But I could tell one way or the other for sure if he’d take off those shades.
He opened his mouth to speak Speedy’s name aloud, and suddenly the old man began to play, his wrinkled fingers, as dully dark as old walnut that has been faithfully oiled but never polished, moving with limber speed and grace on both strings and frets. He played well, finger-picking the melody. And after a moment, Jack recognized the tune. It had been on one of his father’s older records. A Vanguard album called Mississippi John Hurt Today. And although the blind man didn’t sing, Jack knew the words:
O kindly friends, tell me, ain’t it hard?
To see ole Lewis in a new graveyard,
The angels laid him away. . . .
The blond football player and his three princesses came out of the mall’s main doors. Each of the princesses had an ice cream cone. Mr. All-America had a chili-dog in each hand. They sauntered toward where Jack stood. Jack, whose whole attention was taken up by the old black man, had not even noticed them. He had been transfixed by the idea that it was Speedy, and Speedy had somehow read his mind. How else could it be that this man had begun to play a Mississippi John Hurt composition just as Jack happened to think Speedy looked like that very man? And a song containing his own road-name, as well?
The blond football player transferred both chili-dogs to his left hand and slapped Jack on the back with his right as hard as he could. Jack’s teeth snapped on his own tongue like a bear-trap. The pain was sudden and excruciating.
“You just shake her easy, urine-breath,” he said. The princesses giggled and shrieked.
Jack stumbled forward and kicked over the blind man’s cup. Coins spilled and rolled. The gentle lilt of the blues tune came to a jangling halt.
Mr. All-America and the Three Little Princesses were already moving on. Jack stared after them and felt the now-familiar impotent hate. This was how it felt to be on your own, just young enough to be at everyone’s mercy and to be anyone’s meat—anyone from a psychotic like Osmond to a humorless old Lutheran like Elbert Palamountain, whose idea of a pretty fair work-day was to slog and squelch through gluey fields for twelve hours during a steady cold downpour of October rain, and to sit bolt-upright in the cab of his International Harvester truck during lunch hour, eating onion sandwiches and reading from the Book of Job.
Jack had no urge to “get” them, although he had a strange idea that if he wanted to, he could—that he was gaining some sort of power, almost like an electrical charge. It sometimes seemed to him that other people knew that, too—that it was in their faces when they looked at him. But he didn’t want to get them; he only wanted to be left alone. He—
The blind man was feeling around himself for the spilled money, his pudgy hands moving gently over the pavement, almost seeming to read it. He happened on a dime, set his cup back up again, and dropped the dime in. Plink!
Faintly, Jack heard one of the princesses: “Why do they let him stay there, he’s so gross, you know?”
Even more faintly still: “Yeah, rilly!”
Jack got down on his knees and began to help, picking up coins and putting them into the blind man’s cup. Down here, close to the old man, he could smell sour sweat, mildew, and some sweet bland smell like corn. Smartly dressed mall shoppers gave them a wide berth.
“Thankya, thankya,” the blind man croaked monotonously. Jack could smell dead chili on his breath. “Thankya, blessya, God blessya, thankya.”
He is Speedy.
He’s not Speedy.
What finally forced him to speak—and this was not really so odd—was remembering just how little of the magic juice he had left. Barely two swallows now. He did not know if, after what had happened in Angola, he could ever bring himself to travel in the Territories again, but he was still determined to save his mother’s life, and that meant he might have to.
And, whatever the Talisman was, he might have to flip into the other world to get it.
“Speedy?”
“Blessya, thankya, God blessya, didn’t I hear one go over there?” He pointed.
“Speedy! It’s Jack!”
“Ain’t nothin speedy round here, boy, No sir.” His hands began to whisper-walk along the concrete in the direction he had just pointed. One of them found a nickel and he dropped it into the cup. His other happened to touch the shoe of a smartly dressed young woman who was passing by. Her pretty, empty face wrinkled in almost painful disgust as she drew away from him.
Jack picked the last coin out of the gutter. It was a silver dollar—a big old cartwheel with Lady Liberty on one side.
