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A shock of amber curls blazing in the young morning light approached the Tozier home, their owner rapping gently on the screen door for a moment, before simply pushing it open and strolling inside. The years after that summer had been kind to Beverly Marsh’s looks, but not much else. Her firey crimson curls had grown into a smoldering amber side waves bob, her bangs hanging low over her forehead. Her skinny frame was covered in a grey tee shirt with a Derry Tigers logo slumped on it, a blazing red overshirt, a skinny pair of blue jeans, and beat up converse high tops. She’d remained short and skinny through the years, though not small, growing plump in all of the right places that attracted all of the wrong sorts of attention, no matter how hard she fought off the advances being showered down upon her. So, as Bev’s body had progressed, her mind at did the same, her deep, messy descent into womanhood a few years sealed. Still, The Losers helped her save some sort of that innocence inside of her, so Bev was always more than happy to simply drop in and spend any amount of time with them. And hey, when you needed to drown out the thoughts storming inside of your head, who ELSE would you go to but Richie fucking Tozier?
“Richie! Richie, c’mon Rich. Let’s go down to the arcade or something. Bored as a mother.”
Beverly’s feet creeked faintly against the wooden floorboards of the Tozier home, her sneakers squealing to a stop as a head shot out from inside the kitchen. Margret Tozier’s signature glare was sharp enough to slice through steel, yet it melted like butter as she saw the redhead girl in her hallway. She stepped fully out to greet Beverly, her smile becoming genuine and full as she spoke once again.
“Beverly Marsh, how are you? Good morning!”
“O-sh-uh, im uh….good, I’m good, good morning, Mrs. T. Where’s Richie?”
“Oh, he’s down at the old Grogan theatre with Eddie. Watching some sort of alien flick. I told him it was too early for the end of the world, but…..”
Margret sighed as she waved off Beverly, humming gently as both of them thought of her boy. Richie’s mother was a tall, lanky woman with a sharp beak that always reminded Beverly of an eagle, yet with the smile lines and blazing azul globes that ensured her past was filled with life. Margret wore a plain white blouse, a slim grey skirt, a red overcoat and a stunned little smirk as she scoffed at her own words, shaking her head with a click of her tongue.
“Where are my manners-come inside, I sent him out two hours ago, those two should be back in no time. Come in, sit down, have a drink!”
Margret turned quickly on her heel and strode back into her kitchen, Beverly following close behind. Bev shivered when she reached the kitchen, a chill shooting down her back, her eyebrows cocking at the sight of multiple small electronic fans cluttering the space. A soap on the screen was quickly muted by Margret as she turned towards the fridge, calling over her shoulder to Beverly as Bev slid into the bar and called out gently.
“Uh….cola.”
Margret nodded her head, going and pulling out a jug of dark brown liquid. She scoffed pathetically at the drink, rolling her eyes as she spoke.
“For a man who works with so much teeth you’d think he’d stop using this junk like it’s water. I swear he thinks his own mouth is an experiment.”
Beverly let a polite grin out at Margret’s words, rolling her eyes in agreement as Margret put down the jug on the bar, pulling out a small glass cup and popping two ice cubes into the glass, filling it up with soda, before pushing it out towards Beverly. Bev smirked with appreciation, raising up her glass and pausing as Margret poured herself a drink as well, before going and clinking glasses with Mrs. Tozier. Both women sipped their cola, Bev’s lips still on her cup when Margret pressed first gently.
“Richie didn’t mention any plans today besides this. Where are you two going?”
Bev shook her head and glowered into her soda, biting her lip softly as she spoke.
“Nah, I…I….i dunno, I just wanted to chat. Just….bored. Richie speaks more than enough for two, so.”
A shrug paired Beverly’s words and a nod paired Margret’s as she responded to the increasingly deflating Beverly at the bar before her.
“Trust me, Beverly, I know. I live with him.”
A tilt of the head paired Marge’s words now, her fingers going to softly drum on the bar as she stared down at Beverly with concern spreading across her motherly feathers.
“….anything in….particular you had to talk to Richie about or….?”
