by Stephen King
A ROSE IS A ROSE IS A ROSE
had been written across the bricks in spray-paint which had weathered to the same dusky-pink shade of the rose which grew in the vacant lot where Tom and Gerry’s Artistic Deli had once stood. Below it, in a blue so dark it was almost black, someone had spray-painted this oddity:
I CRY YOUR PARDON.
What does that mean? Jake wondered. He didn’t know-something from the Bible, maybe-but it held like the eye of a snake is reputed to hold a bird. At last he walked on, slowly and thoughtfully. It was almost two-thirty, and his shadow was beginning to grow longer.
Just ahead, he saw an old man walking down the street, keeping to the shade as much as possible and leaning on a gnarled cane. Behind the thick glasses he wore, his brown eyes swam like oversized eggs.
“I cry your pardon, sir,” Jake said without thinking or even really hearing himself.
The old man turned to look at him, blinking in surprise and fear. “Liff me alone, boy,” he said. He raised his walking-stick and brandished it clumsily in Jake’s direction.
“Would you know if there’s a place called Markey Academy anyplace around here, sir?” This was utter desperation, but it was the only thing he could think to ask.
The old man slowly lowered his stick-it was the sir that had done it. He looked at Jake with the slightly lunatic interest of the old and almost senile. “How come you not in school, boy?”
Jake smiled wearily. This one was getting very old. “Finals Week. I came down here to look up an old friend of mine who goes to Markey Academy, that’s all. Sorry to have bothered you.”
He stepped around the old man (hoping he wouldn’t decide to whop him one across the ass with his cane just for good luck) and was almost down to the corner when the old man yelled: “Boy! Boyyyyy!”
Jake turned around.
“There is no Markey Akidimy down here,” the old man said. “Twenty-two years I’m living here, so I should know. Markey Avenue, yes, but no Markey Akidimy.”
Jake’s stomach cramped with sudden excitement. He took a step back toward the old, man, who at once raised his cane into a defensive position again. Jake stopped at once, leaving a twenty-foot safety zone between them. “Where’s Markey Avenue, sir? Can you tell me that?”
“Of gorse,” the old man said. “Didn’t I just say I’m livink here twenty-two years? Two blogs down. Turn left at the Majestic Theatre. But I’m tellink you now, there iss no Markey Akidimy.”
“Thank you, sir! Thank you!”
Jake turned around and looked up Castle Avenue. Yes-he could see the unmistakable shape of a movie marquee jutting out over the sidewalk a couple of blocks up. He started to run toward it, then decided that might attract attention and slowed down to a fast walk.
The old man watched him go. “Sir!” he said to himself in a tone of mild amazement. “Sir, yet!”
He chuckled rustily and moved on.
17
ROLAND’s BAND STOPPED AT dusk. The gunslinger dug a shallow pit and lit a fire. They didn’t need it for cooking purposes, but they needed it, nonetheless. Eddie needed it. If he was going to finish his carving, he would need light to work by.
The gunslinger looked around and saw Susannah, a dark silhouette against the fading aquamarine sky, but he didn’t see Eddie.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Down the road apiece. You leave him alone now, Roland-you’ve done enough.”
Roland nodded, bent over the firepit, and struck at a piece of flint with a worn steel bar. Soon the kindling he had gathered was blazing. He added small sticks, one by one, and waited for Eddie to return.
18
HALF A MILE BACK the way they had come, Eddie sat cross-legged in the middle of the Great Road with his unfinished key in one hand, watching the sky. He glanced down the road, saw the spark of the fire, and knew exactly what Roland was doing… and why. Then he turned his gaze to the sky again. He had never felt so lonely or so afraid.
The sky was huge-he could not remember ever seeing so much uninterrupted space, so much pure emptiness. It made him feel very small, and he supposed there was nothing at all wrong with that. In the scheme of things, he was very small.
