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Three months had passed. Three months since the Barrens, since Henry Bowers; since the shattered coke bottle and the clown. Two months since school had started, since Beverly had left, and since Stan had traded his stitches and dressings for the constellations of smooth, pale puckered skin where Its teeth had broken the flesh of his cheeks. One month since Eddie Kaspbrak had regained ownership of his battered right arm; just in time to start writing assignments again, though his wrist was thin and ached from disuse. It was still better than the sewers. Still better than having to deal with his mother’s chastising and insistence that he leave his friends. Anything was better than dealing with what they each had that July.
School had provided a good distraction from these summer horrors. Henry’s absence in Derry, as well as the disappearances of Victor Criss and Belch Huggins, had made the next grade that much easier for all of the Losers. Even Mike had begun to attend school with the others, though his parents remained cautious of Derry’s underlying discriminatory atmosphere. August had offered the other boys a chance though, a chance to show Mr. and Mrs. Hanlon that Mike was in good hands with them, and that they would look out for him. The Hanlons were willing to give it a shot, but they reserved their suspicions. Bill couldn’t honestly blame them, after all they had witnessed so far. But things seemed to be improving for everyone; really, they did. And with the holidays fast approaching and the smell of snow teasing through the air, it was hard not to feel optimistic about the coming year. He knew once spring began again they could all start living once more; and it was on that same hopeful note that he and Stan had left school that afternoon to bike down near the Barrens.
November frost had dusted the streets that morning, but the sun had warmed the earth throughout the day. It was still safe to travel the streets by bicycle, and though Silver still had a tendency to weave unruly through traffic despite Bill’s direction, it seemed he was getting a much better handle at steering the too big bike. Mrs. Hanscom had said he had grown a lot that summer, and he supposed it must have been true. Meanwhile Stan seemed to somehow have shrunk, or stretched out; twice as thin and half as tall but still graceful as ever. He wove circles around Bill as they rolled languidly along the road, leaving Derry behind them. The further they went, the more they realized the Barrens had never been the day’s destination. Somehow Stan ended up taking the lead, passing over the covered bridge with Bill close behind. They had been doing this for the last week or so; pushing the boundaries of how far they would let themselves stray from town itself. Soon enough they would reach a point where they would pass the Welcome to Derry sign and leave their lives behind them as they skidded further into Penobscot County. Someday. The idea frightened Bill, but thrilled him just the same. It was something the boys had discussed in secret before, almost too scared to whisper it to even each other. It felt blasphemous somehow, the idea of doing such a thing without their parents knowledge or permission. But Bill knew that was precisely what made the idea all the more enticing.
Today he knew they were getting closer. Stan had left a marker on the tree where they had stopped last time; a bright green strip of ribbon, the fourth in a series of seven he’d gathered from his mother’s sewing kit: each in the colours of the rainbow. The boys had already sped past red, orange, and yellow so far, and Bill knew the sky blue strip fluttering behind Stan from the belt loop of his trousers would be the next to join the trail. His heart pounded with nervous excitement as he watched Stan begin to coast. There was a drop in the street approaching, and Bill followed Stan’s lead and slowed down to prepare for it. Past the drop was a hill, the green mark, and beyond that--
It was suddenly and with a clatter of metal to earth that Stanley disappeared from Bill’s sight, making Bill grind to a stuttering halt on the rough gravel in shock.
“Stan!” he shouted, dust settling on his worn sneakers as he waited. No response. Worried now, Bill hopped off of his bike and started down the hill, careful not to slip on any loose patches of earth as he went. At the bottom of the hill Stan’s bike lay in a heap, front wheel still spinning; something Bill had rarely seen before. And there, just within the edge of the forest, Bill spotted him. Stan Uris, up to his knees in dirt in his favourite corduroys, his sweater bundled in his lap.
“S-stan, what are you doing?” Bill called, and this time Stan finally answered, glancing over his shoulder and hushing Bill severely in reply.
“What is it?” Bill whispered, creeping over to where his friend sat and glancing over his shoulder, mystified. Some sort of bird shuffled in place in the leaves in front of them, squawking with displeasure (probably because we’re invading its space) and ruffling its feathers as it cried. Bill watched it amble clumsily for a moment before asking again, more pointedly this time. “What is it?”
“It’s a chimney swift,” Stan said confidently, not looking up. “He was floundering over here in the dirt; I think his wing is broken.” There was a pause as Bill watched Stan ringing his sweater in his hands thoughtfully. From where he stood, Bill could already make out the gooseflesh that covered his arms, too cold in just his buttondown. “I’m trying to figure out the best way to pick it up while causing minimal damage. I don’t want to make it any worse.”