A sigh sputtered from inside Bev’s throat, her shoulders tensing in response. The closest woman Beverly had to a mother leaned back, her fingertips slipping off the bar, her own shoulders tensing in anticipation. Warmth was filling her body in anticipation to be spread onto Bev, bubbling inside her chest as she stared down at the little girl before her. Ever since Alvin Marsh had came back from Juniper Hill with a limp and an occasional slur to his words minus whiskey breath, the amount of times she’d seen Beverly walking with a limp or holding her chest when she sat had dropped practically off the earth. But even still, there was nights where Margret heard screen doors creak open and windows slide shut, mornings where she found bloody tissue paper, gauze, and shredded remnants of blouses and underwear in her garbage, and afternoons where she debated marching up to Chief Bowers, before the fantasy died right there on the vine. If one was to wait on Oscar Bowers for help, it was over.
Margret exhaled hard as she saw Beverly finish up her cup, going and filling up another round for her as the red headed girl responded once again.
“School, I guess, uh……shit. Yeah. Summer school. Pain in the ass.”
“No, what happened?”
“My….”
Beverly sniffled, looking up nervously at Margret. Upon considering who her son was, Beverly shook her head into her glass, her worries spilling out in a sharp burst.
“My fucking English teacher.”
“Not you too! Oh-Richie speaks English like an auctioneer, and you’re such a bright girl. I can’t believe the two of you failed!”
“Didn’t….i didn’t…..I di-I passed. But….but I mean, Mr. Epping, like….jesus. Him and Mrs. Dunhill. Both of them, they’re like. They’re on me because they think I’m some major writer. Gonna flunk me if I don’t do their extra courses.”
“No-“
“Not flunk, but “grade me in a different curve” if I stop showing up. So I’m screwed if I don’t, and when I do, they make it so I’m writing like….Bill Denbourgh.”
The mention of Bill made Bev’s fingers squeeze against the glass, a sight Margret didn’t care for, but tolerated as Beverly continued, her next sentences filled with resignation and disappointment.
“I mean…I w….i wanna do…I dunno. Fashion or something rich. Draw outfits, I guess. How hard could that be. But writings….writings tough. I….i-I’m, I’m sorry, Mrs. T.”
Margret tsked sharply at Bev, a wave a disappointment washing through her body sharply before it curled into motherly affection.
“Don’t be, Beverly. Don’t be.”
“……I mean, look. Look, I-I am. I’m good at it. I am and when I got free time, when I can, I mean….it is fun. It is. But I can draw too, and I….”
Beverly threw her hands up, going to finish her third cup of soda, and already staring on her fourth. Her voice had taken on an energized tilt, her digits drumming on the wood of the bar as Beverly finished up spitting out her words.
“I guess writings good. It’s fun even, but Jesus Christ if I don’t feel like Epping and Dunning are squeezing the life outta me with it. Just five minutes alone, where I can writing how I wanna and about what I wanna, and I’ll be ok.”
Bev inhaled deeply, leaning back, turning her head and burping quietly, shaking firmly as she looked back into Margret’s warm eyes. She melted in those beautiful blue bulbs, exhaustion playing on Bev’s features as she ran both hands down her face. She stretched out her cheeks as Margret responded, Bev’s shoulders raising as Margret lightened the redhead before her.
“…..I know I’m not Richie, but I’m very glad you can talk to me about this.”
Beverly nodded a couple of times, her head swaying up and down as Margret continued, finger waving in her face.
“I think you’re a creative, and I know you’re one bright girl. You have a bright future, you understand? Those teachers know it too. They only want what’s good for you. But you listen good-you ever need a spot to rest, you come right here. You understand?”
Beverly’s nods turned slower, much more richer as she listened to Margret’s speech. She fought back the tears in her eyes as she ran both hands through her hair, leaning back and croaking out her next words to Margret painfully.
“…..I go….i gotta weird question, Mrs. T. This one was for Richie but….”
“Beverly. You tell me right now. I’ll do my best. You always can-I gotta hope you know that.”
