blood, pain, and stupidity." He paused, then said: "I always feel sick afterward. Like I did when Bert and I
went to see the hanged man."
"I have a question," Jake said.
"Ask it," Roland told him.
"Will we win?"
Roland was quiet for such a long time that Susannah began to be afraid. Then he said: "We know more than
they think we know, Farmore. They've grown complacent. If Andy and Slightman are the only rats in the
woodpile, and if there aren't too many in the Wolfpack—if we don't run out of plates and cartridges—then
yes, Jake, son of Elmer. We'll win."
"How many is too many?"
Roland considered, his faded blue eyes looking east. "More than you'd believe," he said at last. "And, I hope,
many more than they would."
FIVE
Late that afternoon, Donald Callahan stood in front of the unfound door, trying to concentrate on Second
Avenue in the year 1977. What he fixed upon was Chew Chew Mama's, and how sometimes he and George
and Lupe Delgado would go there for lunch.
"I ate the beef brisket whenever I could get it," Callahan said, and tried to ignore the shrieking voice of his
mother, rising from the cave's dark belly. When he'd first come in with Roland, his eyes had been drawn to
the books Calvin Tower had sent through. So many books! Callahan's mostly generous heart grew greedy
(and a bit smaller) at the sight of them. His interest didn't last, however—just long enough to pull one at
random and see it was The Virginian, by Owen Wister. It was hard to browse when your dead friends and
loved ones were shrieking at you and calling you names.
His mother was currendy asking him why he had allowed a vampire, a filthy bloodsucker, to break the cross
she had given him. "You was always weak in faith," she said dolorously. "Weak in the faith and strong for the
drink. I bet you'd like one right now, wouldn't you?"
Dear God, would he ever. Whiskey. Ancient Age. Callahan felt sweat break on his forehead. His heart was
beating double-time. No, triple-time.
"The brisket," he muttered. "With some of that brown mustard splashed on top of it." He could even see the
plastic squeeze-botde the mustard came in, and remember the brand name. Plochman's.
"What?" Roland asked from behind him.
"I said I'm ready," Callahan said. "If you're going to do it, for God's love do it now."
Roland cracked open the box. The chimes at once bolted through Callahan's ears, making him remember the
low men in their loud cars. His stomach shriveled inside his belly and outraged tears burst from his eyes.
But the door clicked open, and a wedge of bright sunshine slanted through, dispelling the gloom of the cave's
mouth.
Callahan took a deep breath and thought, Oh Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to
Thee. And stepped into the summer of '77.
SIX
It was noon, of course. Lunch time. And of course he was standing in front of Chew Chew Mama's. No one
seemed to notice his arrival. The chalked specials on the easel just outside the restaurant door read:
HEY YOU, WELCOME TO CHEW-CHEW!
SPECIALS FOR JUNE 24
Beef stroganoff
Beef Brisket (W/Cabbage)
Rancho Grande Tacos
Chicken Soup
TRY OUR DUTCH APPLE PIE!
All right, one question was answered. It was the day after Eddie had come here. As for the next one…
Callahan put Forty-sixth Street at his back for the time being, and walked up Second Avenue. Once he looked
behind him and saw the doorway to the cave following him as faithfully as the billy-bumbler followed the
boy. He could see Roland sitting there, putting something in his ears to block the maddening tinkle of the
chimes.
He got exactly two blocks before stopping, his eyes growing wide with shock, his mouth dropping open.
They had said to expect this, both Roland and Eddie, but in his heart Callahan hadn't believed it. He'd
thought he would find The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind perfecdy intact on this perfect summer's day,
which was so different from the overcast Calla autumn he'd left. Oh, there might be a sign in the window
reading gone on vacation, closed until august—something like that—but it would be there. Oh yes.
It wasn't, though. At least not much of it. The storefront was a burnt-out husk surrounded by yellow tape
reading police investigation. When he stepped a little closer, he could smell charred lumber, burnt paper,
and… very faint… the odor of gasoline.
