[I think that therell be plenty of time for getting up to dickens later, Ralph  tonights for sleeping.] He supposed she was right. Five minutes ago he had been more than willing  he had always loved the act of physical love, and it had been a long time. For now, however, the spark was gone. Ralph didnt regret that in the least. He knew, after all, where it had gone. [Okay, Lois  tonights for sleeping.] She went into the bathroom and the shower went on. A few minutes later, Ralph heard her brushing her teeth. It was nice to know she still had them. During the ten minutes she was gone he managed to do a certain amount of undressing, although his throbbing ribs made it slow work. He finally succeeded in wriggling McGoverns sweater off and pushing out of his shoes. His shirt came next, and he was fumbling ineffectually with the buckle of his belt when Lois came out with her hair tied back and her face shining. Ralph was stunned by her beauty, and suddenly felt much too big and stupid (not to mention old) for his own good. She was wearing a long rosecolored silk nightgown and he could smell the lotion she had used on her hands. It was a good smell. Let me do that, she said, and had his belt unbuckled before he could say much, one way or the other. There was nothing erotic about it; she moved with the efficiency of a woman who had often helped her husband dress and undress during the last year of his life. Were down again, he said. This time I didnt even feel it happening. I did, while I was in the shower. I was glad, actually. Trying to wash your hair through an aura is very distracting. The wind gusted outside, shaking the house and blowing a long, shivering note across the mouth of a downspout. They looked toward the window, and although he was back down on the ShortTime level, Ralph was suddenly sure that Lois was sharing his own thought Atropos was out there somewhere right now, no doubt disappointed by the way things had gone but by no means crushed, bloody but unbowed, down but not out. From now on they can call him Old OneEar, Ralph thought, and shivered. He imagined Atropos swinging erratically through the scared, excited populace of the city like a rogue asteroid, peering and hiding, stealing souvenirs and slashing balloonstrings . . . taking solace in his work, in other words. Ralph found it almost impossible to believe that he had been sitting on top of that creature and slashing at him with his own scalpel not very long ago. How did I ever find the courage? he wondered, but he supposed he knew. The diamond earrings the little monster had been wearing had provided most of it. Did Atropos know those earrings had been his biggest mistake? Probably not. In his way, Doc 3 had proved even more ignorant of ShortTime motivations than Clotho and Lachesis. He turned to Lois and grasped her hands. I lost your earrings again. This time theyre gone for good, I think. Im sorry. Dont apologize. They were already lost, remember? And Im not worried about Harold and Jan anymore, because now Ive got a friend to help me when people dont treat me right, or when I just get scared. Dont I? Yes. You most certainly do. She put her arms around him, hugged him tightly, and kissed him again. Lois had apparently not forgotten a single thing shed ever learned about kissing, and it seemed to Ralph that shed learned quite a lot. Go on and hop in the shower. He started to say that he thought hed fall asleep the moment he got his head under a stream of warm water, but then she added something which changed his mind in a hurry Dont take offense, but theres a funny smell on you, especially on your hands. Its the way my brother Vic used to smell after hed spent the day cleaning fish. Ralph was in the shower two minutes later, and in soapsuds up to his elbows. 10 When he came out, Lois was buried beneath two puffy quilts. Only her face showed, and that was visible only from the nose up. Ralph crossed the room quickly, wearing only his undershorts and painfully conscious of his spindly legs and potbelly. He tossed back the covers and slid in quickly, gasping a little as the cool sheets slid along his warm skin. Lois slipped over to his side of the bed at once and put her arms around him. He put his face in her hair and let himself relax against her. It was very good, being with Lois under the quilts while the wind shrieked and gusted outside, sometimes hard enough to rattle the storm windows in their frames. It was, in fact, heaven. Thank God theres a man in my bed, Lois said sleepily. Thank God its me, Ralph replied, and she laughed. Are your ribs okay? Do you want me to find you an aspirin? Nope. Im sure theyll hurt again in the morning, but right now the hot water seems to have loosened everything up. The subject of what might or might not happen in the morning raised a question in his mind  one that had probably been waiting there all along. Lois? Mmmmm? In his minds eye Ralph could see himself snapping awake in the dark, deeply tired but not at all sleepy (it was surely one of the worlds cruelest paradoxes), as the numbers on the digital clock turned wearily over from 347 a.m. to 348. F. Scott Fitzgeralds dark night of the soul, when every hour was long enough to build the Great Pyramid of Cheops. Do you think well sleep through? he asked her. Yes, she said unhesitatingly. I think well sleep just fine. A moment later, Lois was doing just that. 11 Ralph stayed awake for perhaps five minutes longer, holding her in his arms, smelling the wonderful interwoven scents rising from her warm skin, luxuriating in the smooth, sensuous glide of the silk under his hands, marvelling at where he was even more than the events which had brought him here. He was filled with some deep and simple emotion, one he recognized but could not immediately name, perhaps because it had been gone from his life too long. The wind gusted and moaned outside, producing that hollow hooting sound over the top of the drainpipe again  like the worlds biggest Nirvana Boy blowing over the mouth of the worlds biggest popbottle  and it occurred to Ralph that maybe nothing in life was better than lying deep in a soft bed with a sleeping woman in your arms while the fall wind screamed outside your safe haven. Except there was something better, one thing, at least, and that was the feeling of falling asleep, of going gently into that good night, slipping out into the currents of unknowing the way a canoe slips away from a dock and slides into the current of a wide, slow river on a bright summer day. Of all the things which make up our ShortTime lives, sleep is surely the best, Ralph thought. The wind gusted again outside (the sound of it now seeming to come from a great distance) and as he felt the tug of that great river take him, he was finally able to identify the emotion he had been feeling ever since Lois had put her arms around him and fallen asleep as easily and as trustingly as a child. It went under many different names  peace, serenity, fulfillment  but now, as the wind blew and Lois made some dark sound of sleeping contentment far back in her throat, it seemed to Ralph that it was one of those rare things which are known but essentially unnameable a texture, an aura, perhaps a whole level of being in that column of existence. It was the smooth russet color of rest; it was the silence which follows the completion of some arduous but necessary task. When the wind gusted again, bringing the sound of distant sirens with it, Ralph didnt hear it. He was asleep. Once he dreamed that he got up to use the bathroom, and he supposed that might not have been a dream. At another time he dreamed that he and Lois made slow, sweet love, and that might not have been a dream, either. If there were other dreams or moments of waking, he did not remember them, and this time there was no snapping awake at three or four oclock in the morning. They slept  sometimes apart but mostly together  until just past seven oclock on Saturday evening; about twentytwo hours, all told. Lois made them breakfast at sunset  splendidly puffy waffles, bacon, home fries. While she cooked, Ralph tried to flex that muscle buried deep in his mind  to create that sensation of blink. He couldnt do it. When Lois tried, she was also unable, although Ralph could have sworn that just for a moment she flickered, and he could see the stove right through her. Just as well, she said, bringing their plates to the table. I suppose, Ralph agreed, but he still felt as he would have if he had lost the ring Carolyn had given him instead of the one he had taken from Atropos  as if some small but essential object had gone rolling out of his life with a wink and a gleam. 12 Following two more nights of sound, unbroken sleep, the auras had begun to fade, as well. By the following week they were gone, and Ralph began to wonder if perhaps the whole thing hadnt been some strange dream. He knew that wasnt so, but it became harder and harder to believe what he did know. There was the scar between the elbow and wrist of his right arm, of course, but he even began to wonder if that wasnt something he had acquired long ago, during those years of his life when there had been no white in his hair and he had still believed, deep in his heart, that old age was a myth, or a dream, or a thing reserved for people not as special as he was. EPILOGUE WINDING THE DEATHWATCH (II) Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape and so move forward, as someone in the woods at night might hear the sound of approaching feet and stop to listen; then, instead of silence he hears some creature trying to be silent. What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks; the other ever closer, yet not really hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill. Stephen Dobyns Pursuit If I had some wings, Id fly you all around; If I had some money, Id buy you the goddam town; If I had the strength, then maybe I coulda pulled you through; If I had a lantern, Id light the way for you, If I had a lantern, Id light the way for you. Michael McDermott Lantern 1 On January 2nd, 1994, Lois Chasse became Lois Roberts. Her son, Harold, gave her away. Harolds wife did not attend the ceremony; she was up in Bangor with what Ralph considered a highly suspect case of bronchitis. He kept his suspicions to himself, however, being far from disappointed at Jan Chasses failure to appear. The grooms best man was Detective John Leydecker, who still wore a cast on his right arm but otherwise showed no signs of the assignment which had nearly killed him. He had spent four days in a coma, but Leydecker knew how lucky he was; in addition to the State Trooper who had been standing beside him at the time of the explosion, six cops had died, two of them members of Leydeckers handpicked team. The brides maid of honor was her friend Simone Castonguay, and at the reception, the first toast was made by a fellow who liked to say he used to be Joe Wyze but was now older and Wyzer. Trigger Vachon delivered a fractured but heartfelt followup, concluding with the wish that Dese two people gonna live to a hunnert and fifty and never know a day of the rheumatiz or constipations! When Ralph and Lois left the reception hall, their hair still full of rice thrown for the most part by Faye Chapin and the rest of the Harris Avenue Old Crocks, an old man with a book in his hand and a fine cloud of white hair floating around his head came walking up to them. He had a wide smile on his face. Congratulations, Ralph, he said. Congratulations, Lois. Thanks, Dor, Ralph said. We missed you, Lois told him. Didnt you get your invitation? Faye said hed give it to you. Oh, he gave it to me. Yes, oh yes, he did, but I dont go to those things if theyre inside. Too stuffy. Funerals are even worse. Here, this is for you. I didnt wrap it, because the arthritis is in my fingers too bad for stuff like that now. Ralph took it. It was a book of poems called Concurring Beasts. The poets name, Stephen Dobyns, gave him a funny little chill, but he wasnt quite sure why. Thanks, he told Dorrance. Not as good as some of his later work, but good. Dobyns is very good. Well read them to each other on our honeymoon, Lois said. Thats a good time to read poetry, Dorrance said. Maybe the best time. Im sure youll be very happy together. He started off, then looked back. You did a great thing. The LongTimers are very pleased. He walked away. Lois looked at Ralph. What was he talking about? Do you know? Ralph shook his head. He didnt, not for sure, although he felt as if he should know. The scar on his arm had begun to tingle as it sometimes did, a feeling which was almost like a deepseated itch. LongTimers,she mused. Maybe he meant us, Ralph  after all, were hardly spring chickens these days, are we? Thats probably just what he did mean, Ralph agreed, but he knew better . . . and her eyes said that, somewhere deep down, so did she. 2 On that same day, and just as Ralph and Lois were saying their I dos, a certain wino with a bright green aura  one who actually did have an uncle in Dexter, although the uncle hadnt seen this neerdowell nephew for five years or more  was tramping across Strawford Park, slitting his eyes against the formidable glare of sun on snow. He was looking for returnable cans and bottles. Enough to buy a pint of whiskey would be great, but a pint of Night Train wine would do. Not far from the Portosan marked MEN, he saw a bright gleam of metal. It was probably just the sun reflecting off a bottlecap, but such things needed to be checked out. It might be a dime . . . although to the wino, it actually seemed to have a goldy sort of gleam. It Holy Judas! he cried, snatching up the wedding ring which lay mysteriously on top of the snow. It was a broad band, almost certainly gold. He tilted it to read the engraving on the inside HD  ED 5887. A pint? Hell, no. This little baby was going to secure him a quart. Several quarts. Possibly a weeks worth of quarts. Hurrying across the intersection of Witcham and Jackson, the one where Ralph Roberts had once almost fainted, the wino never saw the approaching Green Line bus. The driver saw him, and put on his brakes, but the bus struck a patch of ice. The wino never knew what hit him. At one moment he was debating between Old Crow and Old Grand Dad; at the next he had passed into the darkness which awaits us all. The ring rolled down the gutter and disappeared into a sewer grate, and there it remained for a long, long time. But not forever. In Derry, things that disappear into the sewer system have a way  an often unpleasant one  of turning up. 3 Ralph and Lois didnt live happily ever after. There really are no evers in the ShortTime world, happy or otherwise, a fact which Clotho and Lachesis undoubtedly knew well. They did live happily for quite some time, though. Neither of them liked to come right out and say these were the happiest years of all, because both remembered their first partners in marriage with love and affection, but in their hearts, both did consider them the happiest. Ralph wasnt sure that autumn love was the richest love, but he came firmly to believe that it was the kindest, and the most fulfilling. Our Lois, he often said, and laughed. Lois pretended to be irritated at this, but pretending was all it ever was; she saw the look in his eyes when he said it. On their first Christmas morning as man and wife (they had moved into Loiss tidy little house and put his own white rhino up for sale), Lois gave him a beagle puppy. Do you like her? she asked apprehensively. I almost didnt get her, Dear Abby says you should never give pets as presents, but she looked so sweet in the petshop window . . . and so sad . . . if you dont like her, or dont want to spend the rest of the winter trying to housebreak a puppy, just say so. Well find someone Lois, he said, giving his eyebrow what he hoped was that special ironic Bill McGovern lift, youre babbling. I am? You am. Its something you do when youre nervous, but you can stop being nervous right now. Im crazy bout dis lady. Nor was that an exaggeration; he fell in love with the blackandtan beagle bitch almost at once. What will you name her? Lois asked. Any idea? Sure, Ralph said. Rosalie. 4 The next four years were, by and large, good ones for Helen and Nat Deepneau, as well. They lived frugally in an apartment on the east side of town for awhile, getting along on Helens librarians salary but not doing much more than that. The little Cape Cod up the street from Ralphs place had sold, but that money had gone to pay outstanding bills. Then, in June of 1994, Helen received an insurance windfall . . . only the wind that blew it her way was John Leydecker. The Great Eastern Insurance Company had originally refused to pay off on Ed Deepneaus life insurance policy, claiming he had taken his own life. Then, after a great deal of harrumphing and muttering under their corporate breath, they had offered a substantial settlement. They were persuaded to do this by a pokerbuddy of John Leydeckers named Howard Hayman. When he wasnt playing lowball, fivecard stud, and threecard draw, Hayman was a lawyer who enjoyed lunching on insurance companies. Leydecker had remet Helen at Ralph and Loiss in February of 1994, had fallen head over heels in fascination with her (It was never quite love, he told Ralph and Lois later, which was probably just as well, considering how things turned out), and had introduced her to Hayman because he thought the insurance company was trying to screw her. He was insane, not suicidal, Leydecker said, and stuck to that long after Helen had handed him his hat and shown him the door. After being faced with a suit in which Howard Hayman threatened to make Great Eastern look like Snidely Whiplash tying Little Nell to the railroad tracks, Helen had received a check for seventy thousand dollars. In the late fall of 1994 she had used most of this money to buy a house on Harris Avenue, just three doors up from her old place and right across from Harriet Bennigans. I was never really happy on the east side, she told Lois one day in November of that year. They were on their way back from the park, and Natalie had been sitting slumped and fast asleep in her stroller, her presence little more than a pink nosetip and a fog of cold breath below a large skihat which Lois had knitted herself. I used to dream about Harris Avenue. Isnt that crazy? I dont think dreams are ever crazy, Lois replied. Helen and John Leydecker dated for most of that summer, but neither Ralph nor Lois was particularly surprised when the courtship abruptly ended after Labor Day, or when Helen began to wear a discreet pink triangle pin on her prim, highnecked librarians blouses. Perhaps they were not surprised because they were old enough to have seen everything at least once, or perhaps on some deep level they were still glimpsing the auras which surround things, creating a bright gateway opening on a secret city of hidden meanings, concealed motives, and camouflaged agendas. 5 Ralph and Lois babysat Natalie frequently after Helen moved back to Harris Avenue, and they enjoyed these stints tremendously. Nat was the child their marriage might have produced if it had happened thirty years sooner, and the coldest, most overcast winter day warmed and brightened when Natalie came toddling in, looking like a midget version of the Goodyear blimp in her pink quilted snowsuit with the mittens hanging from the cuffs, and yelled exuberantly Hi, Walf! Hi, Roliss! I come to bizzit you! In June of 1995, Helen bought a reconditioned Volvo. On the back she put a sticker which read A WOMAN NEEDS A MAN LIKE A FISH NEEDS A BICYCLE. This sentiment did not particularly surprise Ralph, either, but glimpsing that sticker always made him feel unhappy. He sometimes thought Eds meanest legacy to his widow was summed up in its brittle, notquitefunny sentiment, and when he saw it, Ralph often remembered how Ed had looked on that summer afternoon when he had walked up from the Red Apple Store to confront him. How Ed had been sitting, shirtless, in the spray thrown by the sprinkler. How there had been a drop of blood on one lens of his glasses. How he had leaned forward, looking at Ralph with his earnest, intelligent eyes, and said that once stupidity reached a certain level, it became hard to live with. And after that, stuff started to happen, Ralph would sometimes think. Just what stuff was something he could no longer remember, though, and probably that was just as well. But his lapse of memory (if that was what it was) did not change his belief that Helen had been cheated in some obscure fashion . . . that some badtempered fate had tied a can to her tail, and she didnt even know it. 6 A month after Helen bought her Volvo, Faye Chapin suffered a heart attack while drafting a preliminary list of seeds for that falls Runway 3 Classic. He was taken to Derry Home Hospital, where he died seven hours later. Ralph visited him shortly before the end, and when he saw the numbers on the door  315  a fierce sense of dj vu washed over him. At first he thought it was because Carolyn had finished her last illness just up the hall, and then he remembered that Jimmy V had died in this very room. He and Lois had visited Jimmy just before the end, and Ralph thought Jimmy had recognized them both, although he couldnt be sure; his memories of the time when he had first begun to really notice Lois were mixed up and hazy in his mind. He supposed some of that was love, and probably some of it had to do with getting on in years, but probably most of it had been the insomnia  hed gone through a really bad patch of that in the months after Carolyns death, although it had eventually cured itself, as such things sometimes did. Still, it seemed to him that something ([hello woman hello man weve been waiting for you]) far out of the ordinary had happened in this room, and as he took Fayes dry, strengthless hand and smiled into Fayes frightened, confused eyes, a strange thought came to him Theyre standing right over there in the corner and watching us. He looked over. There was no one at all in the corner, of course, but for a moment . . . for just a moment . . . 7 Life in the years between 1993 and 1998 went on as life in places like Derry always does the buds of April became the brittle, blowing leaves of October; Christmas trees were brought into homes in midDecember and hauled off in the backs of Dumpsters with strands of tinsel still hanging sadly from their boughs during the first week of January; babies came in through the in door and old folks went out through the out door. Sometimes people in the prime of their lives went out through the out door, too. In Derry there were five years of haircuts and permanents, storms and senior proms, coffee and cigarettes, steak dinners at Parkers Cove and hotdogs at the Little League field. Girls and boys fell in love, drunks fell out of cars, short skirts fell out of favor. People reshingled their roofs and repaved their driveways. Old bums were voted out of office; new bums were voted in. It was life, often unsatisfying, frequently cruel, usually boring, sometimes beautiful, once in awhile exhilarating. The fundamental things continued to apply as time went by. In the early fall of 1996, Ralph became convinced he had colon cancer. He had begun to see more than trace amounts of blood in his stool, and when he finally went to see Dr Pickard (Dr Litchfields cheerful, rumpled replacement), he did so with visions of hospital beds and chemotherapy IVdrips dancing bleakly in his head. Instead of cancer, the problem turned out to be a hemorrhoid which had, in Dr Pickards memorable phrase, popped its top. He wrote Ralph a prescription for suppositories, which Ralph took to the Rite Aid down the street. Joe Wyzer read it, then grinned cheerfully at Ralph. Lousy, he said, but it beats the hell out of colon cancer, dont you think? The thought of colon cancer never crossed my mind, Ralph replied stiffly. One day during the winter of 1997, Lois took it into her head to slide down her favorite hill in Strawford Park on Nat Deepneaus plastic flyingsaucer sled. She went down fastern a pig in a greased chute (this was Don Veazies phrase; he just happened to be there that day, watching the action) and crashed into the side of the Portosan marked WOMEN. She sprained her knee and twisted her back, and although Ralph knew he had no business doing so  it was unsympathetic to say the least  he laughed hilariously most of the way to the emergency room. The fact that Lois was also howling with laughter despite the pain did nothing to help Ralph regain control. He laughed until tears poured from his eyes and he thought he might have a stroke. She had just looked so goddamned Our Lois going down the hill on that thing, spinning around and around with her legs crossed like one of those yogis from the Mysterious East, and she had almost knocked the Portosan over when she hit it. She was completely recovered by the time spring rolled around, although that knee always ached on rainy nights and she did get tired of Don Veazie asking, almost every time he saw her, if shed slid into any shithouses lately. 8 Just life, going on as it always does  which is to say mostly between the lines and outside the margins. Its what happens while were making other plans, according to some sage or other, and if life was exceptionally good to Ralph Roberts during those years, it might have been because he had no other plans to make. He maintained friendships with Joe Wyzer and John Leydecker, but his best friend during those years was his wife. They went almost everywhere together, had no secrets, and fought so seldom one might just as well have said never. He also had Rosalie the beagle, the rocker that had once been Mr Chasses and was now his, and almost daily visits from Natalie (who had begun calling them Ralph and Lois instead of Walf and Roliss, a change neither of them found to be an improvement). And he was healthy, which was maybe the best thing of all. It was just life, full of ShortTime rewards and setbacks, and Ralph lived it with enjoyment and serenity until midMarch of 1998, when he awoke one morning, glanced at the digital clock beside his bed, and saw it was 549 a.m. He lay quietly beside Lois, not wanting to disturb her by getting up, and wondering what had awakened him. You know what, Ralph. No I dont. Yes, you do. Listen. So he listened. He listened very carefully. And after awhile he began to hear it in the walls the low, soft ticking of the deathwatch. 9 Ralph awoke at 547 the following morning, and at 544 the morning after that. His sleep was whittled away, minute by minute, as winter slowly loosened its grip on Derry and allowed spring to find its way back in. By May he was hearing the tick of the deathwatch everywhere, but understood it was all coming from one place and simply projecting itself, as a good ventriloquist can project his voice. Before, it had been coming from Carolyn. Now it was coming from him. He felt none of the terror that had gripped him when hed been so sure he had developed cancer, and none of the desperation he vaguely remembered from his previous bout of insomnia. He tired more easily and began to find it more difficult to concentrate and remember even simple things, but he accepted what was happening calmly. Are you sleeping all right, Ralph? Lois asked him one day. Youre getting these big dark circles under your eyes. Its the dope I take, Ralph said. Very funny, you old poop. He took her in his arms and hugged her. Dont worry about me, sweetheart  Im getting all the sleep I need. He awoke one morning a week later at 402 a.m. with a line of deep heat throbbing in his arm  throbbing in perfect sync with the sound of the deathwatch, which was, of course, nothing more or less than the beat of his own heart. But this new thing wasnt his heart, or at least Ralph didnt think it was; it felt as if an electric filament had been embedded in the flesh of his forearm. Its the scar, he thought, and then No, its the promise. The time of the promise is almost here. What promise, Ralph? What promise? He didnt know. 10 One day in early June, Helen and Nat blew in to visit and tell Ralph and Lois about the trip they had taken to Boston with Aunt Melanie, a bank teller with whom Helen had become close friends. Helen and Aunt Melanie had gone to some sort of feminist convention while Natalie networked with about a billion new kids in the daycare center, and then Aunt Melanie had left to do some more feminist things in New York and Washington. Helen and Nat had stayed on in Boston for a couple of days, just sightseeing. We went to see a movie cartoon, Natalie said. It was about animals in the woods. They talked! She pronounced this last word with Shakespearian grandiosity  talked. Movies where animals talk are neat, arent they? Lois asked. Yes! Also I got this new dress! And a very pretty dress it is, Lois said. Helen was looking at Ralph. Are you okay, old chum? You look pale, and you havent said boo. Never better, he said. I was just thinking how cute you two look in those caps. Did you get them at Fenway Park? Both Helen and Nat were wearing Boston Red Sox caps. These were common enough in New England during warm weather (common as catdirt, Lois would have said), but the sight of them on the heads of these two people filled Ralph with some deep, resonant feeling . . . and it was tied to a specific image, one he did not in the least understand the front of the Red Apple Store. Helen, meantime, had taken off her hat and was examining it. Yes, she said. We went, but we only stayed for three innings. Men hitting balls and catching balls. I guess I just dont have much patience for men and their balls these days . . . but we like our nifty Bosox hats, dont we, Natalie? Yes! Nat agreed smartly, and when Ralph awoke the next morning at 401, the scar throbbed its thin line of heat inside his arm and the deathwatch seemed almost to have gained a voice, one which whispered a strange, foreignsounding name over and over Atropos . . . Atropos . . . Atropos. I know that name. Do you, Ralph? Yes, he was the one with the rusty scalpel and the nasty disposition, the one who called me Shorts, the one who took . . . took . . . Took what, Ralph? He was getting used to these silent discussions; they seemed to come to him on some mental radio band, a pirate frequency that operated only during the little hours, the ones when he lay awake beside his sleeping wife, waiting for the sun to come up. Took what? Do you remember? He didnt expect to; the questions that voice asked him almost always went unanswered, but this time, unexpectedly, an answer came. Bill McGoverns hat, of course. Atropos took Bills hat, and once I made him so mad he actually took a bite out of the brim. Who is he? Who is Atropos? Of this he was not so sure. He only knew that Atropos had something to do with Helen, who now owned a Boston Red Sox cap of which she seemed very fond, and that he had a rusty scalpel. Soon, thought Ralph Roberts as he lay in the dark, listening to the soft, steady tick of the deathwatch in the walls. Ill know soon. 11 During the third week of that baking hot June, Ralph began to see the auras again. 12 As June slipped into July, Ralph found himself bursting into tears often, usually for no discernible reason at all. It was strange; he had no sense of depression or discontent, but sometimes he would look at something  maybe only a bird winging its solitary way across the sky  and his heart would vibrate with sorrow and loss. Its almost over, the inside voice said. It no longer belonged to Carolyn or Bill or even his own younger self; it was all its own now, the voice of a stranger, although not necessarily an unkind one. Thats why youre sad, Ralph.


Its perfectly normal to be sad as things start to wind down. Nothings almost over! he cried back. Why should it be? At my last checkup, Dr Pickard said I was sound as a drum! Im fine! Never better! Silence from the voice inside. But it was a knowing silence. 13 Okay, Ralph said out loud one hot afternoon near the end of July. He was sitting on a bench not far from the place where the Derry Standpipe had stood until 1985, when the big storm had come along and knocked it down. At the base of the hill, near the birdbath, a young man (a serious birdwatcher, from the binoculars he wore and the thick stack of paperbacks on the grass beside him) was making careful notes in what looked like some sort of journal. Okay, tell me why its almost over. Just tell me that. There was no immediate answer, but that was all right; Ralph was willing to wait. It had been quite a stroll over here, the day was hot, and he was tired. He was now waking around threethirty every morning. He had begun taking long walks again, but not in any hope they would help him sleep better or longer; he thought he was making pilgrimages, visiting all his favorite spots in Derry one last time. Saying goodbye. Because the time of the promise has almost come, the voice answered, and the scar began to throb with its deep, narrow heat again. The one that was made to you, and the one you made in return. What was it? he asked, agitated. Please, if I made a promise, why cant I remember what it was? The serious birdwatcher heard that and looked up the hill. What he saw was a man sitting on a park bench and apparently having a conversation with himself. The corners of the serious birdwatchers mouth turned down in disgust and he thought, I hope I die before I get that old. I really do. Then he turned back to the birdbath and began making notes again. Deep inside Ralphs head, the clenching sensation  that feeling of blink  suddenly came again, and although he didnt stir from the bench, Ralph felt himself propelled rapidly upward none the less . . . faster and further than ever before. Not at all, the voice said. Once you were much higher than this, Ralph  Lois, too. But youre getting there. Youll be ready soon. The birdwatcher, who lived all unknowing in the center of a gorgeous spungold aura, looked around cautiously, perhaps wanting to make sure that the senile old man on the bench at the top of the hill wasnt creeping up on him with a blunt instrument. What he saw caused the tight, prissy line of his mouth to soften in astonishment. His eyes widened. Ralph observed sudden radiating spokes of indigo in the serious birdwatchers aura and realized he was looking at shock. Whats the matter with him? What does he see? But that was wrong. It wasnt what the birdwatcher saw; it was what he didnt see. He didnt see Ralph, because Ralph had gone up high enough to disappear from this level  had become the visual equivalent of a note blown on a dogwhistle. If they were here now, I could see them easily. Who, Ralph? If who was here? Clotho. Lachesis. And Atropos. All at once the pieces began to fly together in his mind, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had looked a great deal more complicated than it actually was. Ralph, whispering [Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.] 14 Six days later, Ralph awoke at quarter past three in the morning and knew that the time of the promise had come. 15 I think Ill walk upstreet to the Red Apple and get an icecream bar, Ralph said. It was almost ten oclock. His heart was beating much too fast, and his thoughts were hard to find under the constant white noise of terror which now filled him. He had never felt less like icecream in his entire life, but it was a reasonable enough excuse for a trip to the Red Apple; it was the first week of August, and the weatherman had said the mercury would probably top ninety by early afternoon, with thunderstorms to follow in the early evening. Ralph thought he neednt worry about the thunderstorms. A bookcase stood on a spread of newspapers by the kitchen door. Lois had been painting it barnred. Now she got to her feet, put her hands into the small of her back, and stretched. Ralph could hear the minute crackling sounds of her spine. Ill go with you. My headll ache tonight if I dont get away from that paint for awhile. I dont know why I wanted to paint on such a muggy day in the first place. The last thing on earth Ralph wanted was to be accompanied up to the Red Apple by Lois. You dont have to, honey; Ill bring you back one of those coconut Popsicles you like. I wasnt even planning on taking Rosalie, its so humid. Go sit on the back porch, why dont you? Any Popsicle you carry back from the store on a day like this will be falling off the stick by the time you get it here, she said. Come on, lets go while theres still shade on this side of the . . . She trailed off. The little smile shed been wearing slipped off her face. It was replaced by a look of dismay, and the gray of her aura, which had only darkened slightly during the years Ralph hadnt been able to see it, now began to glow with flocks of reddishpink embers. Ralph, whats wrong? What are you really going to do? Nothing, he said, but the scar was glowing inside his arm and the tick of the deathwatch was everywhere, loud and everywhere. It was telling him he had an appointment to keep. A promise to keep. Yes, there is, and its been wrong for the last two or three months, maybe longer. Im a foolish woman  I knew something was happening, but I couldnt bring myself to look at it deadon. Because I was afraid. And I was right to be afraid, wasnt I? I was right. Lois She was suddenly crossing the room to him, crossing fast, almost leaping, the old back injury not slowing her down in the least, and before he could stop her, she had seized his right arm and was holding it out, looking at it fixedly. The scar was glowing a fierce bright red. Ralph had a moment to hope that it was strictly an aural glow and she wouldnt be able to see it. Then she looked up, her eyes round and full of terror. Terror, and something else. Ralph thought that something else was recognition. Oh my God, she whispered. The men in the park. The ones with the funny names . . . Clothes and Lashes, something like that . . . and one of them cut you. Oh Ralph, oh my God, what are you supposed to do? Now, Lois, dont take on Dont you dare tell me not to take on! she shrieked into his face. Dont you dare! Dont you DARE! Hurry, the interior voice whispered. You dont have time to stand around and discuss this; somewhere its already begun to happen, and the deathwatch you hear may not be ticking just for you. I have to go. He turned and blundered toward the door. In his agitation he did not notice a certain Sherlock Holmesian circumstance attending this scene a dog which should have barked  a dog which always barked her stern disapproval when voices were raised in this house  but did not. Rosalie was missing from her usual place by the screen door . . . and the door itself was standing ajar. Rosalie was the furthest thing from Ralphs mind at that moment. He felt kneedeep in molasses, and thought he would be doing well just to make the porch, let alone the Red Apple up the street. His heart thumped and skidded in his chest; his eyes were burning. No! Lois screamed. No, Ralph, please! Please dont leave me! She ran after him, clutched his arm. She was still holding her paintbrush, and the fine red droplets which splattered his shirt looked like blood. Now she was crying, and her expression of utter, abject sorrow nearly broke his heart. He didnt want to leave her like this; wasnt sure he could leave her like this. He turned and took her by her forearms. Lois, I have to go. You havent been sleeping, she babbled,I knew that, and I knew it meant something was wrong, but it doesnt matter, well go away, we can leave right now, this minute, well just take Rosalie and our toothbrushes and go He squeezed her arms and she stopped, looking up at him with her wet eyes. Her lips were trembling. Lois, listen to me. I have to do this. I lost Paul, I cant lose you, too! she wailed. I couldnt stand it! Oh Ralph, I couldnt stand it! Youll be able to, he thought. ShortTimers are a lot tougher than they look. They have to be. Ralph felt a couple of tears trickle down his cheeks. He suspected their source was more weariness than grief. If he could make her see that all this changed nothing, only made what he had to do harder . . . He held her at arms length. The scar on his arm was throbbing more fiercely than ever, and the feeling of time slipping relentlessly away had become overwhelming. Walk with me at least partway, if you want, he said. Maybe you can even help me do what I have to do. Ive had my life, Lois, and a fine one it was. But she hasnt really had anything yet, and Ill be damned if Ill let that son of a bitch have her just because hes got a score to settle with me. What son of a bitch? Ralph, what in the world are you talking about? Im talking about Natalie Deepneau. Shes supposed to die this morning, only Im not going to let that happen. Nat? Ralph, why would anyone want to hurt Nat? She looked very bewildered, very our Lois . . . but wasnt there something else beneath that daffy exterior? Something careful and calculating? Ralph thought the answer was yes. Ralph had an idea Lois wasnt half as bewildered as she was pretending to be. She had fooled Bill McGovern for years with that act  him, too, at least part of the time  and this was just another (and rather brilliant) variation of the same old scam. What she was really trying to do was hold him here. She loved Nat deeply, but to Lois, a choice between her husband and the little girl who lived up the lane was no choice at all. She didnt consider either age or questions of fairness to have any bearing on the situation. Ralph was her man, and to Lois, that was all that mattered. It wont work, he said, not unkindly. He disengaged himself and started for the door again. I made a promise, and Im all out of time. Break it, then! she cried, and the mixture of terror and rage in her voice stunned him. I dont remember much about that time, but I remember we got involved with things that almost got us killed, and for reasons we couldnt even understand. So break it, Ralph! Better your promise than my heart! And what about the kid? What about Helen, for that matter? Nats all she lives for. Doesnt Helen deserve something better from me than a broken promise? I dont care what she deserves! What any of them deserve! she shouted, and then her face crumpled. Yes, all right, I suppose I do. But what about us, Ralph? Dont we count? Her eyes, those dark and eloquent Spanish eyes of hers, pleaded with him. If he looked into them too long, it would become all too easy to cry it off, so Ralph looked away. I mean to do it, honey. Nats going to get what you and I have already had  another seventy years or so of days and nights. She looked at him helplessly, but made no attempt to stop him again. Instead, she began to cry. Foolish old man! she whispered. Foolish, willful old man! Yes, I suppose, he said, and lifted her chin. But Im a foolish, willful old man of my word. Come with me. Id like that. All right, Ralph. She could hardly hear her own voice, and her skin was as cold as clay. Her aura had gone almost completely red. What is it? Whats going to happen to her? Shes going to be hit by a green Ford sedan. Unless I take her place, shes going to be splashed all over Harris Avenue . . . and Helens going to see it happen. 16 As they walked up the hill toward the Red Apple (at first Lois kept falling behind, then trotting to catch up, but she quit when she saw she could not slow him with such a simple trick), Ralph told her what little more he could. She had some memory of being under the lightningstruck tree out by the Extension  a memory she had believed, at least until this morning, to be the memory of a dream  but of course she hadnt been there during Ralphs final confrontation with Atropos. Ralph told her of it now  of the random death Atropos intended Natalie to suffer if Ralph continued standing in the way of his plans. He told her of how hed extracted a promise from Clotho and Lachesis that Atropos might in this case be overruled, and Nat saved. I have an idea that . . . the decision was made . . . very near the top of this crazy building . . . this Tower . . . they kept talking about. Maybe . . . at the very top. He was panting out the words and his heart was beating more rapidly than ever, but he thought most of that could be attributed to the fast walk and the torrid day; his fear had subsided somewhat. Talking to Lois had done that much. Now he could see the Red Apple. Mrs Perrine was at the bus stop half a block further up, standing straight as a general reviewing troops. Her net shopping bag hung over her arm. There was a bus shelter nearby, and it was shady inside, but Mrs Perrine stolidly ignored its existence. Even in the dazzling sunlight he could see that her aura was the same West Point gray as it had been on that October evening in 1993. Of Helen and Nat there was as yet no sign. 17 Of course I knew who he was, Esther Perrine later tells the reporter from the Derry News. Do I look incompetent to you, young man? Or senile? Ive known Ralph Roberts for over twenty years. A good man. Not cut from the same cloth as his first wife, of course  Carolyn was a Satterwaite, from the Bangor Satterwaites  but a very fine man, just the same. I recognized the driver of that green Ford auto, too, right away. Pete Sullivan delivered my paper for six years, and he did a good job. The new one, the Morrison boy, always throws it in my flowerbeds or up on the porch roof. Pete was driving with his mother, on his learners permit, I understand. I hope he wont take on too much about what happened, for hes a good lad, and it really wasnt his fault. I saw the whole thing, and Ill take my oath on it. I suppose you think Im rambling. Dont bother denying it; I can read your face just like it was your own newspaper. Never mind, though  Ive said most of what I have to say. I knew it was Ralph right away, but heres something youll get wrong even if you put it in your story . . . which you probably wont. He came from nowhere to save that little girl. Esther Perrine fixes the respectfully silent young reporter with a formidable glance  fixes him as a lepidopterist might fix a butterfly on a pin after administering the chloroform. I dont mean it was like he came from nowhere, young man, although I bet thats what youll print. She leans toward the reporter, her eyes never leaving his face, and says it again. He came from nowhere to save that little girl. Do you follow me? From nowhere. 18 The accident made the front page of the following days Derry News. Esther Perrine was sufficiently colorful in her remarks to warrant a sidebar of her own, and staff photographer Tom Matthews got a picture to go with it that made her look like Ma Joad in The Grapes of Wrath. The headline of the sidebar read IT WAS LIKE HE CAME FROM NOWHERE, EYEWITNESS TO TRAGEDY SAYS. When she read it, Mrs Perrine was not at all surprised. 19 In the end I got what I wanted, Ralph said, but only because Clotho and Lachesis  and whoever it is they work for on the upper levels  were desperate to stop Ed. Upper levels? What upper levels? What building? Never mind. Youve forgotten, but remembering wouldnt change anything. The point is just this, Lois they didnt want to stop Ed because thousands of people would have died if hed hit the Civic Center deadon. They wanted to stop him because there was one person whose life needed to be preserved at any cost . . . in their reckoning, anyway. When I was finally able to make them see that I felt the same about my kid as they did about theirs, arrangements were made. Thats when they cut you, wasnt it? And when you made the promise. The one you used to talk about in your sleep. He shot her a wideeyed, startled, and heartbreakingly boyish glance. She only looked back. Yes, he said, and wiped his forehead. I guess so. The air lay in his lungs like metal shavings. A life for a life, that was the deal  Natalies in exchange for mine. And [Hey! Quit tryin to wiggle away! Quit it, Rover, or Ill kick your asshole square!] Ralph broke off at the sound of that shrill, hectoring, horridly familiar voice  a voice no human being on Harris Avenue but him could hear  and looked across the street. Ralph? What Shhh! He pulled her back against the summerdry hedge in front of the Applebaums house. He wasnt doing anything so polite as perspiring now; his whole body was crawling with a stinking sweat as heavy as engine oil, and he could feel every gland in his body dumping a hot load into his blood. His underwear was trying to crawl up into the crack of his ass and disappear. His tongue tasted like a blown fuse. Lois followed the direction of his gaze. Rosalie! she cried. Rosalie, you bad dog! What are you doing over there? The blackandtan beagle she had given Ralph on their first Christmas was across the street, standing (except cringing was actually the word for what she was doing) on the sidewalk in front of the house where Helen and Nat had lived until Ed had popped his wig. For the first time in the years theyd had her, the beagle reminded Lois of Rosalie 1. Rosalie 2 appeared to be all alone over there, but that did not allay Loiss sudden terror. Oh, what have I done? she thought. What have I done? Rosalie! she screamed. Rosalie, get over here! The dog heard, Lois could see that she did, but she didnt move. Ralph? Whats happening over there? Shhhh! he said again, and then, just a little further up the street, Lois saw something which stopped her breath. Her last, unstated hope that all this was happening only in Ralphs head, that it was a kind of flashback to their previous experience, disappeared, because now their dog had company. Holding a skiprope looped over her right arm, sixyearold Nat Deepneau came to the end of her walk and looked down the street toward a house she didnt remember ever living in, toward a lawn where her shirtless father, an undesignated player named Ed Deepneau, had once sat among intersecting rainbows, listening to the Jefferson Airplane as a single spot of blood dried on his John Lennon spectacles. Natalie looked down the street and smiled happily at Rosalie, who was panting and watching her with miserable, frightened eyes. 20 Atropos doesnt see me, Ralph thought. Hes concentrating on Rosie . . . and on Natalie, of course . . . and he doesnt see me. Everything had come around with a sort of hideous perfection. The house was there, Rosalie was there, and Atropos was there, too, wearing a hat cocked back on his head and looking like a wiseacre news reporter in a 1950s Bpicture  something directed by Ida Lupino, perhaps. Only this time it wasnt a Panama with a bite gone from the brim; this time it was a Boston Red Sox cap and it was too small even for Atropos because the adjustable band in the back had been pulled all the way over to the last hole. It had to be, in order to fit the head of the little girl who owned it. All we need now is Pete the paperboy and the show would be perfect, Ralph thought. The final scene of Insomnia, or, ShortTime Life on Harris Avenue, a TragiComedy in Three Acts. Everyone takes a bow and then exits stage right. This dog was afraid of Atropos, just as Rosalie 1 had been, and the main reason the little bald doc hadnt seen Ralph and Lois was that he was trying to keep her from running off before he was ready. And here came Nat, headed down the sidewalk toward her favorite dog in the whole world, Ralph and Loiss Rosalie. Her jumprope (threesixnine, hon, the goose drank wine) was slung over her arm. She looked impossibly beautiful and impossibly fragile in her sailor shirt and blue shorts. Her pigtails bounced. Its happening too fast, Ralph thought. Everything is happening much too fast. [Not at all, Ralph! You did splendidly five years ago; youll do splendidly now.] It sounded like Clotho, but there was no time to look. A green car was coming slowly down Harris Avenue from the direction of the airport, moving with the sort of agonized care which usually meant a driver who was very old or very young. Agonized care or not, it was unquestionably the car; a dirty membrane hung over it like a shroud. Life is a wheel, Ralph thought, and it occurred to him that this was not the first time the idea had occurred to him. Sooner or later everything you thought youd left behind comes around again. For good or ill, it comes around again. Rosie made another abortive lunge for freedom, and as Atropos yanked her back, losing his hat, Nat knelt before her and patted her. Are you lost, girl? Did you get out by yourself? Thats okay, Ill take you home. She gave Rosie a hug, her small arms passing through Atroposs arms, her small, beautiful face only inches from his ugly, grinning one. Then she got up. Come on, Rosie! Come on, sugarpie. Rosalie started down the sidewalk at Nats heel, looking back once at the grinning little man and whining uneasily. On the other side of Harris Avenue, Helen came out of the Red Apple, and the last condition of the vision Atropos had shown Ralph was fulfilled. Helen had a loaf of bread in one hand. Her Red Sox hat was on her head. Ralph swept Lois into his arms and kissed her fiercely. I love you with all my heart, he said. Remember that, Lois. I know you do, she said calmly. And I love you. Thats why I cant let you do it. She seized him around the neck, her arms like bands of iron, and he felt her breasts push against him hard as she drew in all the breath her lungs would hold. Go away, you rotten bastard! she screamed. I cant see you, but I know youre there! Go away! Go away and leave us alone! Natalie stopped dead in her tracks and looked at Lois with wideeyed surprise. Rosalie stopped beside her, ears pricking. Dont go into the street, Nat! Lois screamed at her. Dont Then her hands, which had been laced together at the back of Ralphs neck, were holding nothing; her arms, which had been locked about his shoulders in a deathgrip, were empty. He was gone like smoke. 21 Atropos looked toward the cry of alarm and saw Ralph and Lois standing on the other side of Harris Avenue. More important, he saw Ralph seeing him. His eyes widened; his lips parted in a hateful snarl. One hand flew to his bald pate  it was crisscrossed with old scars, the remnants of wounds made with his own scalpel  in an instinctive gesture of defense that was five years too late. [Fuck you, Shorts! This little bitch is mine!] Ralph saw Nat, looking at Lois with uncertainty and surprise. He heard Lois shrieking at her, telling her not to go into the street. Then it was Lachesis he heard, speaking from someplace close by. [Come up, Ralph! As far as you can! Quickly!] He felt the clench in the center of his head, felt that brief swoop of vertigo in his stomach, and suddenly the whole world brightened and filled with color. He halfsaw and halffelt Loiss arms and locked hands collapse inward, through the place where his body had been a moment before, and then he was drawing away from her  no, being carried away from her. He felt the pull of some great current and understood, in a vague way, that if there was such a thing as a Higher Purpose, he had joined it and would soon be swept downriver with it. Natalie and Rosalie were now standing directly in front of the house which Ralph had once shared with Bill McGovern before selling up and moving into Loiss house. Nat glanced doubtfully at Lois, then waved tentatively. Shes okay, Lois  see, shes right here. She patted Rosalies head. Ill cross her safe, dont worry. Then, as she started into the street, she called to her mother. I cant find my baseball cap! I think somebody stoled it! Rosalie was still on the sidewalk. Nat turned to her impatiently. Come on, girl! The green car was moving in the childs direction, but very slowly. It did not at first look like much of a danger to her. Ralph recognized the driver at once, and he did not doubt his senses or suspect he was having a hallucination. In that instant it seemed very right that the approaching sedan should be piloted by his old paperboy. Natalie! Lois screamed. Natalie, no! Atropos darted forward and slapped Rosalie 2 on the rump. [Get outta here, mutt! Gwan! Before I change my mind!] Atropos spared Ralph one final grimacing leer as Rosie yelped and darted into the street . . . and into the path of the Ford driven by sixteenyearold Pete Sullivan. Natalie didnt see the car; she was looking at Lois, whose face was all red and scary. It had finally occurred to Nat that Lois wasnt screaming about Rosie at all, but something else entirely. Pete registered the sprinting beagle; it was the little girl he didnt see. He swerved to avoid Rosalie, a maneuver that ended with the Ford aimed directly at Natalie. Ralph could see two frightened faces behind the windshield as the car veered, and he thought Mrs Sullivan was screaming. Atropos was leaping up and down, doing an obscenely joyful hornpipe. [Yahh, ShortTime! Silly whitehair! Toldja Id fix you!] In slow motion Helen dropped the loaf of bread she was holding. Natalie, LOOK OUUUUUUTTT! she shrieked. Ralph ran. Again there was that clear sensation of moving by thought alone. And as he closed in on Nat, now diving forward with his hands stretched out, aware of the car looming just beyond her, kicking bright arrows of sun through its dark deathbag and into his eyes, he clenched his mind again, bringing himself back down to the ShortTime world for the last time. He fell into a landscape that rang with splintered screams Helens mingled with Loiss mingled with the ones being made by the tires of the Ford. Weaving its way through them like an outlaw vine was the sound of Atroposs jeers. Ralph got a brief glimpse of Nats wide blue eyes, and then he shoved her in the chest and stomach as hard as he could, sending her flying backwards with her hands and feet thrust out in front of her. She landed sitting up in the gutter, bruising her tailbone on the curb but breaking nothing. From some distant place, Ralph heard Atropos squawk in fury and disbelief. Then two tons of Ford, still travelling at twenty miles an hour, struck Ralph and the soundtrack dropped dead. He was heaved upward and backward in a low, slow arc  it felt slow, anyway, from inside  and went with the Fords hood ornament imprinted on his cheek like a tattoo and one broken leg trailing behind him. There was time to see his shadow sliding along the pavement beneath him in a shape like an X; there was time to see a spray of red droplets in the air just above him and to think that Lois must have splattered more paint on him than he had thought at first. And there was time to see Natalie sitting at the side of the street, weeping but all right . . . and to sense Atropos on the sidewalk behind her, shaking his fists and dancing with rage. I believe I did pretty damned good for an old geezer, Ralph thought, but now I think I could really do with a nap. Then he came back to earth with a terrible mortal smack and rolled  skull fracturing, back breaking, lungs punctured by brittle thorns of bone as his ribcage exploded, liver turning to pulp, intestines first coming unanchored and then rupturing. And nothing hurt. Nothing at all. 22 Lois never forgot the awful thud that was the sound of Ralphs return to Harris Avenue, or the bloody splashmarks he left behind as he cartwheeled to a stop. She wanted to scream but dared not; some deep, true voice told her that if she did that, the combination of shock, horror, and summer heat would send her unconscious to the sidewalk, and when she came to again, Ralph would be beyond her. She ran instead of screaming, losing one shoe, marginally aware that Pete Sullivan was getting out of the Ford, which had come to rest almost exactly where Joe Wyzers car  also a Ford  had come to rest after Joe had hit Rosalie 1 all those years ago. She was also marginally aware that Pete was screaming. She reached Ralph and fell on her knees beside him, seeing that his shape had somehow been changed by the green Ford, that the body beneath the familiar chino pants and paintsplattered shirt was fundamentally different from the body which had been pressed against hers less than a minute ago. But his eyes were open, and they were bright and aware. Ralph? Yes. His voice was clear and strong, unmarked by either confusion or pain. Yes, Lois, I hear you. She started to put her arms around him and hesitated, thinking about how you werent supposed to move people who had been badly injured because you might hurt them even worse or kill them. Then she looked at him again, at the blood pouring from the sides of his mouth and the way his lower body seemed to have come unhinged from the upper part, and decided it would be impossible to hurt Ralph more than he had been hurt already. She hugged him, leaning close, leaning into the smells of disaster blood and the sweetsour acetone odor of spent adrenaline on the outrush of his breath. You did it this time, didnt you? Lois asked. She kissed his cheek, his bloodsoaked eyebrows, his bloody forehead where the skin had been peeled away from his skull in a flap. She began to cry. Look at you! Shirt torn, pants torn . . . do you think clothes grow on trees? Is he all right? Helen asked from behind her. Lois didnt turn around, but she saw the shadows on the street Helen with her arm around her weeping daughters shoulders, and Rosie standing by Helens right leg. He saved Nats life and I didnt even see where he came from. Please, Lois, say hes all r Then the shadows shifted as Helen moved to a place where she could actually see Ralph, and she pulled Nats face against her blouse and began to wail. Lois leaned closer to Ralph, caressing his cheeks with the palms of her hands, wanting to tell him that she had meant to come with him  she had meant to, yes, but in the end he had been too quick for her. In the end he had left her behind. Love you, sweetheart, Ralph said. He reached up and copied her gesture with his own palm. He tried to raise his left hand as well, but it would only lie on the pavement and twitch. Lois took his hand and kissed it. Love you, too, Ralph. Always. So much. I had to do it. You see? Yes. She didnt know if she did see, didnt know if she would ever see . . . but she knew he was dying. Yes, I see. He sighed harshly  that sweet acetone smell wafted up to her again  and smiled. Miz Chasse? Miz Roberts, I mean? It was Pete, speaking in hitching gasps. Is Mr Roberts okay? Please say I didnt hurt him! Stay away, Pete, she said without turning around. Ralph is fine. He just tore his pants and shirt a little . . . didnt you, Ralph? Yes, he said. You bet. Youll just have to hosswhip me for He broke off and looked to her left. No one was there, but Ralph smiled anyway. Lachesis! he said. He put out his trembling, bloodgrimy right hand, and as Lois, Helen, and Pete Sullivan watched, it rose and fell twice in the empty air. Ralphs eyes moved again, this time to the right. Slowly, very slowly, he moved his hand in that direction. When he spoke this time, his voice had begun to fade. Hi, Clotho. Now remember this . . . doesnt . . . hurt. Right? Ralph appeared to listen, and then smiled. Yep, he whispered, any way you can get her. His hand rose and fell again in the air, then dropped back to his chest. He looked up at Lois with his fading blue eyes. Listen, he said, speaking with great effort. Yet his eyes blazed, would not let hers go. Every day I woke up next to you was like waking up young and seeing . . . everything new. He tried to raise his hand to her cheek again, and could not. Every day, Lois. It was like that for me, too, Ralph  like waking up young. Lois? What? The ticking, he said.


He swallowed and then said it again, enunciating the words with great effort. The ticking. What ticking? Never mind, its stopped, he said, and smiled brilliantly. Then Ralph stopped, too. 23 Clotho and Lachesis stood watching Lois weep over the man who lay dead in the street. In one hand Clotho held his scissors; he raised the other to eyelevel and looked at it wonderingly. It glowed and blazed with Ralphs aura. Clotho [Hes here . . . in here . . . how wonderful!] Lachesis raised his own right hand. Like Clothos left, it looked as if someone had pulled a blue mitten over the normal greengold aura which swaddled it. Lachesis [Yes. He was a wonderful man.] Clotho [Shall we give him to her?] Lachesis [Can we?] Clotho [Theres one way to find out.] They approached Lois. Each placed the hand Ralph had shaken on one side of Loiss face. 24 Mommy! Natalie Deepnau cried. In her agitation, she had reverted to the patois of her babyhood. Who those wittle men? Why they touchin Roliss? Shh, honey, Helen said, and buried Nats head against her breast again. There were no men, little or otherwise, near Lois Roberts; she was kneeling alone in the street next to the man who had saved her daughters life. 25 Lois looked up suddenly, her eyes wide and surprised, her grief forgotten as a gorgeous feeling of (light blue light) calmness and peace filled her. For a moment Harris Avenue was gone. She was in a dark place filled with the sweet smells of hay and cows, a dark place that was split by a hundred brilliant seams of light. She never forgot the fierce joy that leaped up in her at that moment, nor the sure sense that she was seeing a representation of a universe that Ralph wanted her to see, a universe where there was dazzling light behind the darkness . . . couldnt she see it through the cracks? Can you ever forgive me? Pete was sobbing. Oh my God, can you ever forgive me? Oh yes, I think so, Lois said calmly. She passed her hand down Ralphs face, closing his eyes, and then held his head in her lap and waited for the police to come. To Lois, Ralph looked as if he had gone to sleep. And, she saw, the long white scar on his right forearm was gone. September 10, 1990  November 10, 1993 ABOUT THE AUTHOR Stephen King was born in Portland, Maine, in 1947. He won a scholarship award to the University of Maine and later taught English, while his wife, Tabitha, got her degree. It was the publication of his first novel Carrie and its subsequent adaptation that set him on his way to his present position as perhaps the bestselling author in the world. Carrie was followed by a string of bestsellers including The Stand, It, Misery, Bag of Bones, the Dark Tower series, On Writing (A Memoir of the Craft) and Dreamcatcher. Some of his other books have also been adapted into first rate films including The Shawshank Redemption and The Green Mile. Stephen King is the 2003 recipient of The National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.


Alltime Bestselling Author S T E P H E N K I N G Returns with a Novel of Carny Lifeand Death . . . College student Devin Jones took the summer job at Joyland hoping to forget the girl who broke his heart. But he wound up facing something far more terrible the legacy of a vicious murder, the fate of a dying child, and dark truths about lifeand what comes afterthat would change his world forever. Life is Not Always a Butchers Game. Sometimes the Prizes Are Real. Sometimes Theyre Precious. A riveting story about love and loss, about growing up and growing oldand about those who dont get to do either because death comes for them before their timeJOYLAND is Stephen King at the peak of his storytelling powers. With all the emotional impact of King masterpieces such as The Green Mile and The Shawshank Redemption, JOYLAND is at once a mystery, a horror story, and a bittersweet comingofage novel, one that will leave even the most hardboiled reader profoundly moved. Acclaim For the Work of STEPHEN KING! Excellent, psychologically textured . . . Stephen King is so widely acknowledged as Americas master of paranormal terrors that you can forget his real genius is for the everyday. New York Times Book Review King has written . . . a novel thats as hauntingly touching as it is just plain haunted . . . one of his freshest and most frightening works to date. Entertainment Weekly Extraordinarily vivid . . . an impressive tour de force, a sensitive character study that holds the reader rapt. Playboy Stephen King is superb. Time Mr. King makes palpable the longing and regret that arise out of calamity, and deftly renders the kindness and pettiness that can mark smalltown life. Wall Street Journal King is a master at crafting a story and creating a sense of place. USA Today A thoroughly compelling thriller. Esquire Dont start this one on a school night . . . Youll be up till dawn. People As brilliant a dark dream as has ever been dreamed in this century. Palm Beach Post A great book . . . A landmark in American literature. Chicago SunTimes Stephen King is an immensely talented storyteller of seemingly inexhaustible gifts. Interview A rare blend of luminous prose, thoughtprovoking themes and masterful storytelling. San Diego Union Tribune Not only immensely popular but immensely talented, a modernday counterpart to Twain, Hawthorne, Dickens. Publishers Weekly Hes a master storyteller. Gather around the pages of his literary campfire and hell weave you a darn good yarn. Houston Chronicle King surpasses our expectations, leaves us spellbound and hungry for the next twist of plot. Boston Globe Top shelf. You couldnt go wrong with a King book. Michael Connelly Stephen King is the Winslow Homer of blood. New Yorker King has invented genres, reinvented them, then stepped outside what he himself has accomplished . . . Stephen King, like Mark Twain, is an American genius. Greg Iles Stephen King is much more than just a horror fiction writer. And I believe that hes never been given credit for taking American literature and stretching its boundaries. Gloria Naylor To my mind, King is one of the most underestimated novelists of our time. Mordechai Richler, Vancouver Sun King possesses an incredible sense of story . . . [He is] a gifted writer of intensely felt emotions, a soulful writer in control of a spare prose that never gets in the way of the story . . . I, for one (of millions), wait impatiently to see where this king of storytellers takes us next. Ridley Pearson An absorbing, constantly surprising novel filled with true narrative magic. Washington Post It grabs you and holds you and wont let go . . . a genuine page turner. Chattanooga Times Blending philosophy with a plot that moves at supersonic speed while showcasing deeply imagined characters . . . an impressive sensitivity to what has often loosely been called the human condition. Newsday You surrender yourself . . . King engulfs you . . . and carries you away to 4 AM pageturning. A.P. Wire Enthralling . . . superb. Dallas Times Herald A spellbinder, a compulsive pageturner. Atlanta Journal Faultlessly paced . . . continuously engrossing. Los Angeles Times A literary triumph . . . Read this book. Milwaukee Journal Superbly crafted . . . extraordinary. Booklist His writing has a lyricism, an evocative descriptive sweep . . . Its a gift. Columbia State Dazzlingly well written. The Indianapolis Star King is a terrific storyteller. San Francisco Chronicle By far the worlds most popular author . . . He never seems to use up the magic. Chicago Tribune I stashed my basket of dirty rags and Turtle Wax by the exit door in the arcade. It was ten past noon, but right then food wasnt what I was hungry for. I walked slowly along the track and into Horror House. I had to duck my head when I passed beneath the Screaming Skull, even though it was now pulled up and locked in its home position. My footfalls echoed on a wooden floor painted to look like stone. I could hear my breathing. It sounded harsh and dry. I was scared, okay? Tom had told me to stay away from this place, but Tom didnt run my life any more than Eddie Parks did. Between the Dungeon and the Torture Chamber, the track descended and described a doubleS curve where the cars picked up speed and whipped the riders back and forth. Horror House was a dark ride, but when if was in operation, this stretch was the only completely dark part. It had to be where the girls killer had cut her throat and dumped her body. How quick he must have been, and how certain of exactly what he was going to do! I walked slowly down the doubleS, thinking it would not be beyond Eddie to hear me and shut off the overhead worklights as a joke. To leave me in here to feel my way past the murder site with only the sound of the wind and that one slapping board to keep me company. And suppose . . . just suppose . . . a young girls hand reached out in that darkness and took mine . . .? SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY FIFTYTOONE by Charles Ardai KILLING CASTRO by Lawrence Block THE DEAD MANS BROTHER by Roger Zelazny THE CUTIE by Donald E. Westlake HOUSE DICK by E. Howard Hunt CASINO MOON by Peter Blauner FAKE I.D. by Jason Starr PASSPORT TO PERIL by Robert B. Parker STOP THIS MAN! by Peter Robe LOSERS LIVE LONGER by Russell Atwood HONEY IN HIS MOUTH by Lester Dent QUARRY IN THE MIDDLE by Max Allan Collins THE CORPSE WORE PASTIES by Jonny Porkpie THE VALLEY OF FEAR by A C. Doyle MEMORY by Donald E. Westlake NOBODYS ANGEL by Jack Clark MURDER IS MY BUSINESS by Brett Holliday GETTING OFF by Lawrence Block QUARRYS EX by Max Allan Collins THE CONSUMMATA by Mickey Spillane and Max Allan Collins CHOKE HOLD by Christa Faust THE COMEDY IS FINISHED by Donald E. Westlake BLOOD ON THE MINK by Robert Silverberg FALSE NEGATIVE by Joseph Koenig THE TWENTYYEAR DEATH by Ariel S. Winter THE COCKTAIL WAITRESS by James M. Cain SEDUCTION OF THE INNOCENT by Max Allan Collins WEB OF THE CITY by Harlan Ellison A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK (HCC112) First Hard Case Crime edition June 2013 Published by Titan Books A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144 Southwark Street London SE1 OUP in collaboration with Winterfall LLC Copyright  2013 by Stephen King Cover painting copyright  2013 by Glen Orbik All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ISBN 9781781162644 Design direction by Max Phillips www.maxphillips.net The name Hard Case Crime and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai. Printed in the United States of America Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com For Donald Westlake J O Y L A N D I had a car, but on most days in that fall of 1973 I walked to Joyland from Mrs. Shoplaws Beachside Accommodations in the town of Heavens Bay. It seemed like the right thing to do. The only thing, actually. By early September, Heaven Beach was almost completely deserted, which suited my mood. That fall was the most beautiful of my life. Even forty years later I can say that. And I was never so unhappy, I can say that, too. People think first love is sweet, and never sweeter than when that first bond snaps. Youve heard a thousand pop and country songs that prove the point; some fool got his heart broke. Yet that first broken heart is always the most painful, the slowest to mend, and leaves the most visible scar. Whats so sweet about that? Through September and right into October, the North Carolina skies were clear and the air was warm even at seven in the morning, when I left my secondfloor apartment by the outside stairs. If I started with a light jacket on, I was wearing it tied around my waist before Id finished half of the three miles between the town and the amusement park. Id make Bettys Bakery my first stop, grabbing a couple of stillwarm croissants. My shadow would walk with me on the sand, at least twenty feet long. Hopeful gulls, smelling the croissants in their waxed paper, would circle overhead. And when I walked back, usually around five (although sometimes I stayed laterthere was nothing waiting for me in Heavens Bay, a town that mostly went sleepybye when summer was over), my shadow walked with me on the water. If the tide was in, it would waver on the surface, seeming to do a slow hula. Although I cant be completely sure, I think the boy and the woman and their dog were there from the first time I took that walk. The shore between the town and the cheerful, blinking gimcrackery of Joyland was lined with summer homes, many of them expensive, most of them clapped shut after Labor Day. But not the biggest of them, the one that looked like a green wooden castle. A boardwalk led from its wide back patio down to where the seagrass gave way to fine white sand. At the end of the boardwalk was a picnic table shaded by a bright green beach umbrella. In its shade, the boy sat in his wheelchair, wearing a baseball cap and covered from the waist down by a blanket even in the late afternoons, when the temperature lingered in the seventies. I thought he was five or so, surely no older than seven. The dog, a Jack Russell terrier, either lay beside him or sat at his feet. The woman sat on one of the picnic table benches, sometimes reading a book, mostly just staring out at the water. She was very beautiful. Going or coming, I always waved to them, and the boy waved back. She didnt, not at first. 1973 was the year of the OPEC oil embargo, the year Richard Nixon announced he was not a crook, the year Edward G. Robinson and Noel Coward died. It was Devin Joness lost year. I was a twentyone yearold virgin with literary aspirations. I possessed three pairs of bluejeans, four pairs of Jockey shorts, a clunker Ford (with a good radio), occasional suicidal ideations, and a broken heart. Sweet, huh? The heartbreaker was Wendy Keegan, and she didnt deserve me. Its taken me most of my life to come to that conclusion, but you know the old saw; better late than never. She was from Portsmouth, New Hampshire; I was from South Berwick, Maine. That made her practically the girl next door. We had begun going together (as we used to say) during our freshman year at UNHwe actually met at the Freshman Mixer, and how sweet is that? Just like one of those pop songs. We were inseparable for two years, went everywhere together and did everything together. Everything, that is, but it. We were both workstudy kids with University jobs. Hers was in the library; mine was in the Commons cafeteria. We were offered the chance to hold onto those jobs during the summer of 1972, and of course we did. The money wasnt great, but the togetherness was priceless. I assumed that would also be the deal during the summer of 1973, until Wendy announced that her friend Renee had gotten them jobs working at Filenes, in Boston. Where does that leave me? I asked. You can always come down, she said. Ill miss you like mad, but really, Dev, we could probably use some time apart. A phrase that is very often a deathknell. She may have seen that idea on my face, because she stood on tiptoe and kissed me. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, she said. Besides, with my own place, maybe you can stay over. But she didnt quite look at me when she said that, and I never did stay over. Too many roommates, she said. Too little time. Of course such problems can be overcome, but somehow we never did, which should have told me something; in retrospect, it tells me a lot. Several times we had been very close to it, but it just never quite happened. She always drew back, and I never pressed her. God help me, I was being gallant. I have wondered often since what would have changed (for good or for ill) had I not been. What I know now is that gallant young men rarely get pussy. Put it on a sampler and hang it in your kitchen. The prospect of another summer mopping cafeteria floors and loading elderly Commons dishwashers with dirty plates didnt hold much charm for me, not with Wendy seventy miles south, enjoying the bright lights of Boston, but it was steady work, which I needed, and I didnt have any other prospects. Then, in late February, one literally came down the dishline to me on the conveyor belt. Someone had been reading Carolina Living while he or she snarfed up that days blue plate luncheon special, which happened to be Mexicali Burgers and Caramba Fries. He or she had left the magazine on the tray, and I picked it up along with the dishes. I almost tossed it in the trash, then didnt. Free reading material was, after all, free reading material. (I was a workstudy kid, remember.) I stuck it in my back pocket and forgot about it until I got back to my dorm room. There it flopped onto the floor, open to the classified section at the back, while I was changing my pants. Whoever had been reading the magazine had circled several job possibilities . . . although in the end, he or she must have decided none of them was quite right; otherwise Carolina Living wouldnt have come riding down the conveyor belt. Near the bottom of the page was an ad that caught my eye even though it hadnt been circled. In boldface type, the first line read WORK CLOSE TO HEAVEN! What English major could read that and not hang in for the pitch? And what glum twentyoneyearold, beset with the growing fear that he might be losing his girlfriend, would not be attracted by the idea of working in a place called Joyland? There was a telephone number, and on a whim, I called it. A week later, a job application landed in my dormitory mailbox. The attached letter stated that if I wanted fulltime summer employment (which I did), Id be doing many different jobs, most but not all custodial. I would have to possess a valid drivers license, and I would need to interview. I could do that on the upcoming spring break instead of going home to Maine for the week. Only Id been planning to spend at least some of that week with Wendy. We might even get around to it. Go for the interview, Wendy said when I told her. She didnt even hesitate. Itll be an adventure. Being with you would be an adventure, I said. Therell be plenty of time for that next year. She stood on tiptoe and kissed me (she always stood on tiptoe). Was she seeing the other guy, even then? Probably not, but Ill bet shed noticed him, because he was in her Advanced Sociology course. Renee St. Claire would have known, and probably would have told me if Id askedtelling stuff was Renees specialty, I bet she wore the priest out when she did the old confession bitbut some things you dont want to know. Like why the girl you loved with all your heart kept saying no to you, but tumbled into bed with the new guy at almost the first opportunity. Im not sure anybody ever gets completely over their first love, and that still rankles. Part of me still wants to know what was wrong with me. What I was lacking. Im in my sixties now, my hair is gray and Im a prostate cancer survivor, but I still want to know why I wasnt good enough for Wendy Keegan. I took a train called the Southerner from Boston to North Carolina (not much of an adventure, but cheap), and a bus from Wilmington to Heavens Bay. My interview was with Fred Dean, who wasamong many other functionsJoylands employment officer. After fifteen minutes of QandA, plus a look at my drivers license and my Red Cross lifesaving certificate, he handed me a plastic badge on a lanyard. It bore the word VISITOR, that days date, and a cartoon picture of a grinning, blueeyed German Shepherd who bore a passing resemblance to the famous cartoon sleuth, ScoobyDoo. Take a walk around, Dean said. Ride the Carolina Spin, if you like. Most of the rides arent up and running yet, but that one is. Tell Lane I said okay. What I gave you is a daypass, but I want you back here by . . . He looked at his watch. Lets say one oclock. Tell me then if you want the job. Ive got five spots left, but theyre all basically the sameas Happy Helpers. Thank you, sir. He nodded, smiling. Dont know how youll feel about this place, but it suits me fine. Its a little old and a little rickety, but I find that charming. I tried Disney for a while; didnt like it. Its too . . . I dont know . . . Too corporate? I ventured. Exactly. Too corporate. Too buffed and shiny. So I came back to Joyland a few years ago. Havent regretted it. We fly a bit more by the seat of our pants herethe place has a little of the oldtime carny flavor. Go on, look around. See what you think. More important, see how you feel. Can I ask one question first? Of course. I fingered my day pass. Whos the dog? His smile became a grin. Thats Howie the Happy Hound, Joylands mascot. Bradley Easterbrook built Joyland, and the original Howie was his dog. Long dead now, but youll still see a lot of him, if you work here this summer. I did . . . and I didnt. An easy riddle, but the explanation will have to wait awhile. Joyland was an indie, not as big as a Six Flags park, and nowhere near as big as Disney World, but it was large enough to be impressive, especially with Joyland Avenue, the main drag, and Hound Dog Way, the secondary drag, almost empty and looking eight lanes wide. I heard the whine of powersaws and saw plenty of workmenthe largest crew swarming over the Thunderball, one of Joylands two coastersbut there were no customers, because the park didnt open until May fifteenth. A few of the food concessions were doing business to take care of the workers lunch needs, though, and an old lady in front of a starstudded tellyourfortune kiosk was staring at me suspiciously. With one exception, everything else was shut up tight. The exception of the Carolina Spin. It was a hundred and seventy feet tall (this I found out later), and turning very slowly. Out in front stood a tightly muscled guy in faded jeans, balding suede boots splotched with grease, and a strapstyle tee shirt. He wore a derby hat tilted on his coalblack hair. A filterless cigarette was parked behind one ear. He looked like a cartoon carnival barker from an oldtime newspaper strip. There was an open toolbox and a big portable radio on an orange crate beside him. The Faces were singing Stay with Me. The guy was bopping to the beat, hands in his back pockets, hips moving side to side. I had a thought, absurd but perfectly clear When I grow up, I want to look just like this guy. He pointed to the pass. Freddy Dean sent you, right? Told you everything else was closed, but you could take a ride on the big wheel. Yes, sir. A ride on the Spin means youre in. He likes the chosen few to get the aerial view. You gonna take the job? I think so. He stuck out his hand. Im Lane Hardy. Welcome aboard, kid. I shook with him. Devin Jones. Pleased to meet you. He started up the inclined walk leading to the gently turning ride, grabbed a long lever that looked like a stick shift, and edged it back. The wheel came to a slow stop with one of the gaily painted cabins (the image of Howie the Happy Hound on each) swaying at the passenger loading dock. Climb aboard, Jonesy. Im going to send you up where the air is rare and the view is much more than fair. I climbed into the cabin and closed the door. Lane gave it a shake to make sure it was latched, dropped the safety bar, then returned to his rudimentary controls. Ready for takeoff, capn? I guess so. Amazement awaits. He gave me a wink and advanced the control stick. The wheel began to turn again and all at once he was looking up at me. So was the old lady by the fortunetelling booth. Her neck was craned and she was shading her eyes. I waved to her. She didnt wave back. Then I was above everything but the convoluted dips and twists of the Thunderball, rising into the chilly early spring air, and feelingstupid but truethat I was leaving all my cares and worries down below. Joyland wasnt a theme park, which allowed it to have a little bit of everything. There was a secondary roller coaster called the Delirium Shaker and a water slide (Captain Nemos Splash  Crash). On the far western side of the park was a special annex for the little ones called the WiggleWaggle Village. There was also a concert hall where most of the actsthis I also learned laterwere either Blist CW or the kind of rockers who peaked in the fifties or sixties. I remember that Johnny Otis and Big Joe Turner did a show there together. I had to ask Brenda Rafferty, the head accountant who was also a kind of den mother to the Hollywood Girls, who they were. Bren thought I was dense; I thought she was old; we were both probably right. Lane Hardy took me all the way to the top and then stopped the wheel. I sat in the swaying car, gripping the safety bar, and looking out at a brandnew world. To the west was the North Carolina flatland, looking incredibly green to a New England kid who was used to thinking of March as nothing but true springs cold and muddy precursor. To the east was the ocean, a deep metallic blue until it broke in creamywhite pulses on the beach where I would tote my abused heart up and down a few months hence. Directly below me was the goodnatured jumble of Joylandthe big rides and small ones, the concert hall and concessions, the souvenir shops and the Happy Hound Shuttle, which took customers to the adjacent motels and, of course, the beach. To the north was Heavens Bay. From high above the park (upstairs, where the air is rare), the town looked like a nestle of childrens blocks from which four church steeples rose at the major points of the compass. The wheel began to move again. I came down feeling like a kid in a Rudyard Kipling story, riding on the nose of an elephant. Lane Hardy brought me to a stop, but didnt bother to unlatch the cars door for me; I was, after all, almost an employee. Howd you like it? Great, I said. