The last note drifts on the air and for a moment nothing in the world breathes for beauty. Henry feels like crying. The retarded boy looks at Beaver, who has been rocking him back and forth in rhythm with the song. On his teary face is an expression of blissful astonishment. He has forgotten his split lip and bruised cheek, his missing clothes, his lost lunchbox. To Beaver he says ooo or, open syllables that could mean almost anything, but Henry understands them perfectly and sees Beaver does, too.
“I can’t do more,” the Beav says. He realizes his arm is still around the kid’s shirtless shoulders and takes it away.
As soon as he does, the kid’s face clouds over, not with fear this time, or with the petulance of one balked of getting his way, but in pure sorrow. Tears fill those amazingly green eyes of his and spill down the clean tracks on his dirty cheeks. He takes Beaver’s hand and puts Beaver’s arm back over his shoulders. “Ooo or! Ooo or!” he says. Beaver looks at them, panicked. “That’s all my mother ever sang me, he says. “I always went right to fuckin sleep.”
Henry and Jonesy exchange a look and burst out laughing. Not a good idea, it’ll probably scare the kid and he’ll start that terrible bawling again, but neither of them can help it. And the kid doesn’t cry. He smiles at Henry and Jonesy instead, a sunny smile that displays a mouthful of white crammed-together teeth, and then looks back at Beaver. He continues to hold Beaver’s arm firmly around his shoulders.
“Ooo or!” he commands.
“Aw, fuck, sing it again,” Pete says. “The part you know.” Beaver ends up singing it three more times before the kid will let him stop, will let the boys work him into his pants and his tom shirt, the one with Richie Grenadeau’s number on it. Henry has never forgotten that haunting fragment and will sometimes recall it at the oddest times: after losing his virginity at a UNH fraternity party with “Smoke on the Water” pounding through the speakers downstairs; after opening his paper to the obituary page and seeing Barry Newman’s rather charming smile above his multiple chins; feeding his father, who had come down with Alzheimer’s at the ferociously unfair age of fifty-three, his father insisting that Henry was someone named Sam. “A real man pays off his debts, Sammy,” his father had said, and when he accepted the next bite of cereal, milk ran down his chin. At these times what he thinks of as Beaver’s Lullaby will come back to him, and he will feel transiently comforted. No bounce, no play.
Finally they’ve got the kid all dressed except for one red sneaker. He’s trying to put it on himself, but he’s got it pointing backward. He is one fucked-up young American, and Henry is at a loss to know how the three big boys could have bullied up on him. Even aside from the crying, which was like no crying Henry had ever heard before, why would you want to be so mean?
“Let me fix that, man,” Beaver says.
“Fit wha?” the kid asks, so comically perplexed that Henry, Jonesy, and Pete all burst out laughing again. Henry knows you’re not supposed to laugh at retards, but he can’t help it. The kid just has a naturally funny face, like a cartoon character.
Beaver only smiles. “Your sneaker, man.”
“Fit neek?”
“Yeah, you can’t put it on that way, fuckin imposseeblo, senor.” Beaver takes the sneaker from him and the kid watches with close interest as the Beav slips his foot into it, draws the laces firmly against the tongue, and then ties the ends in a bow. When he’s done, the kid looks at the bow for a moment longer, then at Beaver. Then he puts his arms around Beaver’s neck and plants a big loud smack on Beaver’s cheek.
“If you guys tell anybody he did that-” Beaver begins, but he’s smiling, clearly pleased. “Yeah, yeah, you’ll never chum with us again, ya fuckin wank,” Jonesy says, grinning. He has held onto the lunchbox and now squats in front of the kid, holding it out. “This yours, guy?'The kid grins with the delight of someone encountering an old friend and snatches it. “Ooby-Ooby-Doo, where-are-oo?” he sings. “We gah-sum urk oo-do-now!” “That’s right,” Jonesy agrees. “Got some work to do now. Gotta get you the fuck home is what we got to do. Douglas Cavell, that’s your name, right?'The boy is holding his lunchbox to his chest in both of his dirty hands. Now he gives it a loud smack, just like the one he put on Beaver’s check. “I Duddits!” he cries.
