COMPLIMENTS OF CENTER STREET DRUG

Eddie ran. He ran and ran and at some point he collapsed in a dead faint near McCarron Park and some kids saw him and steered clear of him because he looked like a wino to them like he might have some kind of weird disease for all they knew he might even be the killer and they talked about reporting him to the police but in the end they didn’t.

 

3

BEV ROGAN PAYS A CALL

 

Beverly walked absently down Main Street from the Derry Town House, where she had gone to change into a pair of bluejeans and a bright yellow smock-blouse. She was not thinking about where she was going. Instead she thought this:

Your hair is winter fire,

January embers.

My heart bums there, too.

She had hidden that in her bottom drawer, beneath her underwear. Her mother might have seen it, but that was all right. The important thing was, that was one drawer her father never looked in. If he had seen it, he might have looked at her with that bright, almost friendly, and utterly paralyzing stare of his and asked in his almost friendly way: “You been doing something you shouldn’t be doing, Bev? You been doing something with some boy?” And if she said yes or if she said no, there would be a quick wham-bam, so quick and so hard it didn’t even hurt at first-it took a few seconds for the vacuum to dissipate and the pain to fill the place were the vacuum had been. Then his voice again, almost friendly: “I worry a lot about you, Beverly. I worry an awful lot. You got to grow up, isn’t that so?”

Her father might still be living here in Derry. He had been living here the last time she had heard from him, but that had been… how long ago? Ten years? Long before she had married Tom, anyway. She had gotten a postcard from him, not a plain postcard like the one the poem had been written on but one showing the hideous plastic statue of Paul Bunyan which stood in front of City Center. The statue had been erected sometime in the fifties, and it had been one of the landmarks of her childhood, but her father’s card had called up no nostalgia or memories for her; it might as well have been a card showing Gateway Arch in Saint Louis or the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.

“Hope you are doing well and being good,” the card read. “Hope you will send me something if you can, as I don’t have much. I love you Bevvie. Dad.”

He had loved her, and in some ways she supposed that had everything to do with why she had fallen so desperately in love with Bill Denbrough that long summer of 1958-because of all the boys, Bill was the one who projected the sense of authority she associated with her father… but it was a different sort of authority, somehow-it was authority that listened. She saw no assumption in either his eyes or his actions that he believed her father’s kind of worrying to be the only reason authority needed to exist… as if people were pets, to be both cosseted and disciplined.

Whatever the reasons, by the end of their first meeting as a complete group in July of that year, that meeting of which Bill had taken such complete and effortless charge, she had been madly, head-over-heels in love with him. Calling it a simple schoolgirl crush was like saying a Rolls-Royce was a vehicle with four wheels, something like a hay-wagon. She did not giggle wildly and blush when she saw him, nor did she chalk his name on trees or write it on the walls of the Kissing Bridge. She simply lived with his face in her heart all the time, a kind of sweet, hurtful ache. She would have died for him.

It was natural enough, she supposed, for her to want to believe it had been Bill who sent her the love-poem… although she had never gotten so far gone as to actually convince herself it was so. No, she had known who wrote the poem. And later on-at some point-hadn’t its author admitted this to her? Yes, Ben had told her so (although she could not now remember, not for the life of her, just when or under what circumstances he had actually said it out loud), and although his love for her had been almost as well hidden as the love she had felt for Bill

(but you told him Bevvie you did you told him you loved)

it was obvious to anyone who really looked (and who was kind)-it was in the way he was always careful to keep some space between them, in the draw of his breath when she touched his arm or his hand, in the way he dressed when he knew he was going to see her. Dear, sweet, fat Ben.

It had ended somehow, that difficult pre-adolescent triangle, but just how it had ended was one of the things she still couldn’t remember. She thought that Ben had confessed authoring and sending the little love-poem. She thought she had told Bill she loved him, that she would love him forever. And somehow, those two tellings had helped save all of their lives… or had they? She couldn’t remember. These memories (or memories of memories: that was really closer to what they were) were hike islands that were not really islands at all but only knobs of a single coral spine which happened to poke up above the waterline, not separate at all but one piece. Yet whenever she tried to dive deep and see the rest, a maddening image intervened: the grackles which came back each spring to New England, crowding the telephone lines, trees and rooftops, jostling for places and filling the thawing late-March air with their raucous gossip. This image came to her again and again, foreign and disturbing, like a heavy radio beam that blankets the signal you really want to pick up.

