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'Okay；' Henry says。 'We'll e 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 e 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 e 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 ing 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。
The Beav reached behind him； fingered the flush lever for a moment； then let his hand fall away。 Sit tight； Jonesy had said； and Beaver would； but why the fuck didn't Jonesy e back？ If he couldn't find the tape； why didn't he just e back without it？ It had to have been at least ten minutes now； didn't it？ And felt like a fucking hour。 Meantime； here he sat on the john with a dead man in the tub beside him； one who looked as if his ass had been blown open by dynamite； man； talk about having to take a shit…
'Beep the horn again； at least；' Beaver muttered。 'Honk that jeezly thing； let me know you're still there。' But Jonesy didn't。
7
Jonesy couldn't find the tape。
He'd looked everywhere and couldn't find it anywhere。 He knew it had to be here； but it wasn't hanging from any of the nails and it wasn't on the tool…littered worktable。 It wasn't behind the paint…cans； or on the hook beneath the old painting masks that hung there by their yellowing elastics。 He looked under the table； looked in the boxes stacked against the far wall； then in the partment under the Arctic Cat's passenger seat。 There was a spare headlight in there； still in its carton； and half a pack of ancient Lucky Strikes； but no goddam tape。 He could feel the minutes ticking away。 Once he was pretty sure he heard the Beav calling for him； but he didn't want to go back without the tape and so he blew the old horn that was lying on the floor； pumping its cracked black rubber horn and making an oogah…oogah sound that Duddits no doubt would have loved。
The more he looked for the tape and didn't find it； the more imperative it seemed。 There was a hall of twine； but how would you tie down a toilet seat with twine； for Christ's sake？ And there was Scotch tape in one of the kitchen drawers； he was almost sure of it； but the thing in the toilet had sounded pretty strong； like a good…sized fish or something。 Scotch tape just wasn't good enough。
Jonesy stood beside the Arctic Cat； looking around with wide eyes； running his hands through his hair （he hadn't put his gloves back on and he'd been out here long enough to nunib his fingers）； breathing out big white puffs of vapor。
'Where the fuck？' he asked aloud； and slammed his fist down on the table。 A stack of little boxes filled with nails and screws fell over when he did； and there was the friction tape behind them； a big fat roll of it。 He must have looked right past it a dozen times。
He grabbed it； stuffed it in his coat pocket … he had remembered to put that on； at least； although he hadn't bothered to zip it up … and turned to go。 And that was when Beaver began to screaming。 His calls had been barely there； but Jonesy had no trouble at all hearing the screams。 They were big； lusty； filled with pain。
Jonesy sprinted for the door。
8
Beaver'