Susannah, still holding the revolver with the sandalwood grips in one hand, twists the throttle with the other. The little electric cart-the one she named Ho Fat III, although that is already fading in her mind-rolls soundlessly forward. It passes a green trash barrel with KEEP LITTER IN ITS PLACE! stenciled on the side. She tosses Roland's revolver into this litter barrel.
Doing it hurts her heart, but she never hesitates. It's heavy, and sinks into the crumpled fast-food wrappers, advertising circulars, and discarded newspapers like a stone into water. She is still enough of a gunslinger to bitterly regret throwing away such a storied weapon (even if the final trip between worlds has spoiled it), but she's already become enough of the woman who's waiting for her up ahead not to pause or look back once the job is done.
Before she can reach the man with the paper cup, he turns.
He is indeed wearing a sweatshirt that says i DRINK NOZZ-A-LA!, but she barely registers that. It's him: that's what she registers.
It's Edward Cantor Dean. And then even that becomes secondary, because what she sees in his eyes is all she has feared.
It's total puzzlement. He doesn't know her.
Then, tentatively, he smiles, and it is the smile she remembers, the one she always loved. Also he's clean, she knows it at once. She sees it in his face. Mostly in his eyes. The carolers from Harlem sing, and he holds out the cup of hot chocolate.
"Thank God," he says. "I'd just about decided I'd have to drink this myself. That the voices were wrong and I was going crazy after all. That... well..." He trails off, looking more than puzzled. He looks afraid. "Listen, you are here for me, aren't you? Please tell me I'm not making an utter ass of myself.
Because, lady, right now I feel as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs."
"You're not," she says. "Making an ass of yourself, I mean."
She's remembering Take's story about the voices he heard arguing in his mind, one yelling that he was dead, the other that he was alive. Both of them utterly convinced. She has at least some idea of how terrible that must be, because she knows a little about other voices. Strange voices.
"Thank God," he says. 'Your name is Susannah?"
"Yes," she says. "My name is Susannah."
Her throat is terribly dry, but the words come out, at least.
She takes the cup from him and sips the hot chocolate through the cream. It is sweet and good, a taste of this world. The sound of the honking cabs, their drivers hurrying to make their day before the snow shuts them down, is equally good.
Grinning, he reaches out and wipes a tiny dab of the cream from the tip of her nose. His touch is electric, and she sees that he feels it, too. It occurs to her that he is going to kiss her again for the first time, and sleep with her again for the first time, and fall in love with her again for the first time. He may know those diings because voices have told him, but she knows them for a far better reason: because those things have already happened.
Ka is a wheel, Roland said, and now she knows it's true.
Her memories of
(Mid-World)
the gunslinger's where and when are growing hazy, but she thinks she will remember just enough to know it's all happened before, and there is something incredibly sad about this.
But at the same time, it's good.
It's a damn miracle, is what it is...
"Are you cold?" he asks.
"No, I'm okay. Why?"
"You shivered."
"It's the sweetness of the cream." Then, looking at him as she does it, she pokes her tongue out and licks a bit of the nutmeg-dusted foam.
"If you aren't cold now, you will be," he says. "WRKO says the temperature's gonna drop twenty degrees tonight. So I bought you something." From his back pocket he takes a knitted cap, the kind you can pull down over your ears. She looks at the front of it and sees the words there printed in red: MERRY CHRISTMAS...
"Bought it in Brendio's, on Fifth Avenue," he says.
Susannah has never heard of Brendio's. Brentano's, maybe-the bookstore-but not Brendio's. But of course in the America where she grew up, she never heard of Nozz-A-La or Takuro Spirit automobiles, either. "Did your voices tell you to buy it?" Teasing him a little now.
He blushes. "Actually, you know, they sort of did. Try it on."
It's a perfect fit.
"Tell me something," she says. "Who's the President? You're not going to tell me it's Ronald Reagan, are you?"
He looks at her incredulously for a moment, and then smiles. "What? That old actor who used to host Death Valley Days on TV? You're kidding, right?"
"Nope. I always thought you were the one who was kidding about Ronnie Reagan, Eddie."
"I don't know what you mean."
"That's okay, just tell me who the President is."
"Gary Hart," he says, as if speaking to a child. "From Colorado.
