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“Royal Flush! I win,” Richie grinned as he laid down his cards dramatically. They were dusty and old, worn in by many years of shuffling.
“You do n-n-not have a royal flush, juh-j-jackass!” Bill exclaimed, grabbing Richie’s cards from the table and looking at them.
“Ace, K-King, Q-Queen—Aha, s-see, you don’t have a jester anywhere h-here, that’s no r-royal flush. Yuh-you gotta have a jester to get a r-royal flush.”
“I do have a jester, it’s right in front of me. His name’s Big Bill Denbrough and he’s one shit poker player.” Richie quipped before hee-hawing to himself.
“Says y-you,” Bill retorted, folding his arms.
“Says me and everyone in the world.” Richie replied. “Stanley even said he won two whole bucks off of you one time.”
“W-well, Stan’s a n-n-no good, d-dirty, rotten liar.”
It was silent for a moment before both of them broke into laughter, loud enough to be heard outside of the clubhouse where Ben and Eddie sat drawing up plans for a hammock.
Upon hearing the noise, Eddie huffed and got up from the log he was sitting on. The long grass swayed at his feet as he made his way to the trapdoor, swinging it open and looking inside. Richie and Ben quieted as soon as they saw his face peek in.
“You’re being too loud," Eddie stated, with a mixture of annoyance and genuine concern. “Henry’s gonna hear us and call his friends to beat us up.”
“No, h-he wuh-won’t, Eddie—“ Bill began, but Richie cut him off.
“No, he’s right, Bill. Henry’s got ears like a bat. If any little boys are having fun near him, he feels it in the atmosphere and his eyes turn red—I saw it happen in real time.” Richie said, slowing down for dramatic effect. “He’s like a werewolf, he’ll chase you down and he won’t stop ‘til he tears you limb from limb and eats you. It’s gruesome. That’s why all those kids are missing.”
Eddie looked a bit fearful until Bill rolled his eyes. “Beep beep, R-Richie. Henry can’t h-h-hear us f-from here.”
“Yeah, beep beep.” Eddie parroted.
“You never know..." Richie shrugged, suddenly remembering the poker cards and handing them back to Bill for shuffling. “Wanna deal Eddie in?”
Eddie shook his head. “I don’t play poker.”
Richie eyed him mischievously. “You
also said you don’t smoke but I remember you taking a fat puff of that cigar in the Barr—“
“You said you wouldn’t talk about that!” Eddie hissed. “And that was a one-time thing. It tasted awful and made my chest hurt and I hated it. I’m sure poker tastes awful as well.”
“To each their own,” Richie replied. “Deal me in, Big Bill, but leave room for Eddie if he comes to his senses.”
“Do not leave room for me," Eddie corrected. “Again, my mom would kill me if I gambled.”
“Your m-m-mom’ll kill you for h-hanging out in the dirt wi-with us a-anyway,” Bill reasoned.
“But she’ll extra kill me if I gamble.” Eddie replied.
Ben interrupted their conversation by calling Eddie back to help with his preparations. Eddie gave one final huff before his head disappeared from the hole in the ceiling and the trap door went down, shaking dirt into the air with it. The room returned to being lit only by dusty gas lamps.
“He’s a r-ruh-real funny g-guy,” Bill said, raising his eyebrows as he shuffled the cards. A singular card fell out— seven of clubs, funny, Richie thought— and Bill quickly put it back in.
“I agree.” Richie leaned back, looking around at the tightly packed dirt walls. “A real cool cat. His mom’s really holding him down.”
“Yeah.” Bill agreed. “She s-s-sucks.”
He gave Richie his cards and they both went silent again to look at their hands. Bill never had a good poker face, but Richie’s glasses sometimes reflected bits of his cards, which put them on equal ground.
“I’ve got all the aces, prepare to lose,” Richie said suddenly, immediately getting a snort out of Bill.
“W-w-well, I’ve got all aces too.” Bill stuck his tongue out and Richie giggled a bit in return.
After another moment, Richie declared his first move as a raise to six.
Bill eyed his cards quietly.
“Gonna fold, Big Man?” He asked.
“N-no, no.” Bill went silent again, but this time the energy was different. Richie softened, putting his cards face-down.
Bill looked away with an odd expression on his face.