Margret smiled warmly as she spoke, leaning on the counter right behind a fan as she watched Beverly nurse her fourth glass of coke, right hand gripping her hair hand enough to yank it out. The stress was falling off both of them in droves, a lightness filling the freezing cold kitchen that Beverly’s question shattered without purpose.
“….wh….when do you know about a boy. When do you know about a boy? For good, with Wentworth?”
Margret’s face fell quickly, her brow furrowing as she stared at Beverly. Her fingers replaced Beverly’s spot as they began to drum on the bar, and she fingered her right eyelid a few times at the mention of her husband. The moment looked like she was going through something bad, however short it was. Bev watched carefully, studying the look of discomfort in the older woman's face—as if her words had struck some long forgotten nerve. Her grip on the glass cup tightened instinctively as she waited for her to respond, an inexplicable wave of dread pooling in her stomach. Margret’s fingers continued to drum against the wood of the bar, yet this time, when she finally responded to Beverly, her voice was so firm and so damn serious it sent new artic chills down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill of the kitchen.
“……not my Richie.”
“……….”
Beverly didn’t blink looking up at Margret, having to take a massive step back mentally. Richie and Eddie knew, because they were soulmates who’d been ripped apart, torn in two by this whole godforsaken place. Mike knew, because there was nothing in the world that you could sneak past a Hanlon, but it didn’t harm him, so it took up the one percent of his brain that he reserved for anything not work, history or family. Beverly had been the only one in the entire world Richie had really told; that horrible, storming, snowing, agonizing Christmas Eve, where he said that all he wanted in the world was to take Eddie someplace, whether it be Rat’s Hamburgers or the MGM Grand and let them be what they were, and she’d said that for once, she just wanted her father to hold her in his arms and look at her like a father and not a woman. Where they’d pounded vodka mixed with eggnog until she swore she’d do his problems and he swore he’d do hers. Where she’d go off and do it, and go and kill Bowers and Hockstetter and Huggins and Criss and he’d go and kill Alvin. Where the plan fell into the booze and they’d sobbed and raged together before passing out in each others arms drunk and exhausted. Beverly blinked away the memories as Margret leaned forward and reiterated her point.
“…..not my Richie.”
“….no.”
Relief poured off both women as Beverly cleared up the momentary confusion, a mothers love filling Margret’s eyes at the sight of Bev’s knowledge. She leaned her head down and inhaled deeply, her voice soft and light as she responded.
“…..he would be a good one to talk to.”
Beverly nodded once more, a cheeky laugh filling her body at the relief of the stress bubbling inside her. After a moment, Margret did the same, giggling softly, though she covered her teeth with her hand. Both women giggled and grinned as the tension passed, and Beverly’s secret, now so seemingly unfathomably dull, slipped freely out from her mouth.
“…..two of them. I can’t choose, Miss T.”
Margret hummed quietly, her giggles lettering to a low rumble in her throat as she raised her own glass, watching as Bev’s giggles turned less happy and more exhausted. To aliviate the mood, Marge raised her glass of Coke, her voice with a comedic little bounce to it.
“Men. Can’t live with ‘em. Can’t live without ‘em.”
“….words of wisdom, Mrs. T. Words of wisdom.”
Both girls pounded the drink back, Beverly’s hands running through her curls once again as she sat up, earnestly talking to Margret once more. She tapped the bar, both eyebrows cocked as she waited on Margret’s words.
“I mean it. How’d you know with M-with Wentworth. When-h-how were you sure.”
Margret’s smile fluttered, her eyelids closing upon the question. She exhaled once again, tapping on the surface of the bar before turning her back to Beverly. Striding over towards the fridge, she let her words slip out off of her shoulders, this time filled with nostalgia and regret.
“….he glows.”
Eyebrows shot into the atmosphere as Beverly saw Margret turning around clutching a bottle of vodka like a newborn bundled in her arms. Margret’s cup of cola received reinforcements in the form of the russian liquor, and it was all gulped down quickly as Margret leaned on the bar and whispered wonders to Beverly.