Tears began to spill out of his eyes. They ran down his dirty face and he wiped them away with an arm that shook. He was crying for Thielke, Wild, Hagen, Davey, and Heidel. For his mother. For Laura DeLoessian. For the carter’s son lying dead in the road with his pockets turned out. But most of all for himself. He was tired of being on the road. Maybe when you rode it in a Cadillac it was a road of dreams, but when you had to hitch it, riding on your thumb and a story that was just about worn out, when you were at everybody’s mercy and anyone’s meat, it was nothing but a road of trials. Jack felt that he had been tried enough . . . but there was no way to cry it off. If he cried it off, the cancer would take his mother, and Uncle Morgan might well take him.
“I don’t think I can do it, Speedy,” he wept. “I don’t think so, man.”
Now the blind man groped for Jack instead of the spilled coins. Those gentle, reading fingers found his arm and closed around it. Jack could feel the hard pad of callus in the tip of each finger. He drew Jack to him, into those odors of sweat and heat and old chili. Jack pressed his face against Speedy’s chest.
“Hoo, boy. I don’t know no Speedy, but it sounds like you puttin an awful lot on him. You—”
“I miss my mom, Speedy,” Jack wept, “and Sloat’s after me. It was him on the phone inside the mall, him. And that’s not the worst thing. The worst thing was in Angola . . . the Rainbird Towers . . . earthquake . . . five men . . . me, I did it, Speedy, I killed those men when I flipped into this world, I killed them just like my dad and Morgan Sloat killed Jerry Bledsoe that time!”
Now it was out, the worst of it. He had sicked up the stone of guilt that had been in his throat, threatening to choke him, and a storm of weeping seized him—but this time it was relief rather than fear. It was said. It had been confessed. He was a murderer.
“Hooo-eeee!” the black man cried. He sounded perversely delighted. He held Jack with one thin, strong arm, rocked him. “You tryin to carry you one heavy load, boy. You sure am. Maybe you ought to put some of it down.”
“I killed em,” Jack whispered. “Thielke, Wild, Hagen, Davey . . .”
“Well, if yo friend Speedy was here,” the black man said, “whoever he might be, or wherever he might be in this wide old world, he might tell you that you cain’t carry the world on yo shoulders, son. You cain’t do that. No one can. Try to carry the world on yo shoulders, why, first it’s gonna break yo back, and then it’s gonna break you sperrit.”
“I killed—”
“Put a gun to their heads and shot somebodies, didya?”
“No . . . the earthquake . . . I flipped. . . .”
“Don’t know nothin bout dat,” the black man said. Jack had pulled away from him a bit and was staring up into the black man’s seamed face with wondering curiosity, but the black man had turned his head toward the parking lot. If he was blind, then he had picked out the smoother, slightly more powerful beat of the police car’s engine from the others as it approached, because he was looking right at it. “All I know is you seem to have this idear of ’moider’ a little broad. Prolly if some fella dropped dead of a heart-attack goin around us as we sit here, you’d think you killed him. ’Oh look, I done moidered that fella on account of where I was sittin, oh woe, oh dooom, oh gloooooom, oh this . . . oh that!’ ” As he spoke this and that, the blind man punctuated it with a quick change from G to C and back to G again. He laughed, pleased with hi
mself.
“Speedy—”
“Nothin speedy round here,” the black man reiterated, and then showed yellow teeth in a crooked grin. “ ’Cept maybe how speedy some folks are to put the blame on themselves for things others might have got started. Maybe you runnin, boy, and maybe you bein chased.”
G-chord.
“Maybe you be just a little off-base.”
C-chord, with a nifty little run in the middle that made Jack grin in spite of himself.
“Might be somebody else gettin on yo case.”
Back down to G again, and the blind man laid his guitar aside (while, in the police car, the two cops were flipping to see which of them would actually have to touch Old Snowball if he wouldn’t get into the back of the cruiser peaceably).