She realized with sudden shock that she was standing outside of the Kleen-Kloze Washateria, where she and Stan Uris and Ben and Eddie had taken the rags that day in late June-rags stained with blood which only they could see. The windows were now soaped opaque and there was a hand-lettered FOR SALE BY OWNER sign taped to the door. Peering between the swashes of soap, she could see an empty room with lighter squares on the dirty yellow walls where the washers had stood.

I’m going home, she thought dismally, but walked on anyway.

This neighborhood hadn’t changed much. A few more of the trees were gone, probably elms felled by disease. The houses looked a little tackier; broken windows seemed slightly more common than they had been when she was a girl. Some of the broken panes had been replaced with cardboard. Some hadn’t.

And here she stood in front of the apartment house, 127 Lower Main Street. Still here. The peeling white she remembered had become a peeling chocolate brown at some point during the years between, but it was still unmistakable. There was the window which looked in on what had been their kitchen; there was the window of her bedroom.

(Jim Doyon, you come out of that road! Come out right now, you want to get run over and killed?)

She shivered, hugging her arms across her breasts in an X, cupping her elbows in her palms.

Daddy could still be living here; oh yes he could. He wouldn’t move unless he had to. Just walk on up there, Beverly. Look at the mailboxes. Three boxes for three apartments, just like in the old days. And if there’s one which says MARSH, you can ring the bell and pretty soon there’ll be the shuffle of slippers down the hall and the door will open and you can look at him, the man whose sperm made you redheaded and lefthanded and gave you the ability to draw… remember how he used to draw? He could draw anything he wanted. If he felt like it, that is. He didn’t feel like it often. I guess he had too many things to worry about. But when he did, you used to sit for hours and watch while he drew cats and dogs and horses and cows with MOO coming out of their mouths in balloons. You’d laugh and he’d laugh and then he’d say Now you, Bevvie, and when you held the pen he’d guide your hand and you’d see the cow or the cat or the smiling man unspooling beneath your own fingers while you smelled his Mennen Skin Bracer and the warmth of his skin. Go on up, Beverly. Ring the bell. He’ll come and he’ll be old, the lines will be drawn deep in his face and his teeth-those that are left-will be yellow, and he’ll look at you, and he’ll say Why it’s Bevvie, Bevvie’s come home to see her old dad, come on in Bevvie, I’m so glad to see you, I’m glad because I worry about you Bevvie, I worry a LOT.

She walked slowly up the path, and the weeds growing up between the cracked concrete sections brushed at the legs of her jeans. She looked closely at the first-floor windows, but they were curtained off. She looked at the mailboxes. Third floor, STARK-WEATHER. Second floor, BURKE. First floor-her breath caught-MARSH.

But I won’t ring. I don’t want to see him. I won’t ring the bell.

This was a firm decision, at last! The decision that opened the gate to a full and useful lifetime of firm decisions! She walked down the path! Back to downtown! Up to the Derry Town House! Packed! Cabbed! Flew! Told Tom to bug out! Lived successfully! Died happily!

Rang the bell.

She heard the familiar chimes from the living room-chimes that had always sounded to her like a Chinese name: Ching-Chong! Silence. No answer. She shifted on the porch from one foot to the other, suddenly needing to pee.

No one home, she thought, relieved. I can go now.

Instead she rang again: Ching-Chong! No answer. She thought of Ben’s lovely little poem and tried to remember exactly when and how he had confessed its authorship, and why, for a brief second, it called up an association with having her first menstrual period. Had she begun menstruating at eleven? Surely not, although her breasts had begun their first achy growth around mid-winter. Why…? Then, intervening, a mental picture of thousands of grackles on phone lines and rooftops, all babbling at a white spring sky.

I’ll leave now. I’ve rung twice; that’s enough.

But she rang again.

Ching-Chong!

Now she heard someone approaching, and the sound was just as she had imagined: the tired whisper of old slippers. She looked around wildly and came very, very close to just taking to her heels. Could she make it down the cement walk and around the corner, leaving her father to think it had been nothing but kids playing pranks? Hey mister, you got Prince Albert in a can…?

