Dark Tower V, The Read online

  “Of course,” Susannah said. “Because the pieces fit together. The pieces always fit together. We’ve seen it again and again and again. We just don’t know what the picture is.”

  “Or can’t grasp it,” Eddie said.

  Callahan nodded. “It was like looking at Rowan, only with long blond hair and breasts. His twin sister. And she laughed. She asked me if I thought I’d seen a ghost. I felt…surreal. As if I’d slipped into another of those other worlds, like the real one—if there is such a thing—but not quite the same. I felt this mad urge to drag out my wallet and see who was on the bills. It wasn’t just the resemblance; it was her laughing. Sitting there beside a man who had her face, assuming he had any face left at all under the bandages, and laughing.”

  “Welcome to Room 19 of the Todash Hospital,” Eddie said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I only meant I know the feeling, Don. We all do. Go on.”

  “I introduced myself and asked if I could come in. And when I asked it, I was thinking back to Barlow, the vampire. Thinking, You have to invite them in the first time. After that, they can come and go as they please. She told me of course I could come in. She said she’d come from Chicago to be with him in what she called ‘his closing hours.’ Then, in that same pleasant voice, she said, ‘I knew who you were right away. It’s the scar on your hand. In his letters, Rowan said he was quite sure you were a religious man in your other life. He used to talk about people’s other lives all the time, meaning before they started drinking or taking drugs or went insane or all three. This one was a carpenter in his other life. That one was a model in her other life. Was he right about you?’ All in that pleasant voice. Like a woman making conversation at a cocktail party. And Rowan lying there with his head covered in bandages. If he’d been wearing sunglasses, he would have looked like Claude Rains in The Invisible Man.

  “I came in. I said I’d once been a religious man, yes, but that was all in the past. She put out her hand. I put out mine. Because, you see, I thought…”

  Six

  He puts out his hand because he has made the assumption that she wants to shake with him. The pleasant voice has fooled him. He doesn’t realize that what Rowena Magruder Rawlings is actually doing is raising her hand, not putting it out. At first he doesn’t even realize he has been slapped, and hard enough to make his left ear ring and his left eye water; he has a confused idea that the sudden warmth rising in his left cheek must be some sort of cockamamie allergy thing, perhaps a stress reaction. Then she is advancing on him with tears streaming down her weirdly Rowan-like face.

  “Go on and look at him,” she says. “Because guess what? This is my brother’s other life! The only one he has left! Get right up close and get a good look at it. They poked out his eyes, they took off one of his cheeks—you can see the teeth in there, peekaboo! The police showed me photographs. They didn’t want to, but I made them. They poked a hole in his heart, but I guess the doctors plugged that. It’s his liver that’s killing him. They poked a hole in that, too, and it’s dying.”

  “Miss Magruder, I—”

  “It’s Mrs. Rawlings,” she tells him, “not that it’s anything to you, one way or the other. Go on. Get a good look. See what you’ve done to him.”

  “I was in California…I saw it in the paper…”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” she says. “I’m sure. But you’re the only one I can get hold of, don’t you see? The only one who was close to him. His other pal died of the Queer’s Disease, and the rest aren’t here. They’re eating free food down at his flophouse, I suppose, or talking about what happened at their meetings. How it makes them feel. Well, Reverend Callahan—or is it Father? I saw you cross yourself—let me tell you how this makes me feel. It…makes…me… FURIOUS.” She is still speaking in the pleasant voice, but when he opens his mouth to speak again she puts a finger across his lips and there is so much force pressing back against his teeth in that single finger that he gives up. Let her talk, why not? It’s been years since he’s heard a confession, but some things are like riding a bicycle.

  “He graduated from NYU cum laude, ” she says. “Did you know that? He took second in the Beloit Poetry Prize Competition in 1949, did you know that? As an undergraduate! He wrote a novel…a beautiful novel…and it’s in my attic, gathering dust.”

  Callahan can feel soft warm dew settling on his face. It is coming from her mouth.