The boy was close now. He thought he knew where Jake was and what he was about to do, and it filled him with silent wonder. Susannah had come from 1963. Eddie had come from 1987. Between them… Jake. Trying to come over. Trying to be born.
I met him, Eddie thought. I must have met him, and I think I remember… sort of. It was just before Henry went into the Army, right? He was taking courses at Brooklyn Vocational Institute, and he was heavily into black-black jeans, black motorcycle boots with steel caps, black T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Henry’s James Dean look. Smoking Area Chic. I used to think that, but I never said it out loud, because I didn’t want him pissed at me.
He realized that what he had been waiting for had happened while he was thinking: Old Star had come out. In fifteen minutes, maybe less, it would be joined by a whole galaxy of alien jewelry, but for now it gleamed alone in the ungathered darkness.
Eddie slowly held up the key until Old Star gleamed within its wide central notch. And then he recited the old formula of his world, the one his mother had taught him as she knelt beside him at the bedroom window, both of them looking out at the evening star which rode the oncoming darkness above the rooftops and fire-escapes of Brooklyn: “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight; wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”
Old Star glowed in the notch of the key, a diamond caught in ash.
“Help me find some guts,” Eddie said. “That’s my wish. Help me find the guts to try and finish this damned thing.”
He sat there a moment longer, then got to his feet and walked slowly back to camp. He sat down as close to the fire as he could get, took the gunslinger’s knife without a word to either him or Susannah, and began to work. Tiny, curling slivers of wood rolled up from the s-shape at the end of the key. Eddie worked fast, turning the key this way and that, occasionally closing his eyes and letting his thumb slip along the mild curves. He tried not to think about what might happen if the shape were to go wrong-that would freeze him for sure.
Roland and Susannah sat behind him, watching silently. At last Eddie put the knife aside. His face was running with sweat. “This kid of yours,” he said. “This Jake. He must be a gutty brat.”
“He was brave under the mountains,” Roland said. “He was afraid, but never gave an inch.”
“I wish I could be that way.”
Roland shrugged. “At Balazar’s you fought well even though they had taken your clothes. It’s very hard for a man to fight naked, but you did it.”
Eddie tried to remember the shootout in the nightclub, but it was just a blur in his mind-smoke, noise, and light shining through one wall in confused, intersecting rays. He thought that wall had been torn apart by automatic-weapons fire, but couldn’t remember for sure.
He held the key up so its notches were sharply outlined against the flames. He held it that way for a long time, looking mostly at the s-shape. It looked exactly as he remembered it from his dream and from the momentary vision he had seen in the fire… but it didn’t feel exactly right. Almost, but not quite.
That’s just Henry again. That’s just all those years of never being quite good enough. You did it, buddy-it’s just that the Henry inside doesn’t want to admit it.
He dropped the key onto the square of hide and folded the edges carefully around it. “I’m done. I don’t know if it’s right or not, but I guess it’s as right as I can make it.” He felt oddly empty now that he no longer had the key to work on-purposeless and directionless.
“Do you want something to eat, Eddie?” Susannah asked quietly.
There’s your purpose, he thought. There’s your direction. Sitting right over there, with her hands folded in her lap. All the purpose and direction you’ll ever-
But now something else rose in his mind-
it came all at once. Not a dream… not a vision…
No, not either of those. It’s a memory. It’s happening again-you’re remembering forward in time.
“I have to do something else first,” he said, and got up.
On the far side of the fire, Roland had stacked some odd lots of scavenged wood. Eddie hunted through them and found a dry stick about two feet long and four inches or so through the middle. He took it, returning to his place by the fire, and picked up Roland’s knife again. This time he worked faster because he was simply sharpening the stick, turning it into something that looked like a small tent-peg.
“Can we get moving before daybreak?” he asked the gunslinger. “I think we should get to that circle as soon as we can.”
“Yes. Sooner, if we must. I don’t want to move in the dark-a speaking ring is an unsafe place to be at night-but if we have to, we have to.”