She let out a sudden sharp breath and had to tighten her throat because what wanted to come out was a laugh of relief. It wasn’t her father at all. Standing in the doorway and looking out at her was a tall woman in her late seventies. Her hair was long and gorgeous, mostly white but shot through with lodes of purest gold. Behind her rimless spectacles were eyes as blue as the water in the fjords her ancestors had perhaps hailed from. She wore a purple dress of watered silk. It was shabby but still dignified. Her wrinkled face was kind.

“Yes, miss?”

“I’m sorry,” Beverly said. The urge to laugh had passed as swiftly as it had come. She noticed that the old woman wore a cameo at her throat. It was almost certainly real ivory, surrounded by a band of gold so thin it was nearly invisible. “I must have rung the wrong bell.” Or rang the wrong bell on purpose, her mind whispered. “I meant to ring for Marsh.”

“Marsh?” Her forehead wrinkled delicately.

“Yes, you see-”

“There’s no Marsh here,” the old woman said.

“But-”

“Unless… you don’t mean Alvin Marsh, do you?”

“Yes!” Beverly said. “My father!”

The old woman’s hand rose to the cameo and touched it. She peered more closely at Beverly, making her feel ridiculously young, as if she should perhaps have a box of Girl Scout cookies in her hands, or maybe some tags-support the Derry High School Tigers. Then the old woman smiled… a kind smile that was nonetheless sad.

“Why you have fallen out of touch, miss. I don’t want to be the one who tells you this, a stranger, but your father has been dead these last five years.”

“But… on the bell… ” She looked again and uttered a small, bewildered sound that was not quite a laugh. In her agitation, in her subconscious but rock-solid certainty that her old man would still be here, she had read KERSH as MARSH.

“You’re Mrs Kersh?” she asked. She was staggered by this news of her father,

but she also felt stupid about the mistake-the lady would think her little more

than illiterate.

“Mrs Kersh,” she agreed.

“You… did you know my dad?”

“Very little did I know him,” Mrs Kersh said. She sounded a little like Yoda in The Empire Strikes Back, and Beverly felt like laughing again. When had her emotions gone whipsawing so violently back and forth? The truth was she couldn’t remember a time… but she was dismally afraid she would before much longer. “He rented the ground-floor apartment before me. We saw each other, me coming and him going, over a space of a few days. He moved down to Reward Lane. Do you know it?”

“Yes,” Beverly said. Roward Lane branched off from Lower Main Street four blocks farther down, where the apartment buildings were smaller and even more desperately shabby.

“I used to see him at the Costello Avenue Market sometimes,” Mrs Kersh said, “and at the Washateria before they closed it. We passed a word from time to time. We-girl, you’re pale. I’m sorry. Come in and let me give you tea.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Beverly said weakly, but in fact she actually felt pale, like clouded glass that you could nearly look through. She could use tea, and a chair in which to sit and drink it.

“You could and you will,” Mrs Kersh said warmly. “It’s the least I can do for having told you such unpleasant news.”

Before she could protest, Beverly found herself being led up the gloomy hall and into her old apartment, which now seemed much smaller but safe enough-safe, she supposed, because almost everything was different. Instead of the pink-topped Formica table with its three chairs, there was a small round table, really not much bigger than an endtable, with silk flowers in a pottery vase. Instead of the old Kelvinator refrigerator with the round drum on top (her father tinkered with it constantly to keep it going), there was a copper-colored Frigidaire. The stove was small but efficient-looking. There was an Amana Radar Range above it. Bright blue curtains hung in the windows, and she could see flowerboxes outside them. The floor, linoleum when she was a girl here, had been stripped to its original wood. Many applications of oil made it glow mellowly.

Mrs Kersh looked around from the stove, where she was placing a teapot. “You grew up here?”

“Yes,” Beverly said. “But it’s very different now… so trim and tidy… wonderful!”

“How kind you are,” Mrs Kersh said, and her smile made her younger. It was radiant. “I have a little money, you see. Not much, but with my Social Security I am comfortable. Once I was a girl in Sweden. I came to this country in 1920, a girl of fourteen with no money-which is the best way to learn the value of money, would you agree?”

“Yes,” Bev said.

“At the hospital I worked,” Mrs Kersh said. “Many years-from 1925 I worked there. I rose to the position of head housekeeper. All the keys I had. My husband invested our money quite well. Now I have reached a little harbor. Look around, miss, while the water boils!”