  “I asked him—no, begged him—to go on with his writing and he laughed at me, said he was no good. ‘Leave that to the Mailers and O’Haras and Irwin Shaws,’ he said, ‘people who can really do it. I’ll wind up in some ivory-tower office, puffing on a meerschaum pipe and looking like Mr. Chips.’

  “And that would have been all right, too,” she says, “but then he got involved in the Alcoholics Anonymous program, and from there it was an easy jump to running the flophouse. And hanging with his friends. Friends like you.”

  Callahan is amazed. He has never heard the word friends invested with such contempt.

  “But where are they now that he’s down and going out?” Rowena Magruder Rawlings asks him. “Hmmm? Where are all the people he cured, all the newspaper feature reporters who called him a genius? Where’s Jane Pauley? She interviewed him on the Today show, you know. Twice! Where’s that fucking Mother Teresa? He said in one of his letters they were calling her the little saint when she came to Home, well he could use a saint now, my brother could use a saint right now, some laying-on of hands, so where the hell is she?”

  Tears rolling down her cheeks. Her bosom rising and falling. She is beautiful and terrible. Callahan thinks of a picture he saw once of Shiva, the Hindu destroyer-god. Not enough arms, he thinks, and has to fight a crazy, suicidal urge to laugh.

  “They’re not here. There’s just you and me, right? And him. He could have won a Nobel Prize for literature. Or he could have taught four hundred students a year for thirty years. Could have touched twelve thousand minds with his. Instead, he’s lying here in a hospital bed with his face cut off, and they’ll have to take up a subscription from his fucking flophouse to pay for his last illness—if you call getting cut to pieces an illness—and his coffin, and his burial.”

  She looks at him, face naked and smiling, her cheeks gleaming with moisture and runners of snot hanging from her nose.

  “In his previous other life, Father Callahan, he was the Street Angel. But this is his final other life. Glamorous, isn’t it? I’m going down the hall to the canteen for coffee and a danish. I’ll be there for ten minutes or so. Plenty of time for you to have your little visit. Do me a favor and be gone when I get back. You and all the rest of his do-gooders make me sick.”

  She leaves. Her sensible low heels go clicking away along the hall. It’s not until they’ve faded completely and left him with the steady beeping of the machines that he realizes he’s trembling all over. He doesn’t think it’s the onset of the dt’s, but by God that’s what it feels like.

  When Rowan speaks from beneath his stiff veil of bandages, Callahan nearly screams. What his old friend says is pretty mushy, but Callahan has no trouble figuring it out.

  “She’s given that little sermon at least eight times today, and she never bothers to tell anyone that the year I took second in the Beloit, only four other people entered. I guess the war knocked a lot of the poetry out of folks. How you doing, Don?”

  The diction is bad, the voice driving it little more than a rasp, but it’s Rowan, all right. Callahan goes to him and takes the hands that lie on the counterpane. They curl over his with surprising firmness.

  “As far as the novel goes…man, it was third-rate James Jones, and that’s bad.”

  “How you doing, Rowan?” Callahan asks. Now he’s crying himself. The goddam room will be floating soon.

  “Oh, well, pretty sucky,” says the man under the bandages. Then:

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “Not a problem,” Callahan says. “What do you
need from me, Rowan? What can I do?”

  “You can stay away from Home,” Rowan says. His voice is fading, but his hands still clasp Callahan’s. “They didn’t want me. It was you they were after. Do you understand me, Don? They were looking for you. They kept asking me where you were, and by the end I would have told them if I’d known, believe me. But of course I didn’t.”

  One of the machines is beeping faster, the beeps running toward a merge that will trip an alarm. Callahan has no way of knowing this but knows it anyway. Somehow.

  “Rowan—did they have red eyes? Were they wearing…I don’t know…long coats? Like trenchcoats? Did they come in big fancy cars?”

  “Nothing like that,” Rowan whispers. “They were probably in their thirties but dressed like teenagers. They looked like teenagers, too. These guys’ll look like teenagers for another twenty years—if they live that long—and then one day they’ll just be old.”

