They winced as if I had pinched a place where the nerves lay close to the surface. Beverly turned to Richie and whispered in his ear. I’m not positive about what she said, it was quick and low, but it might have been That wasn’t the clown. Then she looked back at me.
“What bad thing? Like when Dorsey’s father-”
“Never mind. You don’t have to know.” It was time to jump. These were the ones. I didn’t know how I knew it, but I did. “Do you know some kids named Dunning?” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Troy, Arthur, Harry, and Ellen. Only Arthur’s also called-”
“Tugga,” Beverly said matter-of-factly. “Sure we know him, he goes to our school. We’re practicing the Lindy for the school talent show, it’s just before Thanksgiving-”
“Miss Scawlett, she b’leeve in gittin an early start on de practicin,” Richie said.
Beverly Marsh took no notice. “Tugga’s signed up for the show, too. He’s going to lip-synch to ‘Splish Splash.’” She rolled her eyes. She was good at that.
“Where does he live? Do you know?”
They knew, all right, but neither of them said. And if I didn’t give them a little more, they wouldn’t. I could see that in their faces.
“Suppose I told you there’s a good chance Tugga’s never going to be in the talent show unless somebody watches out for him? His brothers and his sister, too? Would you believe a thing like that?”
The kids looked at each other again, conversing with their eyes. It went on a long time-ten seconds, maybe. It was the sort of long gaze that lovers indulge in, but these tweenagers couldn’t be lovers. Friends, though, for sure. Close friends who’d been through something together.
“Tugga and his family live on Cossut Street,” Richie said finally. That’s what it sounded like, anyway.
“Cossut?”
“That’s how people around here say it,” Beverly told me. “K-O-S-S-U-T-H. Cossut.”
“Got it.” Now the only question was how much these kids were going to blab about our weird conversation on the edge of the Barrens.
Beverly was looking at me with earnest, troubled eyes. “But Mr. Amberson, I’ve met Tugga’s dad. He works at the Center Street Market. He’s a nice man. Always smiling. He-”
“The nice man doesn’t live at home anymore,” Richie interrupted. “His wife kicked im out.”
She turned to him, eyes wide. “Tug told you that?”
“Nope. Ben Hanscom. Tug told him. ”
“He’s still a nice man,” Beverly said in a small voice. “Always joking around and stuff but never touchy-grabby.”
“Clowns joke around a lot, too,” I said. They both jumped, as if I had pinched that vulnerable bundle of nerves again. “That doesn’t make them nice.”
“We know,” Beverly whispered. She was looking at her hands. Then she raised her eyes to me. “Do you know about the Turtle?” She said turtle in a way that made it sound like a proper noun.
I thought of saying I know about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and didn’t. It was decades too early for Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael, and Michelangelo. So I just shook my head.
She looked doubtfully at Richie. He looked at me, then back at her. “But he’s good. I’m pretty sure he’s good.” She touched my wrist. Her fingers were cold. “Mr. Dunning’s a nice man. And just because he doesn’t live at home anymore doesn’t mean he isn’t.”
That hit home. My wife had left me, but not because I wasn’t nice. “I know that.” I stood up. “I’m going to be around Derry for a little while, and it would be good not to attract too much attention. Can you two keep quiet about this? I know it’s a lot to ask, but-”
They looked at each other and burst into laughter.
When she could speak, Beverly said: “We can keep a secret.”
I nodded. “I’m sure you can. Kept a few this summer, I bet.”
They didn’t reply to this.
I cocked a thumb at the Barrens. “Ever play down there?”
“Once,” Richie said. “Not anymore.” He stood up and brushed off the seat of his blue jeans. “It’s been nice talking to you, Mr. Amberson. Don’t take any wooden Indians.” He hesitated. “And be careful in Derry. It’s better now, but I don’t think it’s ever gonna be, you know, completely right.”
“Thanks. Thank you both. Maybe someday the Dunning family will have something to thank you for, too, but if things go the way I hope they will-”
“-they’ll never know a thing,” Beverly finished for me.
“Exactly.” Then, remembering something Fred Toomey had said: “Right with Eversharp. You two take care of yourselves.”
“We will,” Beverly said, then began to giggle again. “Keep washing those clothes in your Norgie, Georgie.”
I skimmed a salute off the brim of my new summer straw and started to walk away. Then I had an idea and turned back to them. “Does that phonograph play at thirty-three and a third?”
“Like for LPs?” Richie asked. “Naw. Our hi-fi at home does, but Bevvie’s is just a baby one that runs on batteries.”
“Watch what you call my record player, Tozier,” Beverly said. “I saved up for it.” Then, to me: “It just plays seventy-eights and forty-fives. Only I lost the plastic thingie for the hole in the forty-fives, so now it only plays seventy-eights.”
