The Drawing of the Three (20 page)

The day came when Eddie caught Henry not snorting but skin-popping. There had been another hysterical argument, an almost exact repeat of the first one, except it had been in Henry’s bedroom. It ended in almost exactly the same way, with Henry weeping and offering that implacable, inarguable defense that was utter surrender, utter admission: Eddie was right, he wasn’t fit to live, not fit to eat garbage from the gutter. He would go. Eddie would never have to see him again. He just hoped he would remember all the . . .

It faded into a drone that wasn’t much different from the rocky sound of the breaking waves as they trudged up the beach. Roland knew the story and said nothing. It was
Eddie
who didn’t know the story, an Eddie who was really clear-headed for the first time in maybe ten years or more. Eddie wasn’t telling the story to Roland; Eddie was finally telling the story to himself.

That was all right. So far as the gunslinger could see, time was something they had a lot of. Talk was one way to fill it.

Eddie said he was haunted by Henry’s knee, the twisted scar tissue up and down his leg (of course that was all healed now, Henry barely even limped . . . except when he and Eddie were quarrelling; then the limp always seemed to get worse); he was haunted by all the things Henry had given up for him, and haunted by something much more pragmatic: Henry wouldn’t last out on the streets. He would be like a rabbit let loose in a jungle filled with tigers. On his own, Henry would wind up in jail or Bellevue before a week was out.

So he begged, and Henry finally did him the favor of consenting to stick around, and six months after that Eddie also had a golden arm. From that moment things had begun to move in the steady and inevitable downward spiral which had ended with Eddie’s trip to the Bahamas and Roland’s sudden intervention in his life.

Another man, less pragmatic and more introspective than Roland, might have asked (to himself, if not right out loud),
Why this one? Why this man to start? Why a man who seems to promise weakness or strangeness or even outright doom?

Not only did the gunslinger never ask the question; it never even formulated itself in his mind. Cuthbert would have asked; Cuthbert had questioned everything, had been poisoned with questions, had died with one in his mouth. Now they were gone, all gone. Cort’s last gunslingers, the thirteen survivors of a beginning class that had numbered fifty-six, were all dead. All dead but Roland. He was the last gunslinger, going steadily on in a world that had grown stale and sterile and empty.

Thirteen,
he remembered Cort saying on the day before the Presentation Ceremonies.
This is an evil number.
And on the following day, for the first time in thirty years, Cort had not been present at the Ceremonies. His final crop of pupils had gone to his cottage to first kneel at his feet, presenting defenseless necks, then to rise and receive his congratulatory kiss and to allow him to load their guns for the first time. Nine weeks later, Cort was dead. Of poison, some said. Two years after his death, the final bloody civil war had begun. The red slaughter had reached the last bastion of civilization, light, and sanity, and had taken away what all of them had assumed was so strong with the casual ease of a wave taking a child’s castle of sand.

So he was the last, and perhaps he had survived because the dark romance in his nature was overset by his practicality and simplicity. He understood that only three things mattered: mortality,
ka,
and the Tower.

Those were enough things to think about.

Eddie finished his tale around four o’clock on the third day of their northward journey up the featureless beach. The beach itself
never seemed to change. If a sign of progress was wanted, it could only be obtained by looking left, to the east. There the jagged peaks of the mountains had begun to soften and slump a bit. It was possible that if they went north far enough, the mountains would become rolling hills.

With his story told, Eddie lapsed into silence and they walked without speaking for a half an hour or longer. Eddie kept stealing little glances at him. Roland knew Eddie wasn’t aware that he was picking these glances up; he was still too much in himself. Roland also knew what Eddie was waiting for: a response. Some kind of response.
Any
kind. Twice Eddie opened his mouth only to close it again. Finally he asked what the gunslinger had known he would ask.

“So? What do you think?”

“I think you’re here.”

