flit off into the woodland.
“That was a male,” Stan whispered, awe still resonating through his voice. “Probably looking for food.”
“That was so awesome,” Mike whispered back giddily.
Stan dropped Mike’s hand and pulled out his bird book and a pencil, removing a folded map of Derry and making a small marking on the northern border, approximately where the Hanlon farm would be if the map expanded to show the outer limits of town. He made a note there–scarlet tanager, 5/8/91–and replaced the pencil into his bag. Mike noticed a cluster of markings around the Derry cemetery, and a good number scattered through the Barrens and around the Standpipe.
“You know, I used to be afraid of birds.” Mike said, still whispering.
“Really?” Stan looked at him with genuine shock.
Mike half-smiled, embarrassed. “Yeah, I don’t know. The way they move, all twitchy, and their little beady eyes. Crows, owls, and hawks, especially. We get hawks out here, sometimes. Have to take in the chickens. Once they got one of the hens and I had to clean up the feathers,” He swallowed. “Nasty.”
Stan was looking at Mike as if he were perhaps the stupidest person on the planet. “They’re so small, though!”
“Not ravens!” Mike protested. “Have you ever seen a raven? Thing’s huge!”
“Yeah, I’ve seen a raven.” Stan said. “They’re not that bad. I can’t believe you were afraid of birds. That’s so funny.” He had a little smile on his face.
“Well, not anymore.” Mike shrugged.
Stan grinned. “Huh!”
Mike looked away. “I guess we did it!”
“Yes we did,” Stan said.
There was a pause.
“Have you ever seen a cooper’s hawk?” Stan asked.
“If I did, I wouldn’t know it.” Mike said.
“This seems like a good place to find them,” Stan said. “Let’s see if one turns up.”
Mike understood what this meant. Yeah, we found what we were looking for. But I don’t want to leave yet.
The morning was still chilly, and Mike’s jacket was beginning to grow damp without any rainfall to wetten it. He could see the insect on the rock next to him beginning to creep closer.
He thought he could sit on that rock forever, if Stan wanted to.