“Maybe dooom and maybe gloooooom and maybe this and maybe that . . .” He laughed again, as if Jack’s fears were the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
“But I don’t know what could happen if I—”
“No one ever knows what could happen if they do anything, do dey?” the black man who might or might not be Speedy Parker broke in. “No. Dey do not. If you thought about it, you’d stay in yo house all day, ascairt to come out! I don’t know yo problems, boy. Don’t want to know em. Could be crazy, talkin bout earthquakes and all. But bein as how you helped me pick up my money and didn’t steal none—I counted every plinkety-plink, so I know—I’ll give you some advice. Some things you cain’t help. Sometimes people get killed because somebody does somethin . . . but if somebody didn’t do that somethin, a whole lot of more people would have got killed. Do you see where I’m pushin, son?”
The dirty sunglasses inclined down toward him.
Jack felt a deep, shuddery relief. He saw, all right. The blind man was talking about hard choices. He was suggesting that maybe there was a difference between hard choices and criminal behavior. And that maybe the criminal wasn’t here.
The criminal might have been the guy who had told him five minutes ago to get his ass home.
“Could even be,” the blind man remarked, hitting a dark D-minor chord on his box, “that all things soive the Lord, just like my momma tole me and your momma might have tole you, if she was a Christian lady. Could be we think we doin one thing but are really doin another. Good Book says all things, even those that seem evil, soive the Lord. What you think, boy?”
“I don’t know,” Jack said honestly. He was all mixed up. He only had to close his eyes and he could see the telephone tearing off the wall, hanging from its wires like a weird puppet.
“Well, it smells like you lettin it drive you to drink.”
“What?” Jack asked, astonished. Then he thought, I thought that Speedy looked like Mississippi John Hurt, and this guy started playing a John Hurt blues . . . and now he’s talking about the magic juice. He’s being careful, but I swear that’s what he’s talking about—it’s got to be!
“You’re a mind-reader,” Jack said in a low voice. “Aren’t you? Did you learn it in the Territories, Speedy?”
“Don’t know nothin bout readin minds,” the blind man said, “but my lamps have been out forty-two year come November, and in forty-two year your nose and ears take up some of the slack. I can smell cheap wine on you, son. Smell it all over you. It’s almost like you washed yo hair widdit!”
Jack felt an odd, dreamy guilt—it was the way he always felt when accused of doing something wrong when he was in fact innocent—mostly innocent, anyway. He had done no more than touch the almost-empty bottle since flipping back into this world. Just touching it filled him with dread—he had come to feel about it the way a fourteenth-century European peasant might have felt about a splinter of the One True Cross or the fingerbone of a saint. It was magic, all right. Powerful magic. And sometimes it got people killed.
“I haven’t been drinking it, honest,” he finally managed. “What I started with is almost gone. It . . . I . . . man, I don’t even like it!” His stomach had begun to clench nervously; just thinking about the magic juice was making him feel nauseated. “But I need to get some more. Just in case.”
“More Poiple Jesus? Boy your age?” The blind man laughed and made a shooing gesture with one hand. “Hell, you don’t need dat. No boy needs dat poison to travel with.”
“But—”
“Here. I’ll sing you a song to cheer you up. Sounds like you could use it.”
He began to sing, and his singing voice was nothing at all like his speaking voice. It was deep and powerful and thrilling, without the Nigger Jim “My-Huck-dat-sure-is-gay!” cadences of his talk. It was, Jack thought, awed, almost the trained, cultured voice of an opera singer, now amusing itself with a little piece of popular fluff. Jack felt goosebumps rise on his arms and back at that rich, full voice. Along the sidewalk which ran along the dull, ochre flank of the mall, heads turned.
“When the red, red robin goes bob-bob-bobbin along, ALONG, there’ll be no more sobbin when he starts throbbin his old . . . sweet SONG—”
Jack was struck by a sweet and terrible familiarity, a sense that he had heard this before, or something very like it, and as the blind man bridged, grinning his crooked, yellowing smile, Jack realized where the feeling was coming from. He knew what had made all those heads turn, as they would have turned if a unicorn had gone galloping across the mall’s parking lot. There was a beautiful, alien clarity in the man’s voice. It was the clarity of, say, air so pure that you could smell a radish when a man pulled one out of the ground half a mile away. It was a good old Tin Pan Alley song . . . but the voice was pure Territories.
