It (115 page)

instead. It was a little like the polio scare of 1956, when four kids who went swimming in the O'Brian Memorial Pool had gotten the disease. Grownups—a word absolutely synonymous in Bill's mind with mothers and fathers—had decided then, as now, that AWAY was better. Safer. Anyone able to clear out had cleared. Bill understood AWAY, and he could muse over a word of such fabulous wonder as Gstaad, but wonder was cold comfort compared with desire; Gstaad was AWAY; Derry was desire.

And none of
us
have gone AWAY,
he thought, watching as Ben and Mike pounded used nails out of used boards, as Eddie strolled off into the bushes to take a whiz (you had to go as soon as you could, in order to avoid seriously straining your bladder, he told Bill once, but you also had to watch out for poison ivy, because who needed a case of
that
on your pecker).
We're all here in Derry. No camp, no relatives, no vacations, no AWAY. All right here. Present and accounted for.

“There's a door down there,” Eddie said, zipping his fly as he came back.

“Hope you shook off, Eds,” Richie said. “If you don't shake off each time, you can get cancer. My mom told me so.”

Eddie looked startled, thinly worried, and then saw Richie's grin. He withered him (or tried to) with a babies-must-play look and then said, “It was too big for us to carry. But Bill said if all of us went down we could get it up here.”

“Of course, you can never shake off
completely,”
Richie went on. “You want to know what a wise man once told me, Eds?”

“No,” Eddie said, “and I don't want you to call me Eds anymore, Richie. I mean, I'm sincere. I don't call you Dick, as in ‘You got any gum on ya, Dick?,' so I don't see why—”

“This wise man,” Richie said, “told me this: ‘No matter how much you squirm and dance, the last two drops go in your pants.' And that's why there's so much cancer in the world, Eddie my love.”

“The reason there's so much cancer in the world is because nerds like you and Beverly Marsh smoke cigarettes,” Eddie said.

“Beverly is not a nerd,” Ben said in a forbidding voice. “You just watch what you say, Trashmouth.”

“Beep-beep, you g-guys,” Bill said absently. “And speaking of B-B-Beverly, she's pretty struh-struh-strong. She could h-h-help get that duh-door.”

Ben asked what kind of door it was.

“Muh-Muh-hogany, I th-hink.”

“Somebody threw out a
mahogany door?”
Ben asked, surprised but not unbelieving.

“People throw out
everything,”
Mike said. “That dump? It kills me to go down there. I mean it
kills
me.”

“Yeah,” Ben agreed. “A lot of that stuff could be fixed up easy. And there are people in China and South America with nothing. That's what
my
mother says.”

“There's people with nothing right here in Maine, Sunny Jim,” Richie said grimly.

“W-W-What's th-this?” Bill asked, noticing the album Mike had brought. Mike told him, saying he would show them the picture of the clown when Stan and Beverly got back with the hinges.

Bill and Richie exchanged a look.

“What's wrong?” Mike asked. “Is it what happened in your brother's room, Bill?”

“Y-Yeah,” Bill said, and would say no more.

They took turns working on the hole until Stan and Beverly came back, each with a brown paper bag containing hinges. As Mike talked, Ben sat crosslegged, tailor-fashion, and made glassless windows that would swing open and shut in two of the long boards. Perhaps only
Bill noticed how quickly and easily his fingers moved; how adept and knowing they were, like surgeon's fingers. Bill admired that.

“Some of these pictures go back a hundred years, my dad said,” Mike told them, holding the album on his lap. “He gets them at those sales people have in their yards, and at secondhand shops. Sometimes he buys them or trades other collectors for them. Some of them are stereoscopes—there's two of them just the same on a long card, and when you look at them through this thing like binoculars, it looks like one picture, only in 3-D. Like
House of Wax
or
The Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

“Why does he like all that stuff?” Beverly asked. She was wearing ordinary Levi's but she had done something amusing to the cuffs, blousing them out with a bright paisley material for the final four inches so that they looked like pants out of some sailor's whimsy.

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “Most of the time, Derry's pretty boring.”