He almost dropped out of the race in 1980-as I'm sure you know-over that Monkey Business business. Then he said
"Fuck em if they can't take a joke' and hung on in there. Ended up winning in a landslide."
His smile fades a little as he studies her.
"You're not kidding me, are you?"
"Are you kidding me about the voices? The ones you hear in our head? The ones that wake you up at two in the morning?"
Eddie looks almost shocked. "How can you know that?"
"It's a long story. Maybe someday I'll tell you." If I can still remember, she thinks.
"It's not just the voices."
"No?"
"No. I've been dreaming of you. For months now. I've been waiting for you. Listen, we don't know each other... this is crazy... but do you have a place to stay? You don't, do you?"
She shakes her head. Doing a passable John Wayne (or maybe it's Blaine the train she's imitating), she says: "Ah'm a stranger here in Dodge, pilgrim."
Her heart is pounding slowly and heavily in her chest, but she feels a rising joy. This is going to be all right. She doesn't know how it can be, but yes, it's going to be just fine. This time ka is working in her favor, and the force of ka is enormous. This she knows from experience.
"If I asked how I know you... or where you come from..."
He pauses, looking at her levelly, and then says the rest of it.
"Or how I can possibly love you already...?"
She smiles. It feels good to smile, and it no longer hurts die side of her face, because whatever was there (some sort of scar, maybe-she can't quite remember) is gone. "Sugar," she tells him, "it's what I said: a long story. You'll get some of it in time, though... what I remember of it. And it could be that we still have some work to do. For an outfit called the Tet Corporation."
She looks around and then says, "What year is this?"
"1987," he says.
"And do you live in Brooklyn? Or maybe the Bronx?"
The young man whose dreams and squabbling voices have led him here-with a cup of hot chocolate in his hand and a MERRY CHRISTMAS hat in his back pocket-bursts out laughing. "God, no! I'm from White Plains! I came in on the train with my brother. He's right over there. He wanted a closer look at the polar bears."
The brother. Henry. The great sage and eminent junkie.
Her heart sinks.
"Let me introduce you," he says.
"No, really, I-"
"Hey, if we're gonna be friends, you gotta be friends with my kid brother. We're tight. Jake! Hey, Jake!"
She hasn't noticed the boy standing down by the railing which guards the sunken polar bears' environment from the rest of the park, but now he turns and her heart takes a great, giddy leap in her chest. Jake waves and ambles toward them.
"Jake's been dreaming about you, too," Eddie tells her. "It's the only reason I know I'm not going crazy. Any crazier than usual, at least."
She takes Eddie's hand-that familiar, well-loved hand.
And when the fingers close over hers, she thinks she will die of joy. She will have many questions-so will they-but for the time being she has only one that feels important. As the snow begins to fall more thickly around them, landing in his hair and in his lashes and on the shoulders of his sweatshirt, she asks it.
"You and Jake-what's your last name?"
"Toren," he says. "It's German."
Before either of them can say anything else, Jake joins them. And will I tell you that these three lived happily ever after? I will not, for no one ever does. But there was happiness.
And they didlive.
Beneath the flowing and sometimes glimpsed glammer of the Beam that connects Shardik the Bear and Maturin the Turtle by way of the Dark Tower, they did live.
That's all.
That's enough.
Say thankya.
FOUND (CODA)
ONE
I've told my tale all the way to the end, and am satisfied. It was
(I set my watch and warrant on it) the kind only a good God would save for last, full of monsters and marvels and voyaging here and there. I can stop now, put my pen down, and rest my weary hand (although perhaps not forever; the hand that tells the tales has a mind of its own, and a way of growing restless).
I can close my eyes to Mid-World and all that lies beyond Mid-
World. Yet some of you who have provided the ears without which no tale can survive a single day are likely not so willing.
You are the grim, goal-oriented ones who will not believe that the joy is in the journey rather than the destination no matter how many times it has been proven to you. You are the unfortunate ones who still get the lovemaking all confused with the paltry squirt that comes to end the lovemaking (the orgasm is, after all, God's way of telling us we've finished, at least for the time being, and should go to sleep). You are the cruel ones who deny the Grey Havens, where tired characters go to rest. You say you want to know how it all comes out. You say you want to follow Roland into the Tower; you say that is what you paid your money for, the show you came to see.