Chapter Text
One: 1952
“What the heck are you doing?” Eight year-old James Hopper blinked in astonishment at the small creature kneeling by the riverbank. The boy (girl?) was holding a wet burlap sack in one hand and clutching reddish branches in the other. The child’s dark auburn curls were cut short in a riotous bob and their waders, coveralls, white tank top, and small oval face were caked in mud. A blue flannel shirt lay a few feet away from where the child stood. The little person had large, dark eyes that shined with intelligence and suspicion as they regarded James. He squirmed under the scrutiny, suddenly self-conscious of the fact that he was - as Lonnie Byers put it - an over-sized lard-ass with a bad haircut. He was definitely bigger than the child before him, and was afraid a gentle breeze might carry the reedy little wonder into the river. He felt an odd sort of protectiveness for whoever-it-was.
The voice that issued forth from the child had a wispy-yet-rich quality, like a song that was pretty but slightly off-key. Definitely a girl. “Planting trees. What are you doing?”
James shrugged and held up his fishing rod and tackle box. “Fishing.”
The girl wiped her hands onto the legs of her coveralls and walked over to him, leaving the burlap sack near the riverbank. She clenched her fists and squared her shoulders when she walked, her chin set in determination and an imperious look in her brown eyes. She reminded him of a little porcupine, bristling to make herself appear tough.“Where’s your parents?” She was nosey too, it seemed.
“My mom’s dead. Dad’s at work.”
“Sorry. My mom is dead too. My dad is around somewhere. What’s your dad do?”
“He’s Chief of Police,” James replied with not a little bit of pride in his voice. “What about your dad?”
“He’s gonna be the new librarian at the high school.”
“Oh.”
“So you’re Chuck Hopper’s kid?”
He frowned at her familiarity. “My dad’s name is Charles. And how did you know his name?”
“He goes to the same bar as my dad, and took mine to the drunk tank the other night.”
Her frankness was beginning to annoy him. Kids didn’t just talk about parents going off to bars. They definitely didn’t talk about their parents getting arrested with the same tone they would use to remark on the weather. “My dad wasn’t drinking there. He was probably checking out a complaint.”
She smirked for a split second, before her eyes softened into an expression of pity. He didn’t know which look he hated most. Without a word, he continued on the path to the fishing hole. “Hey, come back!” The little girl hurried behind him, catching up in an instant despite the disparity in their respective heights. “I’m sure that’s what it was - hey, wait! - do you want to plant trees for a little bit?”
He stopped in his tracks, his eyes staring ahead and his head hurting slightly. She was irritating and probably had no ‘tact’, as his Aunt Lou would put it, but he was curious about what she was up to. “Sure.”
Ten minutes later he was handing bits of tree cuttings to the girl. They had introduced each other by then and he was spending a lot of time thinking about how musical her name was to the ears. Joyce Calloway. She sounded like a ballad. She had scolded him for pushing the cuttings into the soil too far away from the actual river, and had demoted him to assistant planter. His heart jumped to his throat as she dangled over the side of the riverbank, shoving the cuttings into the earth. The water was rushing by at a rapid speed and she seemed heedless to the danger.
“Be careful! I can’t swim.”
She frowned at him before taking two more cuttings from his hand. “What does that have to do with me?”
“What if you fall in?”
“I can swim.”
“I’d have to jump in after you.”
She gave a tinkling, mocking laugh that prickled his pride. “Guess you’ll drown.”
She did fall in and, despite her assurances that she could swim, he jumped in after her. The next few moments were a terrifying blur as the current caught him off-guard immediately. The water smashed against him, and he felt weighed down by his clothes. It occurred to him that he was probably going to die and her too.
Seconds later, he felt himself being pulled onto the riverbank. A pale, small face and dark eyes blinked down at him as he coughed and sputtered. Joyce sat by his side and crossed her arms over her thin chest. “I told you I could swim. You’re an idiot and you could have gotten us both killed.”
He sat up and glowered back at her. “I thought you were going to drown!”
“Then you need to get your ears checked. I. Can. Swim.”
“Hey now, why are you ruffians soaked to the bone?” A soft voice broke through their bickering. Joyce’s face lit up and she grinned at the intruder. Judging by his dark auburn hair and eyes, James figured that they were looking up at Joyce’s father.
Bruce Calloway took the pair back to Joyce’s house, lending James a pair of shorts and a sweater as he hung their clothes out in the backyard. The older man gave the pair hot chocolate and lemon-cakes, which James took eagerly, despite his aunt’s warnings about ruining his appetite and taking food from strangers. Bruce fixed himself a whiskey, put wood in the fireplace, and spoke to James like an adult, which was refreshing. Joyce just sat quietly and read from a book that was much thicker than the primers James was forced to read at school. She even seemed to be enjoying reading, which was bizarre.
“What is Anne Shirley up to now, Joycie Mae?” Bruce asked during a break in conversation.