“Well, I don't know for sure, but I think it's because he wasn't born here,” Mike said diffidently. “It's like—I don't know—like it's all new to him, or like, you know, if you came in during the middle of a movie—”

“Sh-sh-sure, you'd want to see the s-start,” Bill said.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “There's a lot of history lying around in Derry. I kind of like it. And I think some of it has to do with this thing—this It, if you want to call it that.”

He looked at Bill and Bill nodded, his eyes thoughtful.

“So I was looking through it after the Fourth of July parade because I
knew
I'd seen that clown before. I
knew
it. And look.”

He opened the book, thumbed through it, then handed it to Ben, who was sitting on his right.

“D-D-Don't t-t-touch the puh-puh-pages!” Bill said, and there was such urgency in his voice that they all jumped. He had fisted the hand he had cut reaching into Georgie's album, Richie saw. Fisted it into a tight, protective knot.

“Bill's right,” Richie said, and that subdued, totally un-Richielike voice was a powerful convincer. “Be careful. It's like Stan said. If we saw it happen, you guys could see it happen, too.”

“Feel
it,” Bill added grimly.

The album went from hand to hand, each of them holding the
book gingerly, by the edges, as if it were old dynamite sweating big beads of nitro.

It came back to Mike. He opened it to one of the first pages.

“Daddy says there's no way to date that one, but it's probably from the early or mid-seventeen-hundreds,” Mike said. “He repaired a guy's bandsaw for a box of old books and pictures. That was one of them. He says it might be worth forty bucks or even more.”

The picture was a woodcut, the size of a large postcard. When Bill's turn came to look at it, he was relieved to see that Mike's father had the kind of album where the pictures were under a protective plastic sheet. He looked, fascinated, and he thought:
There. I'm seeing him—or It. Really seeing. That's the face of the enemy.

The picture showed a funny fellow juggling oversized bowling pins in the middle of a muddy street. There were a few houses on either side of the street, and a few huts that Bill guessed were stores, or trading posts, or whatever they called them back then. It didn't look like Derry at all, except for the Canal.
It
was there, neatly cobbled on both sides. In the upper background, Bill could see a team of mules on a towpath, dragging a barge.

There was a group of maybe half a dozen kids gathered around the funny fellow. One of them was wearing a pastoral straw hat. Another had a hoop and a stick to roll it with. Not the sort of stick that would come with a hoop that you bought today in a Woolworth's; it was a branch from a tree. Bill could see the bare knobs on it where smaller branches had been lopped off with a knife or a hatchet. That
baby wasn't made in Taiwan or Korea,
he thought, fascinated by this boy who could have been him if he'd been born four or five generations before.

The funny fellow had a huge grin on his face. He wore no makeup (except to Bill his whole
face
looked like makeup), but he was bald except for two tufts of hair that stuck up like horns over his ears, and Bill had no trouble recognizing their clown.
Two hundred years ago or more,
he thought, and felt a crazy surge of terror, anger, and excitement rush through him. Twenty-seven years later, sitting in the Derry Public Library and remembering his first look into Mike's father's album, he realized he had felt the way a hunter might feel, coming upon the first fresh spoor of an old killer tiger.
Two hundred years ago . . . that long, and only God knows how much longer.
This led
him to wonder just how long the spirit of Pennywise
had
been here in Derry—but he found that was a thought he did not really want to pursue.

“Gimme, Bill!” Richie was saying, but Bill held the album a moment longer, staring fixedly at the woodcut, sure it would begin to move: the bowling pins (if that's what they were) which the funny fellow was juggling would rise and fall, rise and fall, the kids would laugh and applaud (except maybe they wouldn't
all
laugh and applaud; some of them might scream and run instead), the mule-team pulling the barge would move beyond the borders of the picture.

It didn't happen, and he passed the book on to Richie.

When the album came back to Mike he turned some more pages, hunting. “Here,” he said. “This one is from 1856, four years before Lincoln was elected President.”

