“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.”

“Forty-five rpm should do,” I said. “Start the record again, but play it at that speed.” Slowing down the tempo while getting the hang of swing-dance steps was something Christy and I had learned in our classes.

“Crazy, daddy,” Richie said. He switched the speed-control lever beside the turntable and started the record again. This time it sounded like everyone in Glenn Miller’s band had swallowed Quaaludes.

“Okay.” I held out my hands to Beverly. “You watch, Richie.” She took my hands with complete trust, looking up at me with wide blue amused eyes. I wondered where she was and who she was in 2011. If she was even alive. Supposing she was, would she remember that a strange man who asked strange questions had once danced with her to a draggy version of “In the Mood” on a sunny September afternoon?

I said, “You guys were doing it slow before, and this will slow you down even more, but you can still keep the beat. Plenty of time for each step.”

Time. Plenty of time. Start the record again but slow it down.

I pulled her toward me by our clasped hands. Let her go back. We both bent like people under water, and kicked to the left while the Glenn Miller Orchestra played bahhhhh . . . dahhh . . .

dahhhh

. . . bahhhh . . . dahhhh . . . daaaa . . . deee . . . dummmmmm. At that same slow speed, like a windup toy that’s almost unwound, she twirled to the left under my upraised hands.

“Stop!” I said, and she froze with her back to me and our hands still linked. “Now squeeze my right hand to remind me what comes next.”

She squeezed, then rotated smoothly back and all the way around to the right.

“Cool!” she said. “Now I’m supposed to go under, then you bring me back. And I flip over.

That’s why we’re doing it on the grass, so if I mess it up I don’t break my neck.”

“I’ll leave that part up to you,” I said. “I’m too ancient to be flipping anything but hamburgers.”

Richie once more raised his hands to the sides of his face. “Wacka-wacka-wacka! Strange grown-up gets off another—”

“Beep-beep, Richie,” I said. That made him laugh. “Now you try it. And work out hand signals for any other moves that go beyond the jitterbug two-step they do in the local soda shop.

That way even if you don’t win the talent show contest, you’ll look good.” Richie took Beverly’s hands and tried it. In and out, side to side, around to the left, around to the right. Perfect. She slipped feet-first between Richie’s spread legs, supple as a fish, and then he brought her back. She finished with a showy flip that brought her to her feet again. Richie took her hands and they repeated the whole thing. It was even better the second time.