  Callahan thinks, Just a couple of punks. Is that what he’s saying? It is, it almost certainly is, but that doesn’t mean the Hitler Brothers weren’t hired by the low men for this particular job. It makes sense. Even the newspaper article, brief as it was, pointed out that Rowan Magruder wasn’t much like the Brothers’ usual type of victim.

  “Stay away from Home,” Rowan whispers, but before Callahan can promise, the alarm does indeed go off. For a moment the hands holding his tighten, and Callahan feels a ghost of this man’s old energy, that wild fierce energy that somehow kept Home’s doors open in spite of all the times the bank account went absolutely flat-line, the energy that attracted men who could do all the things Rowan Magruder himself couldn’t.

  Then the room begins filling up with nurses, there’s a doctor with an arrogant face yelling for the patient’s chart, and pretty soon Rowan’s twin sister will be back, this time possibly breathing fire. Callahan decides it’s time to blow this pop-shop, and the greater pop-shop that is New York City. The low men are still interested in him, it seems, very interested indeed, and if they have a base of operations, it’s probably right here in Fun City, USA. Consequently, a return to the West Coast would probably be an excellent idea. He can’t afford another plane ticket, but he has enough cash to ride the Big Gray Dog. Won’t be for the first time, either. Another trip west, why not? He can see himself with absolute clarity, the man in Seat 29-C: a fresh, unopened package of cigarettes in his shirt pocket; a fresh, unopened bottle of Early Times in a paper bag; the new John D. MacDonald novel, also fresh and unopened, lying on his lap. Maybe he’ll be on the far side of the Hudson and riding through Fort Lee, deep into Chapter One and nipping his second drink before they finally turn off all the machines in Room 577 and his old friend goes out into the darkness and toward whatever waits for us there.

  Seven

  “577,” Eddie said.

  “Nineteen,” Jake said.

  “Beg pardon?” Callahan asked again.

  “Five, seven, and seven,” Susannah said. “Add them, you get nineteen.”

  “Does that mean something?”

  “Put them all together, they spell mother, a word that means the world to me,” Eddie said with a sentimental smile.

  Susannah ignored him. “We don’t know,” she said. “You didn’t leave New York, did you? If you had, you’d have never gotten that.” She pointed to the scar on his forehead.

  “Oh, I left,” Callahan said. “Just not quite as soon as I intended. My intention when I left the hospital really was to go back down to Port Authority and buy a ticket on the Forty bus.”

  “What’s that?” Jake asked.

  “Hobo-speak for the farthest you can go. If you buy a ticket to Fairbanks, Alaska, you’re riding on the Forty bus.”

  “Over here, it’d be Bus Nineteen,” Eddie said.

  “As I was walking, I got thinking about all the old times. Some of them were funny, like when a bunch of the guys at Home put on a circus show. Some of them were scary, like one night just before dinner when one guy says to this other one, ‘Stop picking your nose, Jeffy, it’s making me sick’ and Jeffy goes ‘Why don’t you pick this, homeboy,’ and he pulls out this giant spring-blade knife and before any of us can move or even figure out what’s happening, Jeffy cuts the other guy’s throat. Lupe’s screaming and I’m yelling ‘Jesus! Holy Jesus!’ and the blood is spraying everywhere because he got the guy’s carotid—or maybe it was the jugular—and then Rowan comes running out of the bathroom holding his pants up with one hand and a roll of toilet paper in the other, and do you know what he did?”

  “Used the paper,” Susannah said.

  Callahan grinned. It made him a younger man. “Yer-bugger, he did. Slapped the whole roll right against the place where the blood was spurting and yelled for Lupe to call 211, which got you an ambulance in those days. And I’m standing there, watching that white toilet paper turn red, working its way in toward the cardboard core. Rowan said ‘Just think of it as the world’s biggest shaving cut’ and we started laughing. We laughed until the tears came out of our eyes.