“No, I couldn’t-”

“Please… still I feel guilty. Look, if you like!”

And so she did look. Her parents” bedroom was now Mrs Kersh’s bedroom, and the difference was profound. The room seemed brighter and airier now. A large cedar chest, the initials RG inlaid into it, breathed its gentle aroma into the air. A gigantic surprise-quilt lay on the bed. On it she could see women drawing water, boys driving cattle, men building haystacks. A wonderful quilt.

Her room had become a sewing room. A black Singer machine stood on a wrought-iron table under a pair of starkly efficient Tensor lamps. A picture of Jesus hung on one wall, a picture of John F. Kennedy on another. A beautiful breakfront stood below the picture of JFK-it was filled with books instead of china, but seemed none the worse for that.

She went into the bathroom last.

It had been redone in a rose color that was too low and pleasant to seem gaudy. All of the fixtures were new, and yet she approached the basin feeling that the old nightmare had gripped her again; she would peer down into that black and lidless eye, the whispering would begin, and then the blood -

She leaned over the sink, catching a glimpse of her pallid face and dark eyes in the mirror over the basin, and then she stared into that eye, waiting for the voices, the laughter, the groans, the blood.

How long might she have stood there, bent over the sink, waiting for the sights and sounds twenty-seven years gone, she didn’t know; it was Mrs Kersh’s voice that bid her return: “Tea, miss!”

She jerked back, the semi-hypnosis broken, and left the bathroom. If there had been dark magic somewhere down in that drain, it was gone now… or was sleeping.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!”

Mrs Kersh looked up at her brightly, smiling a little. “O miss, if you knew how seldom company calls these days, you’d not say so. Why, I put on more than this for the man from the Bangor Hydro who comes to read my meter! I’m making him fat!”

Delicate cups and saucers stood on the round kitchen table, a clean bone-white edged with blue. There was a plate of small cakes and cookies. Beside the sweets a pewter teapot chuffed mild steam and pleasant fragrance. Bemused, Bev thought that the only things missing were the tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off: auntsandwiches, she’d thought them, always one word. Three main types of auntsandwiches-cream cheese and olive, watercress, and egg salad.

“Sit down,” said Mrs Kersh. “sit down, miss, and I’ll pour out.”

“I’m not a miss,” Beverly said, and raised her left hand so that her ring would show.

Mrs Kersh smiled and pushed a hand through the air-pshaw! the gesture said. “I call all the pretty young girls miss,” she said. “Just a habit. Don’t take offense.”

“No,” Beverly said, “not at all.” But for some reason she felt a feather-touch of unease: there was something in the old woman’s smile that had seemed a little… what? Unpleasant? False? Knowing? But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it?

“I love what you’ve done to the place.”

“Do you?” Mrs Kersh said, and poured out. The tea looked dark, muddy. Beverly wasn’t sure she wanted to drink it… and suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to be here at all.

It did say Marsh under the doorbell, her mind whispered suddenly, and she was frightened.

Mrs Kersh passed her tea.

Thank you,” Beverly said. The look of it might have been muddy; the aroma, however, was wonderful. She tasted. It was fine. Stop jumping at shadows, she told herself. That cedar chest in particular is a wonderful piece.”

“An antique, that one!” Mrs Kersh said, and laughed. Beverly noticed that the old woman’s beauty was flawed on only one score, and that was common enough here in the northlands. Her teeth were very bad-strong-looking, but bad all the same. They were yellow, and the front two had crossed each other. The canines seemed very long, almost like tusks.

They were white… when she came to the door she smiled and you thought to yourself how white they were.

Suddenly she was not just a little frightened. Suddenly she wanted-needed-to be away from here.

“Very old, oh yes!” Mrs Kersh exclaimed, and drank her cup of tea off at a single gulp, with a sudden, shocking slurping sound. She smiled at Beverly-grinned at her-and Beverly saw that the woman’s eyes had changed, too. The corneas were now yellow, ancient, threaded with bleary stitches of red. Her hair was thinner; the braid looked malnourished, no longer silver shot with bright yellow but a dull gray.

“Very old,” Mrs Kersh reminisced over her empty cup, looking slyly at Beverly from her yellowed eyes. Her snaggle teeth showed in that repulsive, almost leering grin. “From home with me it came. The RG carved into it? You noticed?”