“I expect she’ll be getting her stupid dress soon,” Joyce dead-panned which sent Bruce into amused laughter. James gaped at the pair. His dad would never let him get away with being so honest. She hadn’t even called him ‘sir’.
Later, at dinner, James’s father found out where he had been. His father wasn’t so sure about the Calloways, especially considering Bruce already had run-ins with the Hawkins Police. “A drunk for sure. Most micks are. Don’t be seen too much around that girl, James. If she gets you in trouble, it’ll be the strap.”
“It’s so strange that he doesn’t have a female relative staying with them. I hear he lets her run positively wild,” Aunt Lou whispered in disapproval.
James wanted to say that he’d be seen around Joyce for as long as she’d let him, but thought it best to remain quiet. He’d engage in rebellion, but only very quietly.
Two: 1956
Jim nearly dropped his book bag in the dirt when the sound of shouting and shattering glass erupted from the Calloway residence. He froze at the end of the long driveway, knowing he should do something, but not knowing what. He was 12 years old for Chrissake - what could he really do? What if someone was in there hurting the Calloways? Bruce was a grownup, so if he was getting bested, what could a kid do?
Jim finally exhaled the tight, painful breath he was holding when Joyce emerged from the front door. She slammed the door, turned towards it and shouted something filthy and incoherent, before breaking into a full run towards Jim. Her book bag was open, and the contents threatened to spill to the ground and the closer she got, the thicker the dread in Jim’s stomach.
Her nose was swollen and bleeding, there was a cut on her bottom lip. He was about to open his mouth to say something, but she grabbed his arm as she ran past, dragging him along with her with deceptive strength.
“Joyce -...”
“JOYCE MAE CALLOWAY YOU GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE, GIRL!”
“Keep going, he’s too drunk to give chase but we can’t stop,” Joyce muttered, her nails digging into Jim’s soft upper arm.
“Joyce, who was that?” Jim asked once they were walking along the country road. She stopped in her tracks, released her grip and gave her a patented ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ look.
“That was Da. Who do you think it was?”
Bruce Calloway had invited Jim over just last week. He and Joyce had sat by the fire drinking cider while Bruce recited ‘Jabberwocky’. Bruce took them swimming in the summer and let them use his camping equipment to go into the woods alone with lunchboxes filled with sandwiches and an ice-cream bucket of blackberries. Bruce had let Jim try his first beer while Joyce rolled her eyes from her rocking chair.
Bruce didn’t hit Joyce. Joyce was the still point in his universe. Jim shook his head. “Funny. Who is it really?”
Joyce’s dark eyes flashed with venom, her nose wrinkled and one corner of her lips curled in a sneer. “I don’t need you to believe me.” She wiped her nose with the back of her flannel sleeve. The red bloomed vivid against faded-blue. She started walking again. He followed.
“He shouldn’t do that to you.”
“You think?”
“I didn’t know.”
Joyce shrugged but kept walking. “It’s not an everyday or every month thing. He’s a drunk, and it’s gotten worse since he lost his job at the school.”
“They gave him a maintenance job at the hospital though.”
“Da says he’s a poet. That stuff kills his soul, he says.”
Jim rolled his eyes. His dad would have called Bruce ungrateful and selfish. The man had a kid to raise after all. That gave him an idea. “I’ll tell me dad! He’ll have a talk with him. Dad doesn’t think grownups should do stuff like that.”
Joyce laughed. “You get the strap all the time.”
“That’s different. He shouldn’t be hitting your face.”
The town of Hawkins came into view. They would be to the school in a few minutes. “You run and tell your daddy, then. See what happens.” Her voice was sad and resigned, her eyes cast down to the ground.
Jim took her little hand and squeezed, wanting to be some kind of comfort but not knowing how. It occurred to him that she was beautiful when she was sad, but it was a terrible sort of beauty. One that twisted and soured his stomach. Not like when she smiled. When she smiled the world went calm. “Wanna race to the school?” he asked, trying to catch her eye, trying to smile for her sake. Brown eyes met blue and mercifully she grinned, pulled her hand from his grasp and broke into a run, her long, dark curls bouncing behind her.
Later that night, Jim found his voice at the dinner table. “Bruce Calloway hits Joyce.”
Charles Hopper barely looked up from his plate of string beans and pork roast. Jim thought maybe he hadn’t heard, so he repeated the information.
“Oh, James really. This isn’t appropriate dinner conversation,” Aunt Lou fussed.
“Your aunt is right. What a man does to his own is his business. If a child gets rowdy, they need to be corrected, and that girl is mouthy as all get out.”
Jim pushed the issue. “Yeah, but not her face. You don’t beat a kid like you would a bully on the playground.” A fond memory of breaking Lonnie’s nose floated through his brain. It was okay for cretins like Byers, but Joyce was...it didn’t make sense.
“What do you want me to do, son? Arrest him? Your little girlfriend would be sent away to the state if that happened. She doesn’t have any kin to speak of.”
Checkmate. Jim sat back in his seat and stared blankly at his plate. His appetite was gone, and he felt defeated.