“What’s up, Bill?” Richie asked.
“Do y-y-you mind coming o-o-over to my h-house t-t-tonight?”
“Yeah, sure, if my mom gives the OK. Why?”
“We’re h-h-having family d-dinner.” Bill replied. Richie nodded, understanding what he meant.
His parents were cold people ever since Georgie had gone. Bill didn’t talk about it much since they weren’t really the type of guys to get deep, but Richie knew it had affected him more than anyone else could tell. He could see it in the way he carried himself, in the way he ran out the door when leaving to walk to school. It was minuscule, but it said to Richie that there was a lot more to Bill than he let on.
“Yeah. I can go. My mom’ll be cool with it.” Richie nodded. “It’s getting dark out though, should we just go now?”
“N-no, we c-c-can finish the g-game. I just wanted to ask.”
“Alright, it’s your turn.” Richie gestured to the cards. Bill looked back down and called.
The both of them returned moves for the next while, quieter now. Richie laid down with his arms bent in front of him and peered at his cards, his magnified eyes drawing a smile from Bill.
At this point, Richie was sure he could win in this last move. The pot at this point could get him a handful of candy bars, and if he rose to twenty he was almost completely certain that Bill would lose.
Instead, Richie checked. Bill glanced up at him and hesitated before betting the full size of the pot. Richie called again, purposefully fucking it up, and watched as Bill flipped over his winning cards.
He slapped his head. “Ah, shietze, you got me there, Bill. I guess you were right, you’re a better gambler than I am. But who’s to say if that’s good or not? Gambling can be pretty bad, like Ed—“
“Y-you don’t h-h-have to pay me a-anything. We c-can just share.”
Richie looked surprised for a moment. “You’re too kind, Bill, just keep it all. Fair and square.”
Bill shook his head. “No, r-really, you should h-h-have some of it.”
“No, you’re taking me out for a fancy dinner date tonight anyway, right? Keep the coins, it’s what the game’s all about.”
Bill smiled at Richie before taking the pile of coins and shoving them in his pocket. He thanked him as he got up. “We s-should g-get going.”
Richie nodded. “Aye aye, Cap’n. You lead the way.”
It was cold outside, which was not unusual for Maine. Richie was surprised as he climbed out of the clubhouse and was hit with the chilly air— Ben had packed the place tight enough that he’d barely felt a breeze during the poker match.
Eddie and Ben were sitting a few yards back, Eddie sitting upside down with his feet on the log and Ben with his head resting on Eddie’s shins. They were deep in discussion, just quiet mumbles.
People never really expected Eddie and Ben to be such good friends, Hell, Richie hadn’t either, but they were both fond of each other on a unique level. There was a quiet and comfortable understanding between them. Not even two sides of the same coin, just two coins with the same print.
“Come on, R-Rich," Bill said. Richie turned back and began to follow Bill out of the clearing. The crickets outside gave a nice ambience.
“What time is it, do you think?” Richie wondered as he jumped on a stick, cracking it beneath his feet.
“7 o’clock, tuh-tops.” Bill replied confidently. “It’s getting d-d-dark faster l-lately… W-Winter is c-coming.”
“Sure is. Unless Punxsutawney Phil has a say in it, right?”
“R-R-Right.” Bill smiled. An owl hooted somewhere nearby and Richie looked around to see if he could find it in the trees, which were slowly being covered by the nighttime shadows.
“What animal would you be if you got to choose? I think I’d be a koala. Getting high off of leaves all day, that’s my jam.” Richie questioned, uniquely aware of how much he felt like a little kid around Bill.
It was like when the Roberts Family came to visit with their kids. They always pestered him while he was busy with his comics, but the more he tried to avoid them the more they’d want to talk. It’s the curse of being older, you seem much cooler to anyone younger. (But Richie was also very cool in general, or so he told himself)
Bill didn’t seem to mind. “I t-t-think… I’d b-be a c-cricket.”
Richie was surprised. “No, that’s too small. You’re Big Bill. You’d be a lion.”
Bill didn’t seem as sure. “I-I think B-Beverly is t-t-the lion.”
“She’s the lioness," Richie said. He jumped on another stick and picked it up to carry around. “Eddie’s a gazelle.”