“Yes.” Her voice came from far away, and a part of her brain yammered If she doesn’t know you’ve seen the change perhaps you’re still all right, if she doesn’t know, doesn’t see -

’My father,” she said, pronouncing it fodder, and Beverly saw that her dress had also changed. It had become a scabrous, peeling black. The cameo was a skull, its jaw hung in a diseased gape. “His name was Robert Gray, better known as Bob Gray, better known as Pennywise the Dancing Clown. Although that was not his name, either. But he did love his joke, my fadder.”

She laughed again. Some of her teeth had turned as black as her dress. The wrinkles in her skin now cut deep. Her milk-rose skin had gone a sickly yellow. Her ringers were claws. She grinned at Beverly. “Have something to eat, dear.” Her voice had risen half an octave, but the octave was cracked in this register, and her voice was the sound of a crypt door swinging mindlessly on hinges clogged with black earth.

“No, thank you,” Beverly heard her mouth say in a child’s high oh-I-must-be-going voice. The words did not seem to originate in her brain; rather they came out of her mouth and then had to travel around to her ears before she was aware of what she had said.

“No?” the witch asked, and grinned. Her claws scrabbled on the plate and she began to cram thin molasses cookies and delicate frosted slices of cake into her mouth with both hands. Her horrid teeth plunged and reared, plunged and reared; her fingernails, long and dirty, dug into the sweets; crumbs tumbled down the bony slab of her chin. Her breath was the smell of long-dead things burst wide open by the gases of their own decay. Her laugh was now a dead cackle. Her hair was thinner. Scaly scalp showed in patches.

“Oh, he loved his joke, my fadder! This is a joke, miss, if you enjoy them: my fadder bore me rather than my mutter. He shat me from his asshole! Hee! Hee! Hee!”

“I ought to go,” Beverly heard herself say in that same high wounded voice-the voice of a small girl who has been viciously embarrassed at her first party. There was no strength in her legs. She was dimly aware that it was not tea in her cup but shit, liquid shit, a little party-favor from the sewers under the city. She had drunk some of that, not much but a sip, oh God, oh God, oh blessed Jesus, please, please -

The woman was shrinking before her eyes, thinning; it was now a crone with an apple-doll’s face who sat across from her, giggling in a high, squealing voice and rocking back and forth.

“Oh my fadder and I are one,” she said, “just me, just him, and dear, if you are wise you will run, run back to where you came from, run quickly, because to stay will mean worse than your death. No one who dies in Derry really dies. You knew that before; believe it now.”

In slow motion Beverly gathered her legs under her. As if from outside she saw herself gaining her feet and backing away from the table and from the witch in an agony of horror and disbelief, disbelief because she realized for the first time that the neat little dining-room table was not dark oak but fudge. Even as she watched, the witch, still giggling, her ancient yellow eyes slanted slyly off into the corner of the room, broke a piece of it off and stuffed it avidly into the black-ringed trap that was her mouth.

The cups, she saw, were white bark that had been carefully looped with blue-dyed frosting. The pictures of Jesus and John Kennedy were creations of nearly transparent spun sugar, and as she looked at them, Jesus stuck out His tongue and Kennedy dropped a stinky wink.

“We’re all waiting for you!” the witch screamed, and her fingernails scrabbled over the surface of the fudge table, drawing deep scars in its shining surface. “Oh yes! Oh yes!”

The overhead lights were globes of hard candy. The wainscotting was caramel taffy. She looked down and saw that her shoes were leaving prints on the floorboards, which were not boards at all but slices of chocolate. The smell of candy was cloying.

Oh God it’s Hansel and Gretel it’s the witch the one that always scared me the worst because she ate the children -

’You and your friends!” the witch screamed, laughing.” You and your friends! In the cage! In the cage until the oven’s hot!” She screamed laughter, and Beverly ran for the door, but she ran as if in slow motion. The witch’s laughter beat and swirled around her head, a cloud of bats. Beverly shrieked. The hall stank of sugar and nougat and toffee and sickening synthetic strawberries. The doorknob, mock crystal when she came in, was now a monstrous sugar diamond.

“I worry about you, Bevvie… I worry a LOT!”