“You’ll be together. But around others. But you’ll be together, they won’t matter. He’ll do something so magical, he’ll just….glow. Shine. All you’ll see in there is Him. His light. His life.”
Marge finished making another one of her makeshift cocktails, taking a long, fat chug before placing the glass bottle down once again. She looked at it miserably, two fat tears rolling down her face as she mouthed out the one name Beverly wasn’t ever expecting to hear at this current moment.
“……Rich….”
Bev's mind went blank for a second, her whole body freezing at the mention of her friend's name. Then realization, shock, and confusion all hit her in rapid succession, leaving her reeling as she struggled to think clearly. She stared at Margret, her mouth half open, a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue as she spit out the first thing that came to her mind, no matter how dumb it was.
"...Rich? Rich Tozier?"
“….Santos.”
Marge laughed, holding her hand in front of her teeth as she giggled hard. Then, she let her hand drop, threw her head back, and laughed hard as she could manage, a laugh so hard Beverly knew that she hadn’t let it free in ages. Bev watched, feeling completely bewildered. She'd never seen the woman lose her composure like this before, and hell if it didn't disturb her a little. Still, there was a sick curiosity that kept her rooted in place, her heart hammering in her chest. She swallowed hard, her throat dry.
“….h…What?"
“Ricardo. Rich. My knight.”
Margret’s laugh petered out slowly, being replaced by a light hum as she sipped her Air Force Coke. After a long swig, Margret rolled up her right sleeve for Beverly , stroking a red bump located on her arm, her voice thick with grief and self loathing as she spoke once again.
“…..I was such a bad girl.”
Bev's eyes narrowed as she watched Margret's strange display, her stomach twisting painfully in her belly. Every muscle in her body was tense, her mind racing as she tried to piece together the puzzle unfolding in front of her.
"Bad..." she echoed weakly, the single word feeling heavy as lead on her tongue. “….h-how?"
“I….I wanted to be….something else. Someone else who I wasn’t, who I really wasn’t. A mean girl, so popular, so pretty. Like a doll.”
Margret sipped her Coke once again, sighing as she pressed the cool bottle against her forehead and sighed. She shook her head once more, rolling her eyes at her past self. Bev listened closely, her throat tight as her stomach twisted tighter. It was like staring into a warped mirror, and she didn't like what she was seeing at all. And still—still—curiosity kept her tethered to the bar. She couldn't look away from Margret's agony, couldn't stop herself from taking in every word. Her voice was even more fragile than before as she worked out her words.
“And...?"
“And I burned the half the tiny amount of time I got with him. I made some of it up. But I never got my kiss, my love. I got to hold hands, fly a model plane and…..”
Margret shrugged her shoulders, choosing now to sip straight from the vodka bottle before putting it back down, slumping miserably against the counter of the bar as she continued to detail her lost love to Beverly.
“And listen. Just listen to him.”
Bev's hands twisted around her coke glass like a vice, her knuckles white as she fought to keep her composure. She knew where this was going, could feel the end of the story looming in front of her like a yawning chasm. And still, still she couldn't look away. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak. “Just...listen to what?"
“Everything. He wouldn’t shut up, no matter what. His parents tuned him out, the teachers made him sit in the corners, and the kids….”
Margret cracked with a knowing smirk, winking away her tears as she whispered to Beverly a very familiar saying, grinning through the pain despite it all.
“Beep beep, Richie.”
Bev's blood ran cold, her stomach dropping like she'd just been punched in the gut. She knew-had always known-Richie's catchphrase wasn't just a quirk, some weird little thing that happened to be sewn into him. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke.
"...how long ago?"
A beat of silence passed as Margret let out another slow sip from the bottle before answering.
“….30. 1962.”
Margret rubbed the spot on her arm and sighed, going and sipping harder from the bottle of booze for a longer time. She shook her head and lifted more of her blouse up, showing a tiny little patch of pinkened skin on her body. Margret fingered the patch firmly, pressing down on the skin until it turned milky white, then letting it flow back to pink. Then, she picked up the bottle of vodka and drained a dribble into her cup, before going and slipping Beverly a taste. Bev's stomach was in knots as she listened to Margret's tension filled breathing. Her thoughts were racing, trying to fit the new information into what she already knew about Derry. Still, she reached out for the offered bottle of spiked drink, desperate for something, anything, to ease the growing terror she felt in the pit of her belly. She took a big gulp, relishing the sweet burn of soda and alcohol as it went down. Margret’s voice was rough as she spoke once again, filled with so much more pain than Beverly had ever thought possible before.