The book went around again. This was a color picture—a sort of cartoon—which showed a bunch of drunks standing in front of a saloon while a fat politician with muttonchop whiskers declaimed from a board that had been set between two hogsheads. He held a foamy pitcher of beer in one hand. The board upon which he stood was considerably bowed with his weight. Some distance off, a group of bonneted women were looking at this show of mingled buffoonery and intemperance with disgust. The caption below the picture read:
POLITICS IN DERRY IS THIRSTY WORK, SEZ SENATOR GARNER
!

“Daddy says pictures like this were really popular for about twenty years before the Civil War,” Mike said. “They called them ‘foolcards,' and people used to send them to each other. They were like some of the jokes in
Mad,
I guess.”

“Suh-suh-satire,” Bill said.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “But now look down in the corner of this one.”

The picture was like
Mad
in another way—it had as many details and little side-jokes as a big Mort Drucker panel in a
Mad
magazine movie take-off. There was a grinning fat man pouring a glass of beer down a spotted dog's throat. There was a woman who had fallen on her prat in a mudpuddle. There were two street urchins slyly sticking sulphur-headed matches into the soles of a prosperous-looking businessman's shoes, and a girl swinging from her heels in an elm tree so that her underpants showed. But despite this bewildering intaglio of detail, none of them really needed Mike to point the clown out.
Dressed in a loud checked vest-busting drummer's suit, he was playing the shell-game with a bunch of drunken loggers. He was winking at a lumberjack who had, to judge by the gape-mouthed look of surprise on his face, just picked the wrong nutshell. The drummer/clown was taking a coin from him.

“Him again,” Ben said. “What . . . a hundred years later?”

“Just about,” Mike said. “And here's one from 1891.”

It was a clipping from the front page of the Derry
News.
HUZZAH
! the headline proclaimed exuberantly.
IRONWORKS OPENS
! Just below this:
“Town Turns Out for Gala Picnic.”
The picture showed a woodcut of the ribbon-cutting ceremony at the Kitchener Ironworks; its style reminded Bill of the Currier and Ives prints his mother had in the dining room, although this was nowhere near as polished. A fellow tricked out in a morning coat and tophat was holding a large pair of open-jawed scissors above the Ironworks ribbon while a crowd of perhaps five hundred watched. Off to the left was a clown—their clown—turning a handspring for a group of children. The artist had caught him upside down, turning his smile into a scream.

He passed the book on quickly to Richie.

The next picture was a photograph under which Will Hanlon had written:
1933: Repeal in Derry.
Although none of the boys knew much about either the Volstead Act or its repeal, the picture made the salient facts clear. The photo was of Wally's Spa down in Hell's Half-Acre. The place was almost literally filled to the rafters with men wearing open-collared white shirts, straw boaters, lumbermen's shirts, tee-shirts, banker's suits. All of them were holding glasses and bottles victoriously aloft. There were two big signs in the window.
WELCOME BACK, JOHN BARLEYCORN
! one read. The other said:
FREE BEER TONIGHT
. The clown, dressed like the biggest dandy you ever saw (white shoes, spats, gangster pants), had his foot on the running board of a Reo auto and was drinking champagne from a lady's high-heeled shoe.

“1945,” Mike said.

The Derry
News
again. The headline:
JAPAN SURRENDERS—IT'S OVER! THANK GOD IT'S OVER
! A parade was snake-dancing its way along Main Street toward Up-Mile Hill. And there was the clown in the background, wearing his silver suit with the orange buttons, frozen in the matrix of dots that made up the grainy newsprint photo,
seeming to suggest (at least to Bill) that nothing was over, no one had surrendered, nothing was won, nil was still the rule, zilch still the custom; seeming to suggest above all that all was still lost.

Bill felt cold and dry and scared.

Suddenly the dots in the picture disappeared and it began to move.

“That's what—” Mike began.

“L-L-Look,” Bill said. The word dropped out of his mouth like a partially melted ice-cube.
“A-A-All of you luh-look at th-this!”

They crowded around.

“Oh my
God,”
Beverly whispered, awed.

“That's IT!”
Richie nearly screamed, pounding Bill on the back in his excitement. He looked around at Eddie's white, drawn face and Stan Uris's frozen one. “That's what we saw in George's room!
That's exactly what we—”