An elderly shoeshine-boy had set up shop in front of Station Shoes & Boots, nearby. Now he said to
Callahan, "Shame, ain't it? Thank God the place was empty."
"Aye, say thankya. When did it happen?"
"Middle of the night, when else? You think them goombars is gonna come 'trow their Molly Coh'tails in
broad daylight? They ain't geniuses, but they're smarter than that."
"Couldn't it have been faulty wiring? Or maybe spontaneous combustion?"
The elderly shine-boy gave Callahan a cynical look. Oh, please, it said. He cocked a polish-smeared thumb at
the smoldering ruin. "You see that yella tape? You think they put yella tape says perlice investigation around
a place that spontaneously combust-you-lated? No way, my friend. No way Jose. Cal Tower was in hock to
the bad boys. Up to his eyebrows. Everybody on the block knew it." The shine-boy waggled his own
eyebrows, which were lush and white and tangled. "I hate to think about his loss. He had some very vallable
books in the back, there. Ver-ry vallable."
Callahan thanked the shine-boy for his insights, then turned and started back down Second Avenue. He kept
touching himself furtively, trying to convince himself that this was really happening. He kept taking deep
breaths of the city air with its tang of hydrocarbons, and relished every city sound, from the snore of the
buses (there were ads for Charlie's Angels on some of them) to the pounding of the jackhammers and the
incessant honking of horns. As he approached Tower of Power Records, he paused for a moment, transfixed
by the music pouring from the speakers over the doors. It was an oldie he hadn't heard in years, one that had
been popular way back in his Lowell days. Something about following the Pied Piper.
"Crispin St. Peters," he murmured. "That was his name. Good God, say Man Jesus, I'm really here. I'm really
in New York!"
As if to confirm this, a harried-sounding woman said, "Maybe some people can stand around all day, but
some of us are walking here. Think yez could move it along, or at least get over to the side?"
Callahan spoke an apology which he doubted was heard (or appreciated if it was), and moved along. That
sense of being in a dream—an extraordinarily vivid dream—persisted until he neared Forty-sixth Street. Then
he began to hear the rose, and everything in his life changed.
SEVEN
At first it was little more than a murmur, but as he drew closer, he thought he could hear many voices,
angelic voices, singing. Raising their confident, joyful psalms to God. He had never heard anything so sweet,
and he began to run. He came to the fence and laid his hands against it. He began to weep, couldn't help it.
He supposed people were looking at him, but he didn't care. He suddenly understood a great deal about
Roland and his friends, and for the first time felt a part of them. No wonder they were trying so hard to
survive, and to go on! No wonder, when this was at stake! There was something on the other side of this
fence with its tattered overlay of posters… something so utterly and completely wonderful…
A young man with his long hair held back in a rubber band and wearing a tipped-back cowboy hat stopped
and clapped him briefly on the shoulder. "It's nice here, isn't it?" the hippie cowboy said. "I don't know just
why, but it really is. I come once a day. You want to know something?"
Callahan turned toward the young man, wiping at his streaming eyes. "Yes, I guess so."
The young man brushed a hand across his brow, then his cheek. "I used to have the world's worst acne. I
mean, pizza-face wasn't even in it, I was roadkill-face. Then I started coming here in late March or early
April, and… everything cleared up." The young man laughed. "The dermo guy my Dad sent me to says it's
the zinc oxide, but I think it's this place. Something about this place. Do you hear it?"
Although Callahan's voice was ringing with sweetly singing voices—it was like being in Notre Dame
cathedral, and surrounded by choirs—he shook his head. Doing so was nothing more than instinct.
"Nah," said the hippie in the cowboy hat, "me neither. But sometimes I think I do." He raised his right hand
to Callahan, the first two fingers extended in a V. "Peace, brother."
"Peace," Callahan said, and returned the sign.
