by Stephen King
She turned on the radio and found a station playing “Amazing Grace.” The next time she looked at her strange companion, she saw that he was looking out at the darkening sky and weeping. Then she chanced to look down and saw something much odder, something that moved her heart as it had not been moved in fifteen years, when she had miscarried her one and only effort to have a child.
The animal, the not-dog, the Oy… he was crying, too.
FOURTEEN
She got off 95 just over the Massachusetts state line and checked them into a pair of side-by-side rooms in a dump called the Sea Breeze Inn. She hadn’t thought to bring her driving glasses, the ones she called her bug’s-asshole glasses (as in “when I’m wearing these things I can see up a bug’s asshole”), and she didn’t like driving at night, anyway. Bug’s-asshole glasses or not, driving at night fried her nerves, and that was apt to bring on a migraine. With a migraine she would be of no use to either of them, and her Imitrex was sitting uselessly in the medicine cabinet back in East Stoneham.
“Plus,” she told Roland, “if this Tet Corporation you’re looking for is in a business building, you won’t be able to get inside until Monday, anyway.” Probably not true; this was the sort of man who got into places when he wanted. You couldn’t keep him out. She guessed that was part of his attraction to a certain kind of woman.
In any case, he did not object to the motel. No, he would not go out to dinner with her, and so she found the nearest bearable fast-food franchise and brought back a late dinner from RFC. They ate in Roland’s room. Irene fixed Oy a plate without being asked. Oy ate a single piece of the chicken, holding it neatly between his paws, then went into the bathroom and appeared to fall asleep on the mat in front of the tub.
“Why do they call this the Sea Breeze?” Roland asked.
Unlike Oy, he was eating some of everything, but he did it with no sign of pleasure. He ate like a man doing work. “I get no smell of the ocean.”
“Well, probably you can when the wind’s in the right quarter and blowing a hurricane,” she said. “It’s what we call poetic license, Roland.”
He nodded, showing unexpected (to her, at least) understanding.
“Pretty lies,” he said.
“Yes, I suppose.”
She turned on the television, thinking it would divert him, and was shocked by his reaction (although she told herself that what she felt was amusement). When he told her he couldn’t see it, she had no idea how to take what he was saying; her first thought that it was some sort of oblique and teddibly intellectual criticism of the medium itself. Then she thought he might be speaking (in equally oblique fashion) of his sorrow, his state of mourning. It wasn’t until he told her that he heard voices, yes, but saw only lines which made his eyes water that she realized he was telling her the literal truth: he could not see the pictures on the screen. Not the rerun of Roseanne, not the infomercial for Ab-Flex, not the talking head on the local news. She held on until the story about Stephen King (taken by LifeFlight helicopter to Central Maine General in Lewiston, where an early-evening operation seemed to have saved his right leg-condition listed as fair, more operations ahead, road to recovery expected to be long and uncertain), then turned the TV off.
She bussed up the trash-there was always so much more of it from a KFC meal, somehow-bade Roland an uncertain goodnight (which he returned in a distracted, I’m-not-reallyhere way that made her nervous and sad), then went to her own room next door. There she watched an hour of an old movie in which Yul Brynner played a robot cowboy that had run amok before turning it off and going into the bathroom to brush her teeth. There she realized that she had-of course, dollink!-forgotten her toothbrush. She did the best she could with her finger, then lay down on the bed in her bra and panties (no nightgown either). She spent an hour like that before realizing that she was listening for sounds from beyond the paper-thin wall, and for one sound in particular: the crash of the gun he had considerately not worn from the car to the motel room.
The single loud shot that would mean he had ended his sorrow in the most direct fashion.
When she couldn’t stand the quiet from the other side of the wall any longer she got up, put her clothes back on, and went outside to look at the stars. There, sitting on the curb, she found Roland, with the not-dog at his side. She wanted to ask how he had gotten out of his room without her being aware of it (the walls were so thin and she had been listening so hard), but she didn’t. She asked him what he was doing out here, instead, and found herself unprepared for both his answer and for the utter nakedness of the face he turned to hers. She kept expecting a patina of civilization from him-a nod in the direction of the niceties-but there was none of that. His honesty was terrifying.
“I’m afraid to go to sleep,” he said. “I’m afraid my dead friends will come to me, and that seeing them will kill me.”
She looked at him steadily in the mixture of light: that which fell from her room and the horrible heardess Halloween glare of the parking-lot arc sodiums. Her heart was beating hard enough to shake her entire chest, but when she spoke her voice sounded calm enough: “Would it help if I lay down with you?”
He considered this, and nodded. “I think it would.”
She took his hand and they went into the room she had rented him. He stripped off his clothes with no sign of embarrassment and she looked, awestruck and afraid, at the scars which lapped and dented his upper body: the red pucker of a knife-slash on one bicep, the milky weal of a burn on another, the white crisscross of lash-marks between and on the shoulderblades, three deep dimples that could only be old bulletholes.
And, of course, there were the missing fingers on his right hand. She was curious but knew she’d never dare ask about those.