She turned, swirls of red hair floating around her face, to see her father staggering toward her down the hallway, wearing the witch’s black dress and skull cameo; her father’s face hung with doughy, running flesh, his eyes as black as obsidian, his hands clenching and unclenching, his mouth grinning with soupy fervor.

“I beat you because I wanted to FUCK you, Bevvie, that’s all I wanted to do, I wanted to FUCK you, I wanted to EAT you, I wanted to eat your PUSSY, I wanted to SUCK your CLIT up between my teeth, YUM-YUM, Bevvie, oooohhhhh, YUMMY IN MY TUMMY, I wanted to put you in the cage… and get the oven hot… and feel your CUNT… your plump CUNT… and when it was plump enough to eat… to eat… EAT…”

Screaming, she grasped the sticky doorknob and bolted out onto a porch that was decorated with praline doodads and floored with fudge. Far away, dim, seeming to swim in her vision, she saw cars passing back and forth, and a woman pushing a cartful of groceries back from Costello’s.

I have to get out there, she thought, just barely coherent. That’s reality out there, if I can only get out to the sidewalk-

“Won’t do you any good to run, Bevvie,” her father

(my fadder)

told her, laughing. “We’ve waited a long time for this. This is going to be fun. This is going to be YUMMY in our TUMMIES.”

She looked back again and now her dead father was not wearing the witch’s black dress but the clown suit with the big orange buttons. There was a 1958-style coonskin cap, the kind popularized by Fess Parker in the Disney movie about Davy Crockett, perched on its head. In one hand it held a bunch of balloons. In the other it held the leg of a child like a chicken drumstick. Written on each balloon was the legend IT CAME FROM OUTER SPACE.

“Tell your friends I am the last of a dying race,” it said, grinning its sunken grin as it staggered and lurched down the porch steps after her. “The only survivor of a dying planet. I have come to rob all the women… rape all the men… and learn to do the Peppermint Twist!”

It began to do a mad shuck-and-jive, balloons in one hand, severed, bleeding leg in the other. The clown costume writhed and flapped, but Beverly felt no wind. Her legs tangled in each other and she spilled to the pavement, throwing out her palms to take up the shock, which went all the way to her shoulders. The woman pushing the grocery cart paused and looked back doubtfully, then hurried on a little faster.

The clown came toward her again, casting the severed leg aside. It landed on the lawn with an indescribable thud. Beverly only lay sprawled on the pavement for a moment, sure somewhere inside that she must wake soon, this couldn’t be real, had to be a dream -

She realized that wasn’t true a moment before the clown’s crooked, long-clawed fingers touched her. It was real; it could kill her. As it had killed the children.

“The grackles know your real name!” she screamed at it suddenly. It recoiled, and it seemed to her that for a moment the grin on the lips inside the great red grin that had been painted on and around them became a grimace of hate and pain… and perhaps of fear as well. It might only have been her imagination, and she certainly had no idea why she had said such a crazy thing, but it bought her an instant of time.

She was on her feet and running. Brakes squealed and a hoarse voice, both mad and scared, yelled: “Why don’t you look where you’re going, you dumb quiff!” She had a blurred impression of the bakery truck that had almost hit her when she bolted into the street like a child after a rubber ball, and then she was standing on the opposite sidewalk, panting, a hot stitch in her left side. The bakery truck went on down Lower Main.

The clown was gone. The leg was gone. The house still stood there, but she saw now that it was crumbling and deserted, the windows boarded up, the steps leading up to the porch cracked and broken.

Was I really in there, or did I dream it all?

But her jeans were dirty, her yellow blouse smeared with dust.

And there was chocolate on her fingers.

She rubbed them on the legs of her jeans and walked away fast, her face hot, her back cold as ice, her eyeballs seeming to pulse in and out with the rapid thud of her heart.

We can’t beat It. Whatever It is, we can’t beat It. It even wants us to try-It wants to settle the old score. Can’t be happy with a draw, I guess. We ought to get out of here… just leave.

Something brushed against her calf, light as a cat’s questing paw.

She jerked away from it with a little shriek. She looked down and cringed, one hand against her mouth.

It was a balloon, as yellow as her blouse. Written on the side of it in electric blue were the words THAT’s WIGHT, WABBIT.

As she watched, it went bouncing lightly up the street, urged by the pleasant late-spring breeze.

 

4

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