When the hippie cowboy was gone, Callahan ran his hand across the splintery boards of the fence, and a
tattered poster advertising War of the Zombies. What he wanted more than anything was to climb over and
see the rose… possibly to fall on his knees and adore it. But the sidewalks were packed with people, and
already he had attracted too many curious looks, some no doubt from people who, like the hippie cowboy,
knew a bit about the power of this place. He would best serve the great and singing force behind this fence
(was it a rose? could it be no more than that?) by protecting it. And that meant protecting Calvin Tower from
whoever had burned down his store.
Still trailing his hand along the rough boards, he turned onto Forty-sixth Street. Down at the end on this side
was the glassy-green bulk of the U.N. Plaza Hotel. Calla, Callahan, he thought, and then: Calla, Callahan,
Calvin. And then: Calla-come-four, there's a rose behind the door, Calla-come-Callahan, Calvin's one more!
He reached the end of the fence. At first he saw nothing, and his heart sank. Then he looked down, and there
it was, at knee height: five numbers written in black. Callahan reached into his pocket for the stub of pencil
he always kept there, then pulled off a corner of a poster for an off-Broadway play called Dungeon Plunger,
A Revue. On this he scribbled five numbers.
He didn't want to leave, but knew he had to; clear thinking this close to the rose was impossible.
I'll be back, he told it, and to his delighted amazement, a thought came back, clear and true: Yes, Father,
anytime. Come-commala.
On the corner of Second and Forty-sixth, he looked behind him. The door to the cave was still there, the
bottom floating about three inches off the sidewalk. A middle-aged couple, tourists judging by the guidebooks
in their hands, came walking up from the direction of the hotel. Chatting to each other, they reached
the door and swerved around it. They don't see it, but they feel it, Callahan thought. And if the sidewalk had
been crowded and swerving had been impossible? He thought in that case they would have walked right
through the place where it hung and shimmered, perhaps feeling nothing but a momentary coldness and sense
of vertigo. Perhaps hearing, faintly, the sour tang of chimes and catching a whiff of something like burnt
onions or seared meat. And that night, perhaps, they'd have transient dreams of places far stranger than Fun
City.
He could step back through, probably should; he'd gotten what he'd come for. But a brisk walk would take
him to the New York Public Library. There, behind the stone lions, even a man with no money in his pocket
could get a little information. The location of a certain zip code, for instance. And—tell the truth and shame
the devil—he didn't want to leave just yet.
He waved his hands in front of him until the gunslinger noticed what he was doing. Ignoring the looks of the
passersby, Callahan raised his fingers in the air once, twice, three times, not sure the gunslinger would get it.
Roland seemed to. He gave an exaggerated nod, then thumbs-up for good measure.
Callahan set off, walking so fast he was nearly jogging. It wouldn't do to linger, no matter how pleasant a
change New York made. It couldn't be pleasant where Roland was waiting. And, according to Eddie, it might
be dangerous, as well.
EIGHT
The gunslinger had no problem understanding Callahan's message. Thirty fingers, thirty minutes. The Pere
wanted another half an hour on the other side. Roland surmised he had thought of a way to turn the number
written on the fence into an actual place. If he could do that, it would be all to the good.
Information was power. And sometimes, when time was tight, it was speed.
The bullets in his ears blocked the voices completely. The chimes got in, but even they were dulled. A good
thing, because the sound of them was far worse than the warble of the thinny. A couple of days listening to
that sound and he reckoned he'd be ready for the lunatic asylum, but for thirty minutes he'd be all right. If
worse came to worst, he might be able to pitch something through the door, attract the Pere's attention, and
get him to come back early.
For a little while Roland watched the street unroll before Callahan. The doors on the beach had been like
looking through the eyes of his three: Eddie, Odetta, Jack Mort. This one was a little different. He could
always see Callahan's back in it, or his face if he turned around to look, as he often did.
To pass the time, Roland got up to look at a few of the books which had meant so much to Calvin Tower that
he'd made their safety a condition for his cooperation. The first one Roland pulled out had the silhouette of a
man's head on it. The man was smoking a pipe and wearing a sort of gamekeeper's hat. Cort had had one like
it, and as a boy, Roland had thought it much more stylish than his father's old dayrider with its sweat-stains