Bill knelt down in curiosity, observing the small bird at Stan’s knees. It was a homely little thing; sooty brown, plump, ugly. Wings that seemed a size or two too large for its awkward body splayed out around it in a disheveled heap. Though Bill didn’t notice a break, the poor thing certainly seemed to be in discomfort. It squawked indignantly as Stan covered it in his pullover, carefully bundling it and being sure to favour the wing he was certain was broken. The squawking grew louder as Stan lifted the thing into his lap, and Bill cringed.
“You s-s-sure we sh-shouldn’t j-just leave it, S-Stan?” Bill asked, skeptical. Stan frowned.
“Chimney swifts aren’t meant to be on the ground, Bill,” he said sternly. “They aren’t built for it. It wouldn’t be down here if it had a choice in the matter.” His tone was final. A series of alarmed chirps piped up from the bundle in his arms as he stood, and he hushed the bird softly, whispering things Bill couldn’t make out. “Let’s go home.”
“Y-your house?” Bill clarified, walking his bike as he followed Stan to the path.
“I hardly think your mom will appreciate us bringing it back to your house, Bill,” Stan replied, but one look at his face and Bill could see he was beaming. “Back to my house. My dad might be able to give us a hand. And I’m sure he’ll want to see it for himself.”
Bill stopped beside him, looking from the bird to the spot by the trees where they’d found it. Stan noticed his hesitance and frowned, lifting his bike from the gravel. “Bill, if we leave it here it’ll die,” he said sternly. “Something will come and kill it, or it will starve or freeze to death. I can’t let that happen.”
“B-but those things happen all the time Stan,” Bill said softly, as though to reassure him. “Nature’s kind of like that. Th-things die.” Stan’s cheeks flushed, his lips drawn tight.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t help,” he said. “Those things happen but I don’t witness them every day, Bill. This is different. I’ve seen it now. If I leave it, I’m willfully allowing it to suffer. I can’t do that.” Stan swallowed thickly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m contractually obligated to do whatever I can to help ease the pain of a life in need. Ugly little cigar birds are no exception. Now come on, Big Bill. I want to be home before it gets dark.”
Bill gave in with a nod, helping Stan lead his bike so he could better hold the bird in his arms. They walked in silence for a bit, Bill mulling over what Stan had said. The sound of wheels turning over gravel and tired chirping filled the space between them, and it wasn’t until they reached level ground again and the hill was behind them that Bill finally spoke.
“Th-that thing you s-said; ab-bout b-being con… cont-t-tr… contra-trac -- ”
“Contractually obligated?”
“Mhmm, that,” Bill said, thankful for the interruption. “Is that Judaism?”
Stan snorted, stopping for a moment before grinning over at Bill dryly. “No, Bill. It’s Scouts.”
If there was something Bill never failed to notice when visiting the Uris’ home, it was how connected the three residents seemed. Stan knew his mother well. One look at the bundle in Stan’s arms and she shook her head, shutting her eyes with a tired smile.
“You take that to the garage and wait for your father,” she said finally, glancing briefly to the ceiling with a sigh. Bill followed her gaze, but there was nothing up there he could see.
Stan beamed and nodded silently, taking Bill by the hand and leading him to the garage. He didn’t need to say anything in response. So much of his family’s communication seemed to be nonverbal. One look could mean entire sentences and it was something Bill would never understand. He had only felt that sort of connection once before, with Georgie during their short time with one another. Now it seemed he could scream in his home and still never be heard. Trauma had placed cold hands over his parents’ ears; grief made the blinders that shrouded their eyes. They had never been more divided than they were now, and it felt like the Urises were a polar opposite to this.
Nothing needed to be said for Andrea to know they wanted cookies and milk, or that Stan needed a change of clothes and a thicker sweater. She appeared with both in a matter of moments, and the words of gratitude and endearment she and Stan exchanged were warm, despite sounding scripted. It was a cozy sound; a script they both loved. Bill felt a pang of jealousy when Andrea kissed Stan’s forehead, ruffling his dark curls before heading back into the house. How could he hold it against him though? One of them deserved to still be loved. And when Stan began to change, and Bill watched his fingers ghost over the scars that lined his cheeks, he was thankful it was him. Lord knew Stan needed all the affection he could get right now.
Dressed now, in fresh clothes, Stan seemed abuzz with nervous energy as he puttered about the garage, which was sort of half a place to keep the car and half a place for himself and his father to tinker. There was a workbench and tools at one end of the room, and Stan busied himself with re-organizing and clearing the table there to give the bird a place to rest. An empty cardboard box was reassembled and stuffed with rags before Stan set the bird inside, still bundled in his pullover and squeaking feebly.