“From the look on your face, big boy, I doubt if those stone circles are very safe any time,” Susannah said.
Eddie put the knife aside again. The dirt Roland had taken out of the shallow hole he’d made for the campfire was piled up by Eddie’s right foot. Now he used the sharp end of the stick to carve a question-mark shape in the dirt. The shape was crisp and clear.
“Okay,” he said, brushing it away. “All done.”
“Have something to eat, then,” Susannah said.
Eddie tried, but he wasn’t very hungry. When he finally went to sleep, nestled against Susannah’s warmth, his rest was dreamless but very thin. Until the gunslinger shook him awake at four in the morning, he heard the wind racing endlessly over the plain below them, and it seemed to him that he went with it, flying high into the night, away from these cares, while Old Star and Old Mother rode serenely above him, painting his cheeks with frost.
19
“IT’S TIME,” ROLAND SAID.
Eddie sat up. Susannah sat up beside him, rubbing her palms over her face. As Eddie’s head cleared, his mind was filled with urgency. “Yes. Let’s go, and fast.”
“He’s getting close, isn’t he?”
“Very close.” Eddie got to his feet, grasped Susannah around the waist, and boosted her into her chair.
She was looking at him anxiously. “Do we still have enough time to get there?”
Eddie nodded. “Barely.”
Three minutes later they were headed down the Great Road again. It glimmered ahead of them like a ghost. And an hour after that, as the first light of dawn began to touch the sky in the east, a rhythmic sound began far ahead of them.
The sound of drums, Roland thought.
Machinery, Eddie thought. Some huge piece of machinery.
It’s a heart, Susannah thought. Some huge, diseased, beating heart… and it’s in that city, where we have to go.
Two hours later, the sound stopped as suddenly as it had begun. White, featureless clouds had begun to fill the sky above them, first veiling the early sun, then blotting it out. The circle of standing stones lay less than five miles ahead now, gleaming in the shadowless light like the teeth of a fallen monster.
20
SPAGHETTI WEEK AT THE MAJESTIC!
the battered, dispirited marquee jutting over the corner of Brooklyn and Markey Avenues proclaimed.
2 SERGIO LEONE CLASSIX!
A FISTFUL OF $$ PLUS GOOD BAD amp; UGLY!
99 Cents ALL SHOWS
A gum-chewing cutie with rollers in her blonde hair sat in the box office listening to Led Zep on her transistor and reading one of the tabloids of which Mrs. Shaw was so fond. To her left, in the theater’s remaining display case, there was a poster showing Glint Eastwood.
Jake knew he should get moving-three o’clock was almost here- but he paused a moment anyway, staring at the poster behind the dirty, cracked glass. Eastwood was wearing a Mexican serape. A cigar was clamped in his teeth. He had thrown one side of the serape back over his shoulder to free his gun. His eyes were a pale, faded blue. Bombardier’s eyes.
It’s not him, Jake thought, but it’s almost him. It’s the eyes, mostly… the eyes are almost the same.
“You let me drop,” he said to the man in the old poster, the man who was not Roland. “You let me die. What happens this time?”
“Hey, kid,” the blonde ticket-seller called, making Jake start. “You gonna come in or just stand there and talk to yourself?”
“Not me,” Jake said. “I’ve already seen those two.”
He got moving again, turning left on Markey Avenue.
Once again he waited for the feeling of remembering forward to seize him, but it didn’t come. This was just a hot, sunny street lined with sandstone-colored apartment buildings that looked like prison cellblocks to Jake. A few young women were walking along, pushing baby-carriages in pairs and talking desultorily, but the street was otherwise deserted. It was unseasonably hot for May-too hot to stroll.
What am I looking for? What?
From behind him came a burst of raucous male laughter. It was followed by an outraged female shriek: “You give that back”
Jake jumped, thinking the owner of the voice must mean him.
“Give it back, Henry! I’m not kidding!”