“Good,” Henry says. He takes one of the boy’s hands, Jonesy takes the other, and they help him to his feet. Maple Lane is only three blocks away and they can be there in ten minutes, always assuming that Richie and his friends aren’t hanging around and hoping to ambush them. “Let’s get you home, Duddits. Bet your Mom’s worried about you.”
But first Henry sends Pete to the corner of the building to look up the driveway. When Pete comes back and reports the coast clear, Henry lets them go that far. Once they are on the sidewalk, where people can see them, they’ll be safe. Until then, he will take no chances. He sends Pete out a second time, tells him to scout all the way to the street, then whistle if everything is cool.
“Dey gone,” Duddits says.
“Maybe,” Henry says, “but I’ll feel better if Pete takes a look.” Duddits stands serenely among them, looking at the pictures on his lunchbox, while Pete goes out to look around. Henry feels okay about sending him. He hasn’t exaggerated Pete’s speed; if Richie and his friends try to jump him, Pete will turn on the jets and leave them in the dust.
“You like this show, man?” Beaver says, taking the lunchbox. He speaks quietly. Henry watches with some interest, curious to see if the retarded boy will cry for his lunchbox. He doesn’t.
“Ey Ooby-Doos!” the retarded kid says. His hair is golden, curly. Henry still can’t tell what age he is.
“I know they’re Scooby-Doos,” the Beav says patiently, “but they never change their clothes. Pete’s right about that. I mean, fuck me Freddy, right?”
“Ite!” He holds out his hands for the lunchbox and Beaver gives it back. The retarded boy hugs it, then smiles at them. It is a beautiful smile, Henry thinks, smiling himself. It makes him think of how you are cold when you have been swimming in the ocean for awhile, but when you come out, you wrap a towel around your bony shoulders and goosepimply back and you’re warm again.
Jonesy is also smiling. “Duddits,” he says, “which one is the dog?”
The retarded boy looks at him, still smiling, but puzzled now, too.
“The dog,” Henry says. “Which one’s the dog?”
Now the boy looks at Henry, his puzzlement deepening.
“Which one’s Scooby, Duddits?” Beaver asks, and Duddits’s face clears. He points.
“Ooby! Ooby-Ooby-Doo! Eee a dog!”
They all burst out laughing, Duddits is laughing too, and then Pete whistles. They start moving and have gone about a quarter of the way up the driveway when Jonesy says, “Wait! Wait!”
He runs to one of the dirty office windows and peers in, cupping his hands to the sides of his face to cut the glare, and Henry suddenly remembers why they came. Tina Jean What’s-Her-Face’s pussy. All that seems about a thousand years ago.
After about ten seconds, Jonesy calls, “Henry! Beav! Come here! Leave the kid there!”
Beaver runs to Jonesy’s side. Henry turns to the retarded boy and says, “Stand right there, Duddits. Right there with your lunchbox, okay?”
Duddits looks up at him, green eyes shining, lunchbox held to his chest. After a moment he nods, and Henry runs to join his friends at the window. They have to squeeze together, and Beaver grumbles that someone is steppin on his fuckin feet, but they manage. After a minute or so, puzzled by their failure to show up on the sidewalk, Pete joins them, poking his face in between Henry’s and Jonesy’s shoulders. Here are four boys at a dirty office window, three with their hands cupped to the sides of their faces to cut the glare, and a fifth boy standing behind them in the weedy driveway, holding his lunchbox against his narrow chest and looking up at the white sky, where the sun is trying to break through. Beyond the dirty glass (where they will leave clean crescents to mark the places where their foreheads rested) is an empty room. Scattered across the dusty floor are a number of deflated white tadpoles that Henry recognizes as jizzbags. On one wall, the one directly across from the window, is a bulletin board. Tacked to it is a map of northern New England and a Polaroid photograph of a woman holding her skirt up. You can’t see her pussy, though, just some white panties. And she’s no high-school girl. She’s old. She must be at least thirty.