Eddie stopped, fisted hands planted on his hips. “That’s
all?
That’s
it?
”

“That’s all I know,” the gunslinger replied. His missing fingers and toe throbbed and itched. He wished for some of the
astin
from Eddie’s world.

“You don’t have any opinion on what the hell it all
means?
”

The gunslinger might have held up his subtracted right hand and said,
Think about what
this
means, you silly idiot,
but it no more crossed his mind to say this than it had to ask why it was Eddie, out of all the people in all the universes that might exist. “It’s
ka,
” he said, facing Eddie patiently.

“What’s
ka?
” Eddie’s voice was truculent. “I never heard of it. Except if you say it twice you come out with the baby word for shit.”

“I don’t know about that,” the gunslinger said. “Here it means duty, or destiny, or, in the vulgate, a place you must go.”

Eddie managed to look dismayed, disgusted, and amused all at the same time. “Then say it twice, Roland, because words like that sound like shit to this kid.”

The gunslinger shrugged. “I don’t discuss philosophy. I don’t study history. All I know is what’s past is past, and what’s ahead is ahead. The second is
ka,
and takes care of itself.”

“Yeah?” Eddie looked northward. “Well all I see ahead is about nine billion miles of this same fucking beach. If
that’s
what’s ahead,
ka
and kaka are the same thing. We might have enough good shells to pop five or six more of those lobster dudes, but then we’re going to be down to chucking rocks at them. So where are we
going?
”

Roland
did
wonder briefly if this was a question Eddie had ever thought to ask his brother, but to ask such a question would only be an invitation to a lot of meaningless argument. So he only cocked a thumb northward and said, “There. To begin with.”

Eddie looked and saw nothing but the same reach of shell- and rock-studded gray shingle. He looked back at Roland, about to scoff, saw the serene certainty on his face, and looked again. He squinted. He shielded the right side of his face from the westering sun with his right hand. He wanted desperately to see something,
anything,
shit, even a mirage would do, but there was nothing.

“Crap on me all you want to,” Eddie said slowly, “but I say it’s a goddam mean trick. I put my life on the line for you at Balazar’s.”

“I know you did.” The gunslinger smiled—a rarity that lit his face like a momentary flash of sunlight on a dismal louring day. “That’s why I’ve done nothing but square-deal you, Eddie. It’s there. I saw it an hour ago. At first I thought it was only a mirage or wishful thinking, but it’s there, all right.”

Eddie looked again, looked until water ran from the corners of his eyes. At last he said, “I don’t see anything up ahead but more beach. And I got twenty-twenty vision.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means if there was something there to see, I’d
see
it!” But Eddie wondered. Wondered how much further than his own the gunslinger’s blue bullshooter’s eyes could see. Maybe a little.

Maybe a
lot.

“You’ll see it,” the gunslinger said.

“See
what?
”

“We won’t get there today, but if you see as well as you say, you’ll see it before the sun hits the water. Unless you just want to stand here chin-jawing, that is.”

“Ka,”
Eddie said in a musing voice.

Roland nodded.
“Ka.”

“Kaka,”
Eddie said, and laughed. “Come on, Roland. Let’s take a hike. And if I
don’t
see anything by the time the sun hits the water, you owe me a chicken dinner. Or a Big Mac. Or
anything
that isn’t lobster.”

“Come on.”

They started walking again, and it was at least a full hour before the sun’s lower arc touched the horizon when Eddie Dean began to see the shape in the distance—vague, shimmering, indefinable, but definitely
something.
Something
new.

“Okay,” he said. “I see it. You must have eyes like Superman.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. You’ve got a really incredible case of culture lag, you know it?”

“What?”

Eddie laughed. “Never mind. What is it?”

“You’ll see.” The gunslinger started walking again before Eddie could ask anything else.

Twenty minutes later Eddie thought he
did
see. Fifteen minutes after that he was sure. The object on the beach was still two, maybe three miles away, but he knew what it was. A door, of course. Another door.

Neither of them slept well that night, and they were up and walking an hour before the sun cleared the eroding shapes of the mountains. They reached the door just as the morning sun’s first rays, so sublime and so still, broke over them. Those rays lighted their stubbly cheeks like lamps. They made the gunslinger forty again, and Eddie no older than Roland had been when he went out to fight Cort with his hawk David as his weapon.

This door was exactly like the first, except for what was writ upon it:

“So,” Eddie said softly, looking at the door which simply stood here with its hinges grounded in some unknown jamb between one world and another, one universe and another. It stood with its graven message, real as rock and strange as starlight.

“So,” the gunslinger agreed.

“Ka.”

“Ka.”

“Here is where you draw the second of your three?”

“It seems so.”

The gunslinger knew what was in Eddie’s mind before Eddie knew it himself. He saw Eddie make his move before Eddie knew he was moving. He could have turned and broken Eddie’s arm in two places before Eddie knew it was happening, but he made no move. He let Eddie snake the revolver from his right holster. It was the first time in his life he had allowed one of his weapons to be taken from him without an offer of that weapon having first been made. Yet he made no move to stop it. He turned and looked at Eddie equably, even mildly.

Eddie’s face was livid, strained. His eyes showed starey whites all the way around the irises. He held the heavy revolver in both hands and still the muzzle rambled from side to side, centering, moving off, centering again and then moving off again.

“Open it,” he said.

“You’re being foolish,” the gunslinger said in the same mild voice. “Neither of us has any idea where that door goes. It needn’t open on your
universe,
let alone upon your world. For all either of us know, the Lady of Shadows might have eight eyes and nine arms, like Suvia. Even if it does open on your world, it might be on a time long before you were born or long after you would have died.”

Eddie smiled tightly. “Tell you what, Monty: I’m more than willing to trade the rubber chicken and the shitty seaside vacation for what’s behind Door #2.”

“I don’t understand y—”

“I know you don’t. It doesn’t matter. Just open the fucker.”

The gunslinger shook his head.

They stood in the dawn, the door casting its slanted shadow toward the ebbing sea.

“Open it!”
Eddie cried. “I’m going with you! Don’t you get it? I’m going
with
you! That doesn’t mean I won’t come back. Maybe I will. I mean,
probably
I will. I guess I owe you that much. You been square-john with me down the line, don’t think I’m not aware of the fact. But while you get whoever this Shadow-Babe is, I’m gonna find the nearest Chicken Delight and pick me up some take-out. I think the Thirty-Piece Family Pak should do for starters.”

“You stay here.”

“You think I don’t mean it?” Eddie was shrill now, close to the edge. The gunslinger could almost see him looking down into the drifty depths of his own damnation. Eddie thumbed back the revolver’s ancient hammer. The wind had fallen with the break of the day and the ebb of the tide, and the click of the hammer as Eddie brought it to full cock was very clear. “You just try me.”

“I think I will,” the gunslinger said.

“I’ll shoot you!”
Eddie screamed.

“Ka,”
the gunslinger replied stolidly, and turned to the door. He was reaching for the knob, but his heart was waiting: waiting to see if he would live or die.

Ka.

Stripped of jargon, what Adler said was this: the perfect schizophrenic—if there was such a person—would be a man or woman not only unaware of his other persona(e), but one unaware that anything at all was amiss in his or her life.

Adler should have met Detta Walker and Odetta Holmes.

“—last gunslinger,” Andrew said.

He had been talking for quite awhile, but Andrew always talked and Odetta usually just let it flow over her mind the way you let warm water flow over your hair and face in the shower. But this did more than catch her attention; it snagged it, as if on a thorn.

“I beg pardon?”