“Get up . . . get up, you sleepyhead . . . get out . . . get out, get outta bed . . . live, love, laugh and be ha—”
Both guitar and voice came to a sudden halt. Jack, who had been concentrating fiercely on the blind man’s face (trying subconsciously to peer right through those dark glasses, perhaps, and see if Speedy Parker’s eyes were behind them), now widened his focus and saw two cops standing beside the blind man.
“You know, I don’t hear nothin,” the blind guitarist said, almost coyly, “but I b’lieve I smell somethin blue.”
“Goddammit, Snowball, you know you’re not supposed to work the mall!” one of the cops cried. “What did Judge Hallas tell you the last time he had you in chambers? Downtown between Center Street and Mural Street. No place else. Damn, boy, how senile have you got? Your pecker rotted off yet from that whatall your woman gave you before she took off? Christ, I just don’t—”
His partner put a hand on his arm and nodded toward Jack in a little-pitchers-have-big-ears gesture.
“Go tell your mother she wants you, kid,” the first cop said curtly.
Jack started walking down the sidewalk. He couldn’t stay. Even if there was something he could do, he couldn’t stay. He was lucky the cops’ attention had been taken up by the man they called Snowball. If they had given him a second glance, Jack had no doubt he would have been asked to produce his bona fides. New sneakers or not, the rest of him looked used and battered. It doesn’t take cops long to get good at spotting road-kids, and Jack was a boy on the road if there ever had been one.
He imagined being tossed into the Zanesville pokey while the Zanesville cops, fine upstanding boys in blue who listened to Paul Harvey every day and supported President Reagan, tried to find out whose little boy he was.
No, he didn’t want the Zanesville cops giving him more than the one passing glance.
A motor, throbbing smoothly, coming up behind him.
Jack hunched his pack a little higher on his back and looked down at his new sneakers as if they interested him tremendously. From the corners of his eyes he saw the police cruiser slide slowly by.
The blind man was in the back seat, the neck of his guitar poking up beside him.
As the cruiser swung into one of the outbound lanes, the blind man abruptly turned his head and looked out the back window, looked directly at Jack . . .
. . . and although Jack could not see through the dir
ty dark glasses, he knew perfectly well that Lester “Speedy” Parker had winked at him.
2
Jack managed to keep further thought at bay until he reached the turnpike ramps again. He stood looking at the signs, which seemed the only clear-cut things left in a world
(worlds?)
where all else was a maddening gray swirl. He felt a dark depression swirling all around him, sinking into him, trying to destroy his resolve. He recognized that homesickness played a part in this depression, but this feeling made his former homesickness seem boyish and callow indeed. He felt utterly adrift, without a single firm thing to hold on to.
Standing by the signs, watching the traffic on the turnpike, Jack realized he felt damn near suicidal. For quite a while he had been able to keep himself going with the thought that he would see Richard Sloat soon (and, although he had hardly admitted the thought to himself, the idea that Richard might head west with him had done more than cross Jack’s mind—after all, it would not be the first time that a Sawyer and a Sloat had made strange journeys together, would it?), but the hard work at the Palamountain farm and the peculiar happenings at the Buckeye Mall had given even that the false glitter of fool’s gold.
Go home, Jacky, you’re beaten, a voice whispered. If you keep on, you’re going to end up getting the living shit kicked out of you . . . and next time it may be fifty people that die. Or five hundred.
I-70 East.
I-70 West.
Abruptly he fished in his pocket for the coin—the coin that was a silver dollar in this world. Let whatever gods there were decide this, once and for all. He was too beaten to do it for himself. His back still smarted where Mr. All-America had whacked him. Come up tails, and he would go down the east-bound ramp and head home. Come up heads, he would go on . . . and there would be no more looking back.
He stood in the dust of the soft shoulder and flicked the coin into the chilly October air. It rose, turning over and over, kicking up glints of sun. Jack craned his head to follow its course.
Talisman 01 - The Talisman Page 28