Jake turned and saw two boys, one at least eighteen and the other a lot younger… twelve or thirteen. At the sight of this second boy, Jake’s heart did something that felt like a loop-the-loop in his chest. The lad was wearing green corduroys instead of madras shorts, but the yellow T-shirt was the same, and he had a battered old basketball under one arm. Although his back was to Jake, Jake knew he had found the boy from last night’s dream.
21
THE GIRL WAS THE gum-chewing cutie from the ticket-booth. The older of the two boys-who looked almost old enough to be called a man- had her newspaper in his hands. She grabbed for it. The newspaper-grabber-he was wearing denims and a black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up-held it over his head and grinned.
“Jump for it, Maryanne! Jump, girl, jump!”
She stared at him with angry eyes, her cheeks flushed. “Give it to me!” she said. “Quit fooling around and give it back! Bastard!”
“Oooo wisten to dat, Eddie!” the old kid said. “Bad wang-gwidge! Naughty, naughty!” He waved the newspaper just out of the blonde ticket-seller’s grasp, grinning, and Jake suddenly understood. These two were walking home from school together-although they probably didn’t go to the same one, if he was right about the difference in their ages-and the bigger boy had gone over to the box office, pretending he had something interesting to tell the blonde. Then he had reached through the slot at the bottom and snatched her paper.
The big boy’s face was one that Jake had seen before; it was the face of a kid who would think it the height of hilarity to douse a cat’s tail with lighter fluid or feed a bread-ball with a fishhook planted in the middle to a hungry dog. The sort of lad who sat in the back of the room and snapped bra-straps and then said “Who me?” with a big, dumb look of surprise on his face when someone finally complained. There weren’t many lads like him at Piper, but there were a few. Jake supposed there were a few in every school. They dressed better at Piper, but the face was the same. He guessed that in the old days, people would have said it was the face of a boy who was born to be hung.
Maryanne jumped for her newspaper, which the old boy in the black pants had rolled into a tube. He pulled it out of her reach just before she could grab it, then whacked her on the head with it, the way you might whack a dog for piddling on the carpet. She was beginning to cry now-mostly from humiliation, Jake guessed. Her face was now so red it was almost glowing. “Keep it, then!” she yelled at him. “I know you can’t read, but you can look at the pictures, at least!”
She began to turn away.
“Give it back, why don’t you?” the younger boy-Jake’s boy-said softly.
The old boy held out the newspaper tube. The girl snatched it from him, and even from his place thirty feet farther down the street, Jake heard it rip. “You’re a turd, Henry Dean!”
she cried. “A real turd!”
“Hey, what’s the big deal?” Henry sounded genuinely injured. “It was just a joke. Besides, it only ripped in one place-you can still read it, for Chrissake. Lighten up a little, why don’tcha?”
And that was right, too, Jake thought. Guys like this Henry always pushed even the most unfunny joke two steps too far… then looked wounded and misunderstood when someone yelled at them. And it was always Wassa matter? and it was Can’tcha take a joke? and it was Why don’tcha lighten up a little?
What are you doing with him, kid? Jake wondered. If you’re on my side, what are you doing with a jerk like that?
But as the younger lad turned around and they started to walk down the street again, Jake knew. The old boy’s features were heavier, and his complexion was badly pitted with acne, but otherwise the resemblance was striking. The two boys were brothers.
22
JAKE TURNED AWAY AND began to idle up the sidewalk ahead of the two boys. He reached into his breast pocket with a shaky hand, pulled out his father’s sunglasses, and managed to fumble them onto his face.
Voices swelled behind him, as if someone was gradually turning up the volume on a radio.
“You shouldn’t have ranked on her that bad, Henry. It was mean.”
“She loves it, Eddie.” Henry’s voice was complacent, worldly-wise. “When you get a little older, you’ll understand.”
“She was cryin.”
“Prob’ly got the rag on,” Henry said in a philosophical tone.