“Oh, it was just some column in the paper,” Andrew said. “I dunno who wrote it. I didn’t notice. One of those political fellas. Prob’ly you’d know, Miz Holmes. I loved him, and I cried the night he was elected—”

She smiled, touched in spite of herself. Andrew said his ceaseless chatter was something he couldn’t stop, wasn’t responsible for, that it was just the Irish in him coming out, and most of it was nothing—cluckings and chirrupings about relatives and friends she
would never meet, half-baked political opinions, weird scientific commentary gleaned from any number of weird sources (among other things, Andrew was a firm believer in flying saucers, which he called
you-foes
)—but this touched her because she had also cried the night he was elected.

“But I didn’t cry when that son of a bitch—pardon my French, Miz Holmes—when that son of a bitch Oswald shot him, and I hadn’t cried since, and it’s been—what, two months?”

Three months and two days,
she thought.

“Something like that, I guess.”

Andrew nodded. “Then I read this column—in
The Daily News,
it mighta been—yesterday, about how Johnson’s probably gonna do a pretty good job, but it won’t be the same. The guy said America had seen the passage of the world’s last gunslinger.”

“I don’t think John Kennedy was that at all,” Odetta said, and if her voice was sharper than the one Andrew was accustomed to hearing (which it must have been, because she saw his eyes give a startled blink in the rear-view mirror, a blink that was more like a wince), it was because she felt herself touched by this, too. It was absurd, but it was also a fact. There was something about that phrase
—America has seen the passage of the world’s last gunslinger
—that rang deeply in her mind. It was ugly, it was untrue—John Kennedy had been a peacemaker, not a leather-slapping Billy the Kid type, that was more in the Goldwater line—but it had also for some reason given her goosebumps.

“Well, the guy said there would be no shortage of shooters in the world,” Andrew went on, regarding her nervously in the rear-view mirror. “He mentioned Jack Ruby for one, and Castro, and this fellow in Haiti—”

“Duvalier,” she said. “Papa Doc.”

“Yeah, him, and Diem—”

“The Diem brothers are dead.”

“Well, he said Jack Kennedy was different, that’s all. He said he would draw, but only if someone weaker needed him to draw, and only
if there was nothing else to do. He said Kennedy was savvy enough to know that sometimes talking don’t do no good. He said Kennedy knew if it’s foaming at the mouth you have to shoot it.”

His eyes continued to regard her apprehensively.

“Besides, it was just some column I read.”

The limo was gliding up Fifth Avenue now, headed toward Central Park West, the Cadillac emblem on the end of the hood cutting the frigid February air.

“Yes,” Odetta said mildly, and Andrew’s eyes relaxed a trifle. “I understand. I don’t agree, but I understand.”

You are a liar,
a voice spoke up in her mind. This was a voice she heard quite often. She had even named it. It was the voice of The Goad.
You understand perfectly and agree completely. Lie to Andrew if you feel it necessary, but for God’s sake don’t lie to yourself, woman.

Yet part of her protested, horrified. In a world which had become a nuclear powder keg upon which nearly a billion people now sat, it was a mistake—perhaps one of suicidal proportions—to believe there was a difference between good shooters and bad shooters. There were too many shaky hands holding lighters near too many fuses. This was no world for gunslingers. If there had ever been a time for them, it had passed.

Hadn’t it?

She closed her eyes briefly and rubbed at her temples. She could feel one of her headaches coming on. Sometimes they threatened, like an ominous buildup of thunderheads on a hot summer afternoon, and then blew away . . . as those ugly summer brews sometimes simply slipped away in one direction or another, to stomp their thunders and lightnings into the ground of some other place.

She thought, however, that this time the storm was going to happen. It would come complete with thunder, lightning, and hail the size of golf-balls.

The streetlights marching up Fifth Avenue seemed much too bright.

“So how was Oxford, Miz Holmes?” Andrew asked tentatively.

“Humid. February or not, it was very humid.” She paused, telling herself she wouldn’t say the words that were crowding up her throat like bile, that she would swallow them back down. To say them would be needlessly brutal. Andrew’s talk of the world’s last gunslinger had been just more of the man’s endless prattling. But on top of everything else it was just a bit too much and it came out anyway, what she had no business saying. Her voice sounded as calm and as resolute as ever, she supposed, but she was not fooled: she knew a blurt when she heard one. “The bail bondsman came very promptly, of course; he had been notified in advance. They held onto us as long as they could nevertheless, and I held on as long as
I
could, but I guess they won that one, because I ended up wetting myself.” She saw Andrew’s eyes wince away again and she wanted to stop and couldn’t stop. “It’s what they want to teach you, you see. Partly because it frightens you, I suppose, and a frightened person may not come down to their precious Southland and bother them again. But I think most of them—even the dumb ones and they are by all means not all dumb—know the change will come in the end no matter what they do, and so they take the chance to degrade you while they still can. To teach you you
can
be degraded. You can swear before God, Christ, and the whole company of Saints that you will not, will not,
will not
soil yourself, but if they hold onto you long enough of course you do. The lesson is that you’re just an animal in a cage, no more than that, no better than that. Just an animal in a cage. So I wet myself. I can still smell dried urine and that damned holding cell. They think we are descended from the monkeys, you know. And that’s exactly what I smell like to myself right now.

“A monkey.”

She saw Andrew’s eyes in the rear-view mirror and was sorry for the way his eyes looked. Sometimes your urine wasn’t the only thing you couldn’t hold.

“I’m sorry, Miz Holmes.”

“No,” she said, rubbing at her temples again. “I am the one who is sorry. It’s been a trying three days, Andrew.”

“I should think
so,
” he said in a shocked old-maidish voice that made her laugh in spite of herself. But most of her wasn’t laughing.
She thought she had known what she was getting into, that she had fully anticipated how bad it could get. She had been wrong.

A trying three days.
Well, that was one way to put it. Another might be that her three days in Oxford, Mississippi had been a short season in hell. But there were some things you couldn’t say. Some things you would die before saying . . . unless you were called upon to testify to them before the Throne of God the Father Almighty, where, she supposed, even the truths that caused the hellish thunderstorms in that strange gray jelly between your ears (the scientists said that gray jelly was nerveless, and if
that
wasn’t a hoot and a half she didn’t know what was) must be admitted.

“I just want to get home and bathe, bathe, bathe, and sleep, sleep, sleep. Then I reckon I will be as right as rain.”

“Why, sure! That’s just what you’re going to be!” Andrew wanted to apologize for something, and this was as close as he could come. And beyond this he didn’t want to risk further conversation. So the two of them rode in unaccustomed silence to the gray Victorian block of apartments on the corner of Fifth and Central Park South, a very exclusive gray Victorian block of apartments, and she supposed that made her a blockbuster, and she
knew
there were people in those poshy-poshy flats who would not speak to her unless they absolutely had to, and she didn’t really care. Besides, she was above them, and they
knew
she was above them. It had occurred to her on more than one occasion that it must have galled some of them mightily, knowing there was a nigger living in the penthouse apartment of this fine staid old building where once the only black hands allowed had been clad in white gloves or perhaps the thin black leather ones of a chauffeur. She hoped it
did
gall them mightily, and scolded herself for being mean, for being
unchristian,
but she
did
wish it, she hadn’t been able to stop the piss pouring into the crotch of her fine silk imported underwear and she didn’t seem to be able to stop this other flood of piss, either. It was mean, it was unchristian, and almost as bad—no,
worse,
at least as far as the Movement was concerned, it was counterproductive. They were going to win the rights they needed to win, and probably this year: Johnson, mindful of the legacy which had been left
him by the slain President (and perhaps hoping to put another nail in the coffin of Barry Goldwater), would do more than oversee the passage of the Civil Rights Act; if necessary he would
ram
it into law. So it was important to minimize the scarring and the hurt. There was more work to be done. Hate would not help do that work. Hate would, in fact, hinder it.

But sometimes you went on hating just the same.

Oxford Town had taught her that, too.

Detta Walker had absolutely no interest in the Movement and much more modest digs. She lived in the loft of a peeling Greenwich Village apartment building. Odetta didn’t know about the loft and Detta didn’t know about the penthouse and the only one left who suspected something was not quite right was Andrew Feeny, the chauffeur. He had begun working for Odetta’s father when Odetta was fourteen and Detta Walker hardly existed at all.

Sometimes Odetta disappeared. These disappearances might be a matter of hours or of days. Last summer she had disappeared for three weeks and Andrew had been ready to call the police when Odetta called
him
one evening and asked him to bring the car around at ten the next day—she planned to do some shopping, she said.

It trembled on his lips to cry out
Miz Holmes! Where have you been?
But he had asked this before and had received only puzzled stares
—truly
puzzled stares, he was sure—in return.
Right here,
she would say.
Why, right here, Andrew—you’ve been driving me two or three places every day, haven’t you? You aren’t starting to go a little mushy in the head, are you?
Then she would laugh and if she was feeling especially good (as she often seemed to feel after her disappearances), she would pinch his cheek.

“Very good, Miz Holmes,” he had said. “Ten it is.”

That scary time she had been gone for three weeks, Andrew had
put down the phone, closed his eyes, and said a quick prayer to the Blessed Virgin for Miz Holmes’s safe return. Then he had rung Howard, the doorman at her building.

“What time did she come in?”

“Just about twenty minutes ago,” Howard said.

“Who brought her?”

“Dunno. You know how it is. Different car every time. Sometimes they park around the block and I don’t see ’em at all, don’t even know she’s back until I hear the buzzer and look out and see it’s her.” Howard paused, then added: “She’s got one hell of a bruise on her cheek.”

Howard had been right. It sure had been one hell of a bruise, and now it was getting better. Andrew didn’t like to think what it might have looked like when it was fresh. Miz Holmes appeared promptly at ten the next morning, wearing a silk sundress with spaghetti-thin straps (this had been late July), and by then the bruise had started to yellow. She had made only a perfunctory effort to cover it with make-up, as if knowing that too much effort to cover it would only draw further attention to it.

“How did you get
that,
Miz Holmes?” he asked.

She laughed merrily. “You know me, Andrew—clumsy as ever. My hand slipped on the grab-handle while I was getting out of the tub yesterday—I was in a hurry to catch the national news. I fell and banged the side of my face.” She gauged
his
face. “You’re getting ready to start blithering about doctors and examinations, aren’t you? Don’t bother answering; after all these years I can read you like a book. I won’t go, so you needn’t bother asking. I’m just as fine as paint. Onward, Andrew! I intend to buy half of Saks, all of Gimbels, and eat everything at Four Seasons in between.”

“Yes, Miz Holmes,” he had said, and smiled. It was a forced smile, and forcing it was not easy. That bruise wasn’t a
day
old; it was a week old, at least . . . and he knew better, anyway, didn’t he? He had called her every night at seven o’clock for the last week, because if there was one time when you could catch Miz Holmes in her place, it was when the
Huntley-Brinkley Report
came on. A regular junkie for
her news was Miz Holmes. He had done it every night, that was, except last night. Then he had gone over and wheedled the passkey from Howard. A conviction had been growing on him steadily that she had had just the sort of accident she had described . . . only instead of getting a bruise or a broken bone, she had died, died alone, and was lying up there dead right now. He had let himself in, heart thumping, feeling like a cat in a dark room criss-crossed with piano wires. Only there had been nothing to be nervous about. There was a butter-dish on the kitchen counter, and although the butter had been covered it had been out long enough to be growing a good crop of mould. He got there at ten minutes of seven and had left by five after. In the course of his quick examination of the apartment, he had glanced into the bathroom. The tub had been dry, the towels neatly—even austerely—arrayed, the room’s many grab-handles polished to a bright steel gleam that was unspotted with water.