“We were kids, thinking we could take on the world. Solve some big mystery case. It doesn’t matter who, I hardly even remember. But we’re there, and he’s trying to be a man, not a boy, and he’s playing the drums, and I’m sipping a vodka and coke I though was spoiled, and the lights were making him golden and I’m 13 and happy like I’m never gonna be again and then it’s a fire. House fire.”
Margret slumped like she’d been shot when she finished speaking, both girls going to down their cups of vodka and coke before she could continue. Bev's head was spinning from both the alcohol and the information she was getting. The image of a young Margret and Rich was stuck in her head, and she couldn't shake it, couldn't stop thinking about the fact that they were so young when it all went wrong. She stared at the bottom of her empty cup, her mouth dry as the silence hung heavily in the air between them.
“…..God..."
“No. Couldn’t have been. I don’t take my son to church because I know. Anything that could let that happen I don’t want him worshipping. Don’t want him near.”
Margret was getting angry now, her face twisting. She rubbed at the eyelid she was itching before, her voice cold. Then, her rage turned into pain and sadness, her body fluttering back down to earth as she spoke.
“Anything that lets a boy die like that I don’t wanna meet. I don’t wanna have anything to do with.”
Bev flinched at Margret's words, the anger and pain in her voice leaving her off-balance. She'd never seen the composed, maternal woman so upset, and it shook her to her core. She felt the sudden urge to say something, to offer some sort of comfort—but words died in her throat, leaving her floundering as she watched the older woman's shoulders tremble.*
“….he didn’t burn, Beverly. He suffocated. Lungs….gave up.”
Margret was crying hard yet silently now, making no attempt to hide it as she just dumped the story straight into Beverly’s lap, needing one more fat swig of vodka to come out.
“It was so hot, Beverly, you can’t even imagine, but there was an icebox. We both tried, but he locked me in. Didn’t even kiss me. I just….i had to listen.”
*mBev's breath hitched, her fingers curling into fists so tight that her nails dug crescent moons into the palms of her hands. She was seeing it-couldn't stop seeing it; the way Richie must have looked in those last moments, the fire too much for him but not enough to kill him outright. She took another long swig from Margret’s bottle before speaking, voice hoarse.
“….he locked you in?”
“Saved me. Would’ve been 28 dead. Instead of 27.”
Margeret pressed a dripping rag of ice cold water against her forehead as she popped an ice cube, her voice scratchy as she spoke once more.
“I’m only glad he did becuase it gave my Richie-my Richie, Richie Tozier. If I hadn’t had him by now…..”
Margret tapped the handle of a kitchen knife in the sink, sending Beverly a clear cut message she was all too familiar with. The dark, damp kitchen reflected Margret’s mind, the only light being the child infront of her. Bev was frozen, her mind racing as she struggled to process what she was hearing. A part of her, a very old, childish part of her, still couldn't believe all of this. There had to be a catch, some twist to the story. Margret would break a smile, Richie would pop out, and mom and son would laugh at such a dumb joke. Still, her heart ached for the woman in front of her. In spite of it all, she could see herself in Margret, and the thought made her sick to her stomach. Marge could read Bev clear as day, and leaned in close to the redhead as she responded.
“…..When you see him glow, you’ll know.”
Margret dropped the knife back into the sink as she lifted her head back towards Beverly, letting the redhead drink in her expression once more. He knew, that was obvious. She knew by the last few words that Marge whispered out to Beverly.
“Dont waste your life.”
————————————————————————
Beverly stumbled from the Tozier home, stepping out into the bright sunlight. She blinked twice, then put one foot in front of the other, two thing on her mind-Rich Santos, and a way out of Derry.