Dreamcatcher

All those patients over the years, complaining of voices in their heads. And Henry, the big psychiatrist (Young Mr God, one state hospital patient called him back in the early
days), had nodded as if he knew what they were talking about. Had in fact believed he
did
know what they were talking about. But maybe only now did he really know.
Voices. Listening to them so hard he missed the
whup-whup-whup
of the helicopter

passing overhead, a dark rushing shark-shape barely obscured by the bottoms of the
clouds. Then the voices began to fade as radio signals from faraway places do when daylight comes and the atmosphere once more begins to thicken. At last there was only the
voice of his own thoughts, insisting that something terrible had happened or was about to

happen at Hole in the Wall; that something equally terrible was about to happen or had happened back there at the Scout or the loggers” shelter.
Five more miles. Five more miles.
In an effort to turn his mind away from his friend behind and his friends ahead, or what might be happening all around him, he let his mind go to where he knew Pete’s mind

had already gone: to 1978, and Tracker Brothers, and to Duddits. How Duddits Cavell could have anything to do with this fuckarow Henry didn’t understand, but they had all been thinking about him, and Henry didn’t even need that old mental connection to know
it. Pete had mentioned Duds while they were dragging the woman to the loggers” shelter

on that piece of tarp, Beaver had been talking about Duddits Just the other day when Henry and the Beav had been in the woods together-the day Henry had tagged his deer, that had been, The Beav reminiscing about how the four of them had taken Duddits
Christmas shopping in Bangor one year. just after Jonesy had gotten his license that was;
Jonesy would have driven anyone anywhere that winter. The Beav laughing about how

Duddits had worried Santa Claus wasn’t real, and all four of them-big high-school galoots
by then, thinking they had the world by the tail-working to reconvince Duddits that Santa
was a true thing, the real deal. Which of course they’d done. And Jonesy had called Henry from Brookline Just last month, drunk (drunkenness was much rarer for Jonesy, especially
since his accident, than it was for Pete, and it was the only maudlin call Henry had
ever

gotten from the man), saying that he’d never done anything in his life that was as good, as
plain and simple baldass
fine
, as what they had done for poor old Duddits Cavell back in 1978. That was
our finest hour
, Jonesy had said on the phone, and with a nasty jolt, Henry realized he had told Pete exactly the same thing. Duddits, man. Fucking Duds.
Five more miles… or maybe four. Five more miles… or maybe four.

They had been going to see a picture of a girl’s pussy, the picture supposedly tacked
up on the bulletin board of some deserted office. Henry couldn’t remember the girl’s name, not after all these years, only that she’d been that prick Grenadeau’s girlfriend and
the 1978 Homecoming Queen at Derry High. Those things had made the prospect of

seeing her pussy especially interesting. And then, just as they got to the driveway, they had seen a discarded red-and-white Derry Tigers shirt. And a little way down the driveway
there had been something else.
I hate that fuckin show, they never change their clothes
, Pete had said, and Henry opened his mouth to reply, only before he could…
“The kiddo screamed,” Henry said. He slipped in the snow, tottered for a moment,

then ran on again, remembering that October day under that white sky. He ran on
remembering Duddits. How Duddits had screamed and changed all their lives. For the
better, they had always assumed, but now Henry wondered.
Right now he wondered very much.
3
When they get to the driveway-not much of a driveway, weeds are growing even in
the gravelly wheelruts now-Beaver is in the lead. Beaver is, indeed, almost foaming at the

jaws. Henry guesses that Pete is nearly as wrought-up, but Pete is holding it in better, even
though he’s a year younger. Beaver is… what’s the word? Agog. Henry almost laughs at
the aptness of it, and then the Beav stops so suddenly Pete almost runs into him.
“Hey!” Beaver says. “Fuck me Freddy! Some kid’s shirt!”
It is indeed. Red and white, and not old and dirty, as if it had been there a thousand
years. In fact, it looks almost new.
“Shirt, schmirt, who gives a shit?” Jonesy wants to know.

“Let’s just-”
“Hold your horses,” the Beav says. “This is a good shirt.” Except when he picks it up, they see that it isn’t. New, yes a brand-new Derry Tigers shirt, with 19 on the back.
Pete doesn’t give a shit for football, but the rest of them recognize it as Richie
Grenadeau’s number. Good, no-not anymore. It’s ripped deeply at the back collar, as if the person wearing it had tried to run away, then been grabbed and hauled back.

“Guess I was wrong,” the Beav says sadly, and drops it again. “Come on.”
But before they get very far, they come across something else-this time it’s yellow instead of red, that bright yellow plastic only a kid could love. Henry trots ahead of the others and picks it up. It’s a lunchbox with Scooby-Doo and his friends on it, all of them
running from what appears to be a haunted house. Like the shirt it looks new, not anything

that’s been lying out here for any length of time, and all at once Henry is starting to have a
bad feeling about this, starting to wish they hadn’t detoured into this deserted driveway by
this deserted building at all… or at least had saved it for another day. Which, even at fourteen, he realizes is stupid. When it comes to pussy, he thinks, you either go or you don
9 t, there’s no such thing as saving it for another day.

“I hate that fuckin show, Pete says, looking over Henry’s shoulder at the lunchbox.
“They never change their clothes, did you ever notice that? Wear the same fuckin thing,
show in and show out.”
Jonesy takes the Scooby-Doo lunchbox from Henry and turns it to look at something
he’s seen pasted on the end. The wild look has gone out of Jonesy’s eyes, he’s frowning
slightly, and Henry has an idea Jonesy is also wishing they’d just gone on and played some two-on-two.

The sticker on the side reads: I BELONG TO DOUGLAS CAVELL, 19 MAPLE
LANE, DERRY, MAINE. IF THE BOY I BELONG TO IS LOST, CALL 949-1864.
THANKS!
Henry opens his mouth to say the lunchbox and the shirt must belong to a kid who
goes to The Retard Academy-he’s sure of it just looking at the sticker, which is almost like
the tag their fucking dog wears-but before he can, there is a scream from the far side of the

building, over where the big kids play baseball in the summer. It’s full of hurt, that scream,
but what starts Henry running before he can even think about it is the
surprise
in it, the awful surprise of someone who has been hurt or scared (or both) for the very first time.
The others follow him. They run up the weedy right rut of the driveway, the one
closest to the building, in single file: Henry, Jonesy, the Beav, and Pete.

There is hearty male laughter. “Go on and eat it,” someone says. “Eat it and you can
go. Duncan might even give you your pants back.”
“Yeah, if you-” Another boy, probably Duncan, begins and then he stops, staring at
Henry and his friends.
“Hey you guys, quit it!” Beaver shouts. “Just fucking quit it!” Duncan’s friends-there

are two of them, both wearing Derry High School jackets-realize they are no longer unobserved at their afternoon’s entertainment, and turn. Kneeling on the gravel amid them,
dressed only in underpants and one sneaker, his face smeared with blood and dirt and snot
and tears, is a child of an age Henry cannot determine. He’s not a little kid, not with that
powdering of hair on his chest, but he has the look of a little kid just the same. His eyes

have a Chinese tilt and are bright green, swimming with tears.
On the red brick wall behind this little group, printed in large white letters which are fading but still legible, is this message: NO BOUNCE, NO PLAY. Which probably means
keep the games and the balls away from the building and out in the vacant lot where the
deep ruts of the basepaths and the ragged hill of the pitcher’s mound can still be seen, but
who can say for sure? NO BOUNCE, NO PLAY. In the years to come they will say this

often; it will become one of the private catch-phrases of their youth and has no exact meaning.
Who knows?
perhaps comes closest. Or
What can you do?
It is always best spoken with a shrug, a smile, and hands tipped up to the sky.
“Who the fuck’re
you?

” one of the big boys asks the Beav. On his left hand he’s wearing what looks like a batting glove or maybe a golf glove… something athletic, anyway. In it is the dried dog-turd he has been trying to make the mostly naked boy eat.
“What are you
doing?
” Jonesy asks, horrified. “You tryin to make him
eat
that? The fuck’s
wrong
with you?”
The kid holding the dog-turd has a wide swatch of white tape across the bridge of his

nose, and Henry utters a bark of recognition that is half surprise and half laughter. It’s too
perfect, isn’t it? They’re here to look at the pussy of the Homecoming Queen and here, by
God, is the Homecoming King, whose football season has apparently been ended by
nothing worse than a broken nose, and who is currently passing his time doing stuff like
this while the rest of the team practices for this week’s game.

Richie Grenadeau hasn’t noticed Henry’s look of recognition; he’s staring at Jonesy.
Because he has been startled and because Jonesy’s tone of disgust is so completely unfeigned, Richie at first takes a step backward. Then he realizes that the kid who has dared to speak to him in such reproving tones is at least three years younger and a hundred
pounds lighter than he is. The sagging hand straightens again.