“H-how would a g-g-gazelle become f-friends w-wuh-with a l-lion?”
“He’d be a brave gazelle.”
Bill smiled, and they continued walking in silence until they got out of the woods and onto Neibolt street, where Richie suggested they go the other way. They cut through the adjacent yard onto Witcham.
“Ruh-R-Right up there.”
“I know where your house is, Bill. We played in the backyard like, two weeks ago.”
“S-Sorry,” Bill gestured at the stick Richie was still playing with. “You w-were busy w-with that twig, I didn’t know if you were paying attention.”
Richie threw it away immediately. “Well, I was.”
They continued down the road, Richie half-skipping and Bill kicking a rock along the concrete. As they reached the house, Bill paused at the front porch and turned to look at Richie.
“What’s up?”
“You g-g-gotta know, m-my pa-parents are kind o-of—“
“I know what your parents are like. I’ll be cool. I’ve got a reputation to keep intact.”
Bill rolled his eyes. “S-sure.”
They walked up the porch stairs and Bill pulled at the door handle. When it didn’t open, he knocked loudly like he was a missionary coming to ask them if they’d heard about the church of letting their son inside.
Richie peeked in the window and saw Mrs. Denbrough (Sharon, was it?) heading toward the door. She looked toward the window and made a face when she saw him, but the door opened a moment later.
“What’s Richie doing here?”
“H-h-he’s coming o-o-over for d-dinner.” Bill replied nervously.
“Alright.” Mrs. Denbrough didn’t seem completely certain, but Richie could tell she didn’t want to look rude as she ushered both of them inside.
Richie followed Bill to the dining room and sat down at the table. There were two candles already lit, but the room felt cold anyway.
“You s-shouldn’t s-suh-sit there.” Bill said suddenly. Richie glanced at him. “T-t-that’s Georgie’s s-seat.”
“Is there another chair?”
“I-I don’t k-know. I’ll ch-check.” Bill left the room and Richie got up from the seat, looking around the corner into the kitchen. Bill’s mom was working hard on what looked like reheating leftover casserole (which didn’t look that appetizing— yikes). Richie shuddered at the sudden flashbacks to the tuna casserole his own mom had attempted a few weeks ago. Hopefully the recipe wasn’t going around, he’d thrown up for hours after the meal.
Bill came back a moment later with another chair, placing it by the chair for Georgie’s ghost. Richie placed himself back down, studying the tablecloth intently. There were little rabbits and eggs sewn on it, assumedly for Easter, even though it had passed months ago. His own house was also slow with re-decorating, so he couldn’t say anything. His dad had still not yet removed the Santa Clause cookie jar on top of the fridge from last year. They had a turkey jar which would’ve been much more appropriate for the oncoming November holidays.
Bill left for the kitchen and returned again with silverware and plates. He ordered them in front of the chairs before sitting next to Richie and smoothing out his section of the tablecloth.
“When’s the food gonna make it to this here table, Big Bill?” Richie asked, keeping his voice down so Bill’s mom wouldn’t hear. It was a fruitless attempt, though, because Richie was naturally a little bit too loud no matter how hard he tried.
“A f-few moments. J-ju-just wait.” Bill glanced back to the kitchen silently.
He was right. A large plate of something-or-other-casserole was brought to the table as Bill’s dad joined them. Richie hadn’t seen anyone other than Sharon Denbrough in the last few months of play dates, so he was surprised at how much older he had visibly gotten. He had long frown-lines on his face and looked like he was going to be in need of a shave soon. His eyes looked dim, like an old dog’s.
“I’m Zack Denbrough.” He reached out to shake Richie’s hand.
“I know. We’ve met.” Richie accepted the awkward handshake anyway.
“Oh, sorry, I’ve been— I’ve been distracted lately. Sorry about that. You’re the Tozier kid.. Ri… Ricky...?” His voice trailed off as he looked expectantly at Sharon to correct him.
“Richie Tozier.” Mrs. Denbrough, Sharon, said as she began to pick at her plate.
“Yes, yes. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. You’re about a foot taller, it seems.”
Richie offered a polite laugh but stopped when he noticed Bill’s sour expression. It was nearly true, though, in the last four months he’d gained almost three inches, which didn’t help his awkward and gangly appearance. Richie’s own father had repeatedly been making jokes about his bright future as a basketball star.
Mrs. Denbrough gestured at Bill with her fork. “Try your casserole, you might like it.”
“W-we h-h-had it l-luh-last night.”
“I know, but we don’t have anything else right now. Try it.” She looked over at Richie. “You too. It’s good. It’s a recipe I’ve seen floating around the cookbooks. Your mom recommended it to me.”
Richie gulped, resisting his urge to escape to the bathroom. The only thing keeping him there was the fact that Bill seemed like he really needed a friend right now, for whatever reason, and he didn’t want to seem like a complete wimp in front of him. Richie picked his fork up and began to move the food around his plate.
“Is there a reason you’re staying for dinner, Rick?” Bill’s dad asked.
“R-Richie.” Bill corrected. His dad paid him no mind.
“I just thought I’d come by, check in with the family.” Richie inspected a piece of tuna and mushroom that he had smushed together with his fork. “Making my monthly rounds… health inspections. You know the deal. I got to make sure everything’s up to code, I forgot my clipboard, though—“
Bill’s dad interrupted him. “Very nice. How is everyone else in your club doing? Are you still friends with all of those boys? I saw you walking home with that sick boy, Sonia’s son, what’s his na—“
“He’s not sick.” Both of them said in unison. Bill’s voice was solid and clear of any stutter for just that moment.
Mr. Denbrough paused for a moment, looking at Bill with a weird face, before focusing back on his plate and continuing on:
“Yeah, I apologize.”
The way he spoke was robotically polite, in a very convincing way, but listening to him talk made Richie’s stomach turn.
Maybe it was something about the way he looked— sallow, furrowed eyebrows with a gruff face and dim eyes, like he was missing a key part of himself. Now he was just a shell, a wind up kid’s toy with a key that only allowed movement bit-by-bit. Richie shuddered and poked at his food again.
“How is your mother doing, Richie?” Mrs. Denbrough asked suddenly.
Richie glanced at her. “Fine. How about yours?”
“Her funeral was a few years ago,” she sighed and looked at the wall, “but she is holding up down there, I assume.”
Richie took a steep breath in and nodded. “Sorry.”
Mrs. Denbrough accepted the apology but didn’t say anything more, and he wondered if she was thinking about Georgie. He then wondered if they ever stopped thinking about Georgie.
Since last year, it really felt like the topic of the boy was cursed, like it haunted Bill’s family. Not in the stereotypical “mysterious scratches, furniture moving around, little girls floating off their beds and yelling profanity at priests” kind of way, it was deeper than that. The concept of Georgie was always in the back of their minds, and you could see it in every move they made. Bringing anything up that was even close to him was sure to turn any conversation stale.
“How’s the casserole?” Mrs. Denbrough asked shortly.
“It’s n-n-nice," Bill said.
Richie nodded along with him, even though he hadn’t taken a bite yet. He’d become a master at shuffling food around his plate and pretending to eat by eight years old, and due to this method he was proud to say he hadn’t swallowed a single piece of broccoli in years.
“Just as good as it was yesterday,” Bill’s dad said, though it sounded scripted. It came off as a subtle jab, but Mrs. Denbrough didn’t address it.
“I tried to put my own charm to it. Some onions and lima beans—can you taste it?”
Richie nearly puked in his mouth, but he nodded again with Bill, who had taken a few bites and seemed to be holding back his own gross expression.
The room went silent again aside from the sounds of silverware against plates and the quiet whirring of the fan. Richie wondered if all of the Denbrough family dinners were like this. The only time his parents were this quiet was when he had gotten suspended for “jumping” (he had really just fallen, but no one believed him) out of the school bus window.
He decided to be adventurous and took a tentative bite of his lump of casserole. He immediately had to hold back the face he wanted to make— it was like all the worst flavors in the world had come together to form the world's most awful baby.
He swallowed it anyway and looked back up. Nobody was making eye contact with each other; Bill’s mom was scraping the last of her plate and Bill himself was hunched over in an almost shell-like way. Bill’s dad was staring coldly at his food.
“Would you guys like to hear a joke I’ve come up with?” Richie offered.
“Y-yeah, if it’s a-a-appropriate.” Bill said. He still hadn’t come out of his shell entirely, but Richie hoped he could fix that.
“Alright then, Garfield and Scrappy-Doo walk into a bar. He sits down with Garfield, who looks at the menu and says—“
A ring came from the kitchen and Mrs. Denbrough suddenly got up and apologized. “That’s the pudding. I got the new microwavable kind, but it took longer than expected. I’ll be right back.”
She left hurriedly and the room went silent again. Richie glanced around to continue his joke, but he had the rare foresight that he shouldn’t.
“Why don’t you tell me about your day, Bill?” Mr. Denbrough said in between scraps of casserole.
“It w-wasn’t anything. Me and Ruh-Richie and the g-g-guys hung out.”
“At the barrens again?”
“Y-Yeah.”
“I thought I told you guys not to play there anymore,” Mr. Denbrough said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Not after all of those murders. You know how— how close this topic is— to our family, Bill.”
Mr. Denbrough’s voice cracked at the last sentence. Richie glanced at Bill, who was still hunched over his plate. If he had reacted to his father’s statement, it was very little, but either way the atmosphere grew colder.
"It's alright, Mr. Denbrough; we don’t play there anyway. We hang out like real men. We’re responsible.”
“I can’t have you boys hanging out around there, either. It’s dangerous. You’ll understand when you’re older; you don’t know what you get yourselves into.”
“If y-y-you want to lo-look out for m-me, why don’t y-you actually pay attention to my l-life?” Bill asked.
Richie could sense the tension growing, so he swooped in as fast as he could. “I didn’t get to finish that joke I was making. It ends with Garfield saying, "Where's the lasagna?’ Get it? Because Garfield like… he likes lasagna. Look, I didn’t come up with it, I think I read it somewhere, so, blame them not me—“
“It’s fine, Richie.” Mr. Denbrough said, painfully getting his name correct this time.
Nobody else said anything, and Richie felt like he could melt into his seat. There was nothing more awkward than being caught in the middle of a tense family drama. He coughed a bit and continued:
“But yeah, um, can I take a step outside? I think I left something out there.”
Mr. Denbrough made direct eye contact with Bill for a moment before nodding.
“Can I go t-t-too? To watch o-over… since t-the c-curfew's still active.”
He nodded gruffly as he took another bite of the meal. Richie thanked him quickly and hurried back down the hallway with Bill on his toes.
They both shut the door together, glancing at each other awkwardly before sitting on the stairs. Bill rested his face in his hands, and Richie fiddled nervously with his thumbs.
“I’m r-really s-sorry about h-him.” Bill said shamefully.
“It’s alright, Big Bill. I know how it is to have lame parents.”
“Your p-p-parents aren’t as luh-lame. Your m-mom made cookies f-for us last w-w-week. Mine just s-s-suck, it’s embarrassing. They r-ruin everything.”
“Yeah…” Richie looked down at his hands. “I don’t think any less of you for it, though. You know that Eddie’s mom is way lamer, anyway. And Bev’s dad is a total loser, more than we are. But they’re all way cooler than their parents, and you are too.”
Bill pursed his lips. “I d-don’t know.”
Richie elbowed him lightly and stood up. “Come on, you should walk me home.”
“M-m-my dad—“ Bill stuttered, looking at the door.
“Mind my French, but fuck your dad." Richie said, ignoring the face Bill made. “Just come with me. We’re supposed to travel in twos anyway, according to the curfew.”
For a moment Bill seemed torn between Richie and the house, but after a few seconds passed he sighed and stood up, following Richie down the stairs.
“Atta boy!” Richie cheered. “Just tell your dad that we were running from a guy with a big knife. He’ll cry and never take you for granted again, I’m sure of it.”
Bill grinned and rolled his eyes. "T-thanks, R-Richie.”
“No problemo.” Richie patted his back. “You owe me though. Big time. You don’t know how grueling that was. Like, it could be classified as torture. Hopefully you won’t put me through anything worse or I’ll have to call off the friendship entirely.”
They both laughed and wandered down the sidewalk. The night was blue, and there were a few stars in the sky, and somewhere in the distance clouds rumbled and prepared for a rainstorm. A few blocks down on Witcham Street, a pair of yellow eyes glittered through a sewer grate before vanishing into the dark.