“Can you keep an eye on her, Bill?” Stan asked, turning to him, his fingers still dancing on the one tool he could find no place for. Bill knew it was making him anxious.
“S-sure thing, S-stan,” Bill replied though a mouthful of cookie. Stan made a face at the crumbs, but seemed grateful just the same. Bill waited until after he was gone to put the wrench in its silhouetted place on the wall. It was an easy fix, he knew, and that’s what had made it so difficult. Stan returned a moment later with a stack of books, his field-guide and journal on top in a short symmetrical tower. Largest to smallest. He set them on the table and sat, patting the bench beside him and beckoning Bill to join him.
“I have medical texts and veterinary studies, a phone book so we can contact a sanctuary or rehabilitation centre, a book on wrappings and splints, and five books on birds of Maine,” Stan listed aloud. Whether he was speaking to Bill or just himself, Bill had no clue. Stan seemed to notice Bill’s confusion and smiled shyly, tugging his ear absently. “Some of the books have better illustrations than others, but some have more depth in information. I figured we could round things out best if we compare and contrast. And,” (here he lifted his journal and pen) “I want to take notes on things so I have better information to relay to whoever ends up taking care of her. And some notes for my own use. I’ve never seen a swift before, you know.” Bill shook his head, intrigued.
“I had n-no idea,” he said softly. “I’d nuh-never even h-heard of them b-before.”
That was all Stan needed to hear. Without wasting a second, he began to dive into the books, looking for the best written and best illustrated examples for Bill to consume. Bill read them dutifully while Stan began filling his notebook with sketches and bullet-point observations about their little guest. The chimney swift had quieted down now, curling into itself and cooing softly in the warmth of it’s new nest. Stan seemed pleased as hell.
Another hour had passed before Bill perked up to the sound of the front door closing and the low hum of Don and Andrea Uris’ voices from inside. Stan remained silent, fully absorbed in what he was doing. He’d taken a break from making notes and Bill had watched as he’d begun lining the feathers of the swift he’d drawn in his notebook. Every plume was symmetrical, every pencil stroke deliberate. So deep was his focus that Bill had scarcely heard him breathe in the last fifteen minutes. But when the voices got louder and the door clicked open, Stan sprang to life once more, visibly coming back to Earth from wherever he’d been.
“Dad!” he said excitedly, turning around to watch his father enter the room. Even his exclamations were measured and restrained, Bill noticed, but somehow they would have sounded wrong any other way. Don greeted them with a smile, hanging his coat by the door.
“Stan, Bill,” he said, striding over and ruffling his son’s hair gently. A funny smile tugged at his lips when he looked down at Stan. “Your mother tells me you’ve brought something home with you?” His dark eyes turned pointedly to the box on the table and Stan bolted to his feet.
“Yes, just a second!” he said quickly, immediately setting to work tidying up their space so his father could get a better look at the box and the unexpected visitor. Don chuckled, turning to Bill and smiling at him. A weird, grown up smile that adults used when attempting formality with children. Bill recognized the smile from the faces of teachers and church goers; back when his family had still gone to church together on sundays. It usually made him squirm in his shoes or avert his eyes, but somehow with Don it was always different. There was a kindness and sincerity in his eyes that was unmistakable, rarely ever present in the eyes of other grown-ups and especially rare in Derry. A kindness Stan had inherited. Bill found himself smiling back.
“How have you been, Bill?” Don asked softly. A formality. Bill considered for a moment.
“I’ve been p-pretty good, M-Mr. Uris,” he stammered. All things considered, it wasn’t a lie. Don nodded approvingly, turning back to his son but saving the smile on his face for Bill. It was as though there was a joke there somewhere, something he was sharing with Bill for a moment. As if the formal exchange had been a sort of game or test he’d invited Bill to indulge in; and Bill had somehow passed. Whatever the reason, Bill appreciated the sense of being included in something. It had been such a long time since any adult had seemed comfortable engaging with him. It had started with Georgie’s death, and though the memory had begun to fade collectively from the adults’ minds he still dealt with the awkward silence and pity from parents and teachers around him, vague as it was. Stan’s parents were two of the only people who still saw him as something tangible, something alive. Bill would love them forever for it, even after he forgot to remember their names.
“Alright, come see!” Stan’s voice came, breaking through Bill’s thoughts. The other boy sat beaming at the table with his books in his lap, his journal open atop the stack displaying his notes. Don went to stand next to him, glancing over Stan’s shoulder to observe the bird in the box. His curiosity was piqued instantly by what he saw.
“Is that a swift, Stanley?”