“I’m gonna make him eat this piece of shit,” he says. “Then he can go. You go now,
snotball, unless you want half”Yeah, fuck off,” the third boy says. Richie Grenadeau is big
but this boy is even bigger, a six-foot-five hulk whose face flames with acne. “While you
got th-” “I know who you are,” Henry says.Richie’s eyes switch to Henry. He looks suddenly wary… but he also looks pissed off. “Fuck off, sonny. I mean it.”
“You’re Richie Grenadeau. Your picture was in the paper.

What do you think people will say if we tell em what we caught you doing?”
“You’re not gonna tell anyone anything, because you’ll be fuckin
dead
,” the one named Duncan says. He has dirty-blond hair falling around his face and down to his shoulders. “Get outta here. Beat feet.”
Henry pays no attention to him. He stares at Richie Grenadeau. He is aware of no fear, although there’s no doubt these three boys could stomp them flat; he is burning with

an outrage he has never felt before, never even suspected. The kid kneeling on the ground
is undoubtedly retarded, but not so retarded he doesn’t understand these three big boys intended to hurt him, tore off his
shirt

, and then-Henry has never in his life been closer to getting good and beaten up, or been less concerned with it. He takes a step forward, fists clenching. The kid on the ground sobs, head now lowered, and the sound is a constant tone in Henry’s head, feeding his fury.

“I’ll tell,” he says, and although it is a little kid’s threat, he doesn’t sound like a little kid to himself. Nor to Richie, apparently; Richie takes a step backward and the gloved hand with the dried turd in it sags again. For the first time he looks alarmed. “Three against one, a little retarded kid, fuck yeah, man, I’ll tell. I’ll tell and
I know who you are!
”
Duncan and the big boy-the only one not wearing a high-school jacket-step up on

either side of Richie. The boy in the underpants is behind them now, but Henry can still
hear the pulsing drone of his sobs, it’s in his head, beating in his head and driving him fucking
crazy
.
“All right, okay, that’s it,” the biggest boy says. He grins, showing several holes where teeth once lived. “You’re gonna die now.”
“Pete, you run when they come,” Henry says, never taking his eyes from Richie

Grenadeau. “Run home and tell your mother.” And, to Richie: “You’ll never catch him, either. He runs like the fucking
wind
.”
Pete’s voice sounds thin but not scared. “You got it, Henry.” “And the worse you beat
us up, the worse it’s gonna be for you, Jonesy says. Henry has already seen this, but for
Jonesy it is a revelation; he’s almost laughing. “Even if you really
did
kill us, what good would it do you? Because Pete
does
run fast, and he’ll tell.”

“I run fast, too,” Richie says coldly. “I’ll catch him.”
Henry turns first to Jonesy and then to the Beav. Both of them are standing firm.
Beaver, in fact, is doing a little more than that. He bends swiftly, picks up a couple of stones-they are the size of eggs, only with jagged edges-and begins to chunk them

together. Beav’s narrowed eyes shift back and forth between Richie Grenadeau and the biggest boy, the galoot. The toothpick in his mouth jitters aggressively up and down.
“When they come, go for Grenadeau,” Henry says. “The other two can’t even get
close to Pete.” He switches his gaze to Pete, who is pale but unafraid-his eyes are shining
and he is almost dancing on the balls of his feet, eager to be off “Tell your ma. Tell her

where we are, to send the cops. And don’t forget this bully motherfucker’s name, whatever
you do.” He shoots a district attorney’s accusing finger at Grenadeau, who once more looks uncertain. No, more than uncertain. He looks afraid.
“Richie Grenadeau,” Pete says, and now he
does
begin to dance. “I won’t forget.”
“Come on, you dickweed,” Beaver says. One thing about the Beav, he knows a really

excellent rank when he hears it. “I’m gonna break your nose again. What kind of
chickenshit quits off the football team cause of a broken nose, anyhow?”
Grenadeau doesn’t reply-no longer knows which of them to reply to, maybe-and
something rather wonderful is happening: the other boy in the high-school jacket, Duncan,

has also started to look uncertain. A flush is spreading on his cheeks and across his forehead. He wets his lips and looks uncertainly at Richie. Only the galoot still looks ready to fight, and Henry almost hopes they will fight, Henry and Jonesy and the Beav will give them a
hell
of a scrap if they do, hell of a scrap, because of that
crying
, that fucking awful
crying

, the way it gets in your head, the beat-beat-beat of that awful crying.
“Hey Rich, maybe we ought to-” Duncan begins.
“Kill em,” the galoot rumbles. “Fuck em the fuck up.”
This one takes a step forward and for a moment it almost goes down. Henry knows
that if the galoot had been allowed to take even one more step he would have been out of
Richie Grenadeau’s control, like a mean old pitbull that breaks its leash and just goes flying at its prey, a meat arrow.

But Richie doesn’t let him get that next step, the one which will turn into a clumsy
charge. He grabs the galoot’s forearm, which is thicker than Henry’s bicep and bristling with reddish-gold hair. “No, Scotty,” he says, “wait a minute.”
“Yeah, wait,” Duncan says, sounding almost panicky. He shoots Henry a look which
Henry finds, even at the age of fourteen, grotesque. It is a
reproachful
look. As if Henry and his friends were the ones doing something wrong.

“What do you want?” Richie asks Henry. “You want us to get out of here, that it?”
Henry nods.
“If we go, what are you gonna do? Who are you going to tell?”
Henry discovers an amazing thing: he is as close to coming unglued as Scotty, the galoot. Part of him wants to actually
provoke
a fight, to scream
EVERYBODY! FUCKING
EVERYBODY!
Knowing that his friends would back him up, would never say a word even
if they got trashed and sent to the hospital.

But the kid. That poor little crying retarded kid. Once the big boys finished with Henry, Beaver, and Jonesy (with Pete as well, if they could catch him), they would finish
with the retarded kid, too, and it would likely go a lot further than making him eat a piece
of dried dog-turd.
“No one,” he says. “We won’t tell anyone.”
“Fuckin liar,” Scotty says. “He’s a fuckin liar, Richie, lookit him.”
Scotty starts forward again, but Richie tightens his grip on the big galoot’s forearm.

“If no one gets hurt,” Jonesy says in a blessedly reasonable tone of voice, “no one’s
got a story to tell”
“Grenadeau glances at him, then back at Henry. “Swear to God?”
“Swear to God,” Henry agrees.
“All of you swear to God?” Grenadeau asks.
Jonesy, Beav, and Pete all dutifully swear to God.
Grenadeau thinks about it for a moment that seems very long, and then he nods.
“Okay, fuck this. We’re going.”

“If they come, run around the building the other way,” Henry says to Pete, speaking
very rapidly because the big boys are already in motion. But Grenadeau still has his hand
clamped firmly on Scotty’s forearm, and Henry thinks this is a good sign.
“I wouldn’t waste my time,” Richie Grenadeau says in a lofty tone of voice that
makes Henry feel like laughing… but with an effort he manages to keep a straight face.

Laughing at this point would be a bad idea. Things are almost fixed up. There’s a part of him that hates that, but the rest of him nearly trembles with relief.
“What’s up with you, anyway?” Richie Grenadeau asks him. “What’s the big deal?”
Henry wants to ask his own question-wants to ask Richie Grenadeau how he could do

it, and it’s no rhetorical question, either. That crying! My God! But he keeps silent, knowing anything he says might just provoke the asshole, get him going all over again.
There is a kind of dance going on here; it looks almost like the ones you learn in first
and second grade. As Richie, Duncan, and Scott walk toward the driveway (sauntering, attempting to show they are going of their own free will and haven’t been frightened off

by a bunch of homo junior-high kids), Henry and his friends first move to face them and
then step backward in a line toward the weeping kid kneeling there in his underpants, blocking him from them.
At the corner of the building Richie pauses and gives them a final look. “Gonna see
you fellas again,” he says. “One by one or all together. “‘Yeah,” Duncan agrees.
“You’re gonna be lookin at the world through a
oxygen tent
!” Scott adds, and Henry

comes perilously close to laughing again. He prays that none of his friends will say anything-let done be done-and none of them do. It’s almost a miracle.
One final menacing look from Richie and they are gone around the comer. Henry,
Jonesy, Beaver, and Pete are left alone with the kid, who is rocking back and forth on his
dirty knees, his dirty bloody tearstreaked uncomprehending face cocked to the white sky

like the face of a broken clock, all of them wondering what to do next. Talk to him? Tell
him it’s okay, that the bad boys are gone and the danger has passed? He will never understand. And oh that crying is so
freaky
. How could those kids, mean and stupid as they were, go on in the face of that crying? Henry will understand later-sort of-but at that
moment it’s a complete mystery to him.
“I’m gonna try something,” Beaver says abruptly.

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