  “I was running through a lot of old times, do ya. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I remember—vaguely—stopping in at a Smiler’s Market and getting a couple of cans of Bud in a paper sack. I drank one of them and kept on walking. I wasn’t thinking about where I was going—not in my conscious mind, at least—but my feet must have had a mind of their own, because all at once I looked around and I was in front of this place where we used to go to supper sometimes if we were—as they say—in funds. It was on Second and Fifty-second.”

  “Chew Chew Mama’s,” Jake said.

  Callahan stared at him with real amazement, then looked at Roland. “Gunslinger, you boys are starting to scare me a little.”

  Roland only twirled his fingers in his old gesture: Keep going, partner.

  “I decided to go in and get a hamburger for old times’ sake,” Callahan said. “And while I was eating the burger, I decided I didn’t want to leave New York without at least looking into Home through the front window. I could stand across the street, like the times when I swung by there after Lupe died. Why not? I’d never been bothered there before. Not by the vampires, not by the low men, either.” He looked at them. “I can’t tell you if I really believed that, or if it was some kind of elaborate, suicidal mind-game. I can recapture a lot of what I felt that night, what I said and how I thought, but not that.

  “In any case, I never got to Home. I paid up and I went walking down Second Avenue. Home was at First and Forty-seventh, but I didn’t want to walk directly in front of it. So I decided to go down to First and Forty-sixth and cross over there.”

  “Why not Forty-eighth?” Eddie asked him quietly. “You could have turned down Forty-eighth, that would have been quicker. Saved you doubling back a block.”

  Callahan considered the question, then shook his head. “If there was a reason, I don’t remember.”

  “There was a reason,” Susannah said. “You wanted to walk past the vacant lot.”

  “Why would I—”

  “For the same reason people want to walk past a bakery when the doughnuts are coming out of the oven,” Eddie said. “Some things are just nice, that’s all.”

  Callahan received this doubtfully, then shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “I do, sai.”

  “In any case, I was walking along, sipping my other beer. I was almost at Second and Forty-sixth when—”

  “What was there?” Jake asked eagerly. “What was on that corner in 1981?”

  “I don’t…” Callahan began, and then he stopped. “A fence,” he said. “Quite a high one. Ten, maybe twelve feet.”

  “Not the one we climbed over,” Eddie said to Roland. “Not unless it grew five feet on its own.”

  “There was a picture on it,” Callahan said. “I do remember that. Some sort of street mural, but I couldn’t see what it was, because the street-lights on the corner were out. And all at once it hit me that wasn’t right. All at once
an alarm started going off in my head. Sounded a lot like the one that brought all the people into Rowan’s room at the hospital, if you want to know the truth. All at once I couldn’t believe I was where I was. It was nuts. But at the same time I’m thinking…”

  Eight

  At the same time he’s thinking It’s all right, just a few lights out is all it is, if there were vampires you’d see them and if there were low men you’d hear the chimes and smell rancid onions and hot metal. All the same he decides to vacate this area, and immediately. Chimes or no chimes, every nerve in his body is suddenly out on his skin, sparking and sizzling.

  He turns and there are two men right behind him. There is a space of seconds when they are so surprised by his abrupt change of direction that he probably could have darted between them like an aging running back and gone sprinting back up Second Avenue. But he is surprised, too, and for a further space of seconds the three of them only stand there, staring.

  There’s a big Hitler Brother and a little Hitler Brother. The little one is no more than five-two. He’s wearing a loose chambray shirt over black slacks. On his head is a baseball cap turned around backwards. His eyes are as black as drops of tar and his complexion is bad. Callahan immediately thinks of him as Lennie. The big one is maybe six-feet-six, wearing a Yankees sweatshirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. He’s got a sandy mustache. He’s wearing a fanny-pack, only around in front so it’s actually a belly-pack. Callahan names this one George.

  Callahan turns around, planning to flee down Second Avenue if he’s got the light or if it looks like he can beat the traffic. If that’s impossible, he’ll go down Forty-sixth to the U.N. Plaza Hotel and duck into their lob—

  The big one, George, grabs him by the shirt and yanks him back by his collar. The collar rips, but unfortunately not enough to set him free.