She took off her own outer clothes, hesitated, then took off her bra, as well. Her breasts hung down, and there was a dented scar of her own on one, from a lumpectomy instead of a bullet.
And so what? She never would have been a Victoria’s Secret model, even in her prime. And even in her prime she’d never mistaken herself for tits and ass attached to a life-support system.
Nor had ever let anyone else-including her husband-make the same mistake.
She left her panties on, however. If she had trimmed her bush, maybe she would have taken them off. If she’d known, getting up that morning, that she would be lying down with a strange man in a cheap hotel room while some weird animal snoozed on the bathmat in front of the tub. Of course she would have packed a toothbrush and a tube of Crest, too.
When he put her arms around her, she gasped and stiffened, then relaxed. But very slowly. His hips pressed against her bottom and she felt the considerable weight of his package, but it was apparently only comfort he had in mind; his penis was limp.
He clasped her left breast, and ran his thumb into the hollow of the scar left by the lumpectomy. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Well,” she said (now her voice was no longer even), “according to my doctor, in another five years it would have been cancer.
So they cut it out before it could… I don’t know, exactly-metastasizing comes later, if it comes at all.”
“Before it could flower?” he asked.
“Yes. Right. Good.” Her nipple was now as hard as a rock, and surely he must feel that. Oh, this was so weird.
“Why is your heart beating so hard?” he asked. “Do I frighten you?”
“I… yes.”
“Don’t be frightened,” he said. “Killing’s done.” A long pause in the dark. They could hear the faint drone of cars on the turnpike. “For now,” he added.
“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Good.”
His hand on her breast. His breath on her neck. After some endless time that might have been an hour or only five minutes, his breathing lengthened, and she knew he had gone to sleep. She was pleased and disappointed at the same time. A few minutes later she went to sleep herself, and it was the best rest she’d had in years. If he had bad dreams of his
gone friends, he did not disturb her with them. When she woke in the morning it was eight o’clock and he was standing naked at the window, looking out through a slit he’d made in the curtains with one finger.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
“A little. Will we go on?”
FIFTEEN
They could have been in Manhattan by three o’clock in the afternoon, and the drive into the city on a Sunday would have been far easier than during the Monday morning rush hour, but hotel rooms in New York were expensive and even doubling up would have necessitated breaking out a credit card. They stayed at a Motel 6 in Harwich, Connecticut, instead. She took only a single room and that night he made love to her. Not because he exactly wanted to, she sensed, but because he understood it was what she wanted. Perhaps what she needed.
It was extraordinary, although she could not have said precisely how; despite the feel of all those scars beneath her hands-some rough, some smooth-there was the sense of making love to a dream. And that night she did dream. It was a field filled with roses she dreamed of, and a huge Tower made of slate-black stone standing at the far end. Partway up, red lamps glowed… only she had an idea they weren’t lamps at all, but eyes.
Terrible eyes.
She heard many singing voices, thousands of them, and understood that some were the voices of his lost friends. She awoke with tears on her cheeks and a feeling of loss even though he was still beside her. After today she’d see him no more. And that was for the best. Still, she would have given anything in her life to have him make love to her again, even though she understood it had not been really her he had been making love to; even when he came into her, his thoughts had been far away, with those voices.
Those lost voices.
Chapter III:
NEW YORK AGAIN (ROLAND SHOWS ID)
ONE
On the morning of Monday the 21st of June in the year of ’99, the sun shone down on New York City just as if Jake Chambers did not lie dead in one world and Eddie Dean in another; as if Stephen King did not lie in a Lewiston hospital’s Intensive Care ward, drifting out into the light of consciousness only for brief intervals; as if Susannah Dean did not sit alone with her grief aboard a train racing on ancient, chancy tracks across the dark wastes of Thunderclap toward the ghost-town of Fedic.
There were others who had elected to accompany her on her journey at least that far, but she’d asked them to give her space, and they had complied with her wish. She knew she would feel better if she could cry, but so far she hadn’t been able to do that-a few random tears, like meaningless showers in the desert, was the best she had been able to manage-although she had a terrible feeling that things were worse than she knew.
Fuck, dat ain’t no “feelin,” Detta crowed contemptuously from her place deep inside, as Susannah sat looking out at the dark and rocky wastelands or the occasional ruins of towns and villages that had been abandoned when the world moved on. You havin a jenna-wine intuition, girl! Only question you cain’t answer is whether it be ole long tall and ugly or Young Master Sxveetness now visitin wit’yo man in the clearin.
“Please, no,” she murmured. “Please not either of them,
God, I can’t stand another one.”
But God remained deaf to her prayer, Jake remained dead, the Dark Tower remained standing at the end of Can’-Ka No Rey, casting its shadow over a million shouting roses, and in New York the hot summer sun shone down on the just and the unjust alike.
Can you give me hallelujah?
Thankee-sai.
Now somebody yell me a big old God-bomb amen.
TWO
Mrs. Tassenbaum left her car at Sir Speedy-Park on Sixty-third Street (the sign on the sidewalk showed a knight in armor behind the wheel of a Cadillac, his lance sticking jauntily out of the driver’s window), where she and David rented two stalls on a yearly basis. They kept an apartment nearby, and Irene asked Roland if he would like to go there and clean up… although the man actually didn’t look all that bad, she had to admit.
She’d bought him a fresh pair of jeans and a white button-up shirt which he had rolled to the elbows; she had also bought a comb and a tube of hair-mousse so strong its molecular makeup was probably closer to Super-Glue than it was to Vitalis. With the unruly mop of gray-flecked hair combed straight back from his brow, she had revealed the spare good looks and angular features of an interesting crossbreed: a mixture of Quaker and Cherokee was what she imagined. The bag of Orizas was once more slung over his shoulder. His gun, the holster wrapped in its shell-belt, was in there, too. He had covered it from enquiring eyes with the Old Home Days tee-shirt.
Roland shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d as soon do what needs doing and then go back to where I belong.” He surveyed the hurrying throngs on the sidewalks bleakly. “If I belong anywhere.”
“You could stay at the apartment for a couple of days and rest up,” she said. “I’d stay with you.” And fuck thy brains out, do it please ya, she thought, and could not help a smile. “I mean, I know you won’t, but you need to know the offer’s open.”
He nodded. “Thankee, but there’s a woman who needs me to get back to her as soon as I can.” It felt like a lie to him, and a grotesque one at that. Based on everything that had happened, part of him thought that Susannah Dean needed Roland of Gilead back in her life almost as much as nursery bah-bos needed rat poison added to their bedtime bottles.
Irene Tassenbaum accepted it, however. And part of her was actually anxious to get back to her husband. She had called him last night (using a pay phone a mile from the motel, just to be safe), and it seemed that she had finally gotten David Seymour Tassenbaum’s attention again. Based on her encounter with Roland, David’s attention was definitely second prize, but it was better than nothing, by God. Roland Deschain would vanish from her life soon, leaving her to find her way back to northern New England on her own and explain what had happened as best she could. Part of her mourned the impending loss, but she’d had enough adventure in the last forty hovxrs or so to last her for the rest of her life, hadn’t she? And things to think about, that too. For one thing, it seemed that the world was thinner than she had ever imagined. And reality wider.
“All right,” she said. “It’s Second Avenue and Forty-sixth Street you want to go to first, correct?”
“Yes.” Susannah hadn’t had a chance to tell them much about her adventures after Mia had hijacked their shared body, but the gunslinger knew there was a tall building-what Eddie,
Jake, and Susannah called a skyscraper-now standing on the site of the former vacant lot, and the Tet Corporation must surely be inside. “Will we need a tack-see?”
“Can you and your furry friend walk seventeen short blocks and two or three long ones? It’s your call, but I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.”
Roland didn’t know how long a long block or how short a short one might be, but he was more than willing to find out now that the deep pain in his right hip had departed. Stephen King had that pain now, along with the one in his smashed ribs and the right side of his split head. Roland did not envy him those pains, but at least they were back with their rightful owner.
“Let’s go,” he said.
THREE
Fifteen minutes later he stood across from the large dark structure thrusting itself at the summer sky, trying to keep his jaw from coming unhinged and perhaps dropping all the way to his chest. It wasn’t the Dark Tower, not his Dark Tower, at least (although it wouldn’t have surprised him to know there were people working in yon sky-tower-some of them readers of Roland’s adventures-who called 2 Hammarskjold Plaza exactly that), but he had no doubt that it was the Tower’s representative in this Keystone World, just as the rose represented a field filled with them; the field he had seen in so many dreams.
He could hear the singing voices from here, even over the jostle and hum of the traffic. The woman had to call his name three times and finally tug on one sleeve to get his attention.
; When he turned to her-reluctantly-he saw it wasn’t the tower across the street that she was looking at (she had grown up just an hour from Manhattan and tall buildings were an old story to her) but at the pocket park on their side of the street.
Her expression was delighted. “Isn’t it a beautiful little place? I must have been by this corner a hundred times and I never noticed it until now. Do you see the fountain? And the turtle sculpture?”
He did. And although Susannah hadn’t told them this part of her story, Roland knew she had been here-along with Mia, daughter of none-and sat on the bench closest to the turtle’s wet shell. He could almost see her there.
“I’d like to go in,” she said timidly. “May we? Is there time?”
“Yes,” he said, and followed her through the little iron gate.
FOUR
The pocket park was peaceful, but not entirely quiet.
“Do you hear people singing?” Mrs. Tassenbaum asked in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. “A chorus from somewhere?”
“Bet your bottom dollar,” Roland answered, and was sorry immediately. He’d learned the phrase from Eddie, and saying it hurt. He walked to the turtle and dropped on one knee to examine it more closely. There was a tiny piece gone from the beak, leaving a break like a missing tooth. On the back was a scratch in the shape of a question mark, and fading pink letters.
“What does it say?” she asked. “Something about a turde, but that’s all I can make out.”
“’see the TURTLE of enormous girth.’” He knew this without reading it.