“A chimney swift!” Stan proclaimed proudly, turning to follow his father’s gaze. “Bill and I saw it struggling on the ground by the path today while we were biking home. I think it might be hurt.” Stan’s tone shifted from jovial to severe in an instant and Don frowned in response. He pulled the box toward himself gingerly, careful not to cause to much of a disturbance to the swift’s new nest.
“Its breathing does seem a bit laboured,” he said softly. Stan nodded once, offering Don his notes. Bill joined the others at the table, looking in again at the awkward little creature. A cigar bird, Stan had called it, and Bill had read in one of the many books he’d been given that it was a name referencing one ornithologist’s description of the species. A cigar with wings, he’d said, and Bill found himself chuckling again at how fitting the whole thing was. Cruel, sure, but apt. Stan eyed him curiously, squinting when Bill waved his hand dismissively. Don set the book down between them with a hum, tapping his chin.
“It certainly doesn’t seem well, Stan,” he said finally, looking down at him.
“There’s a sanctuary in Bangor,” Stan replied, fingers twisting. “I thought maybe after dinner…”
“I think that sounds reasonable,” Don interrupted, nodding in approval. “After dinner you boys can come along and bring it down there with me. That is, if you’d like to stay, William.”
“You will stay, won’t you Bill?” Stan asked hopefully. Bill smiled.
“S-s-sure thing, Muh-Mister Uris,” he said, as polite as he could muster. “I w-would l-like that.”
“That settles that then,” Don spoke, gesturing toward the door. “Go wash up and see if your mother needs any help, Stanley. Let her know I’ll be there in a minute; I’d like to make some notes of my own.”
“Of course,” Stan replied, getting to his feet and setting his books on the table once more. “C’mon, Big Bill,” he said happily, taking Bill’s hand in his own and leading him to the door. It was a natural gesture, and Stan thought little of it at the time. But to Bill it seemed his touch burned against his palm under Don Uris’ watchful eyes. There was no time to think about it though, not with Stan tugging him along to the powder room down the hall and chattering softly in excitement as he washed his hands with four pumps of soap and the water piping hot. Don Uris be damned; Stan’s head was full of birds. Nothing short of apocalyptic disaster could pull his attention away from the promise of a chance to visit the sanctuary. Bill focused on his friend’s excitement and allowed Stan to sweep him away with his words. There would be plenty of time to worry about adults later.
The drive to the sanctuary was cozy, with Bill and Stan in the back seat of Don’s sedan and the swift sat in its box between them. The radio played softly under Stan’s continuing speech, although now it included commentary from Don as well as he drove, expanding on the information Stan spewed forth like a broken faucet. Bill was content to listen to them talk, laughing good naturedly along with Stan when his father said something that went over his head. Stan seemed loose and happy and in his element, glad to be outside of Derry for once. He sat as still as he could, but Bill could see him wiggling slightly from the waist up, his joy reaching its peak at his shaking fingertips and gently swaying head. The swift itself was silent for most of the ride, reacting only to an occasional sharp turn or bump in the road with a short burst of disgruntled tittering.
The sun was already dipping below the trees when they finally reached the rehabilitation center, and by that time Stan had fallen silent, exhausted from excitement and dozing off in his seat. He refused to be left behind once they arrived though; despite the hour and Don’s insistence that they wouldn’t be able to stay. He carried the box clasped tightly to his chest and tried not to shiver under his jacket as Bill joined him. Their breath mingled together in clouds of white as they followed Don to the door, Stan taking extreme care not to jostle the swift.
The actual drop off only lasted around 5 minutes, with Stan insisting to take charge and relay his observations to the worker on duty despite near constant yawning. It was clear he was starting to feel hesitant about letting the bird go, even though Bill knew that the logic of the situation would always outweigh any attachment Stan was struggling with. The rehabilitation worker seemed to sense the same thing though, and after promising Stan and Don that they could visit the birds some other day and even offer the swift a temporary name, Stan seemed placated. Bill took his hand again as they walked back to the car, and this time his concerns that Don would be unhappy about the gesture failed to resurface.
Stan mumbled absently to himself and Bill and no one in particular as they started back down the road to Derry. Bill heard the word “cigars” mentioned more than once, and it wasn’t until Don Uris laughed loudly in the front seat and replied--
"Stanley, you don’t know the first thing about cigar brands, son. You should pick a different name’”
--that Bill realized what Stan was trying to do. A cigar name for a cigar bird. It made perfect sense. Bill tried to contribute any tobacco knowledge he had, but that consisted mostly of cigarette names he’d heard Bev and Richie discuss in the past. The conversation began to lag about half way back into town, and by the time they pulled up to the Denbrough house, Stan had fallen asleep leaning against Bill’s shoulder; Bill snoring softly beside him. Don was hesitant to move them. It had been so long since he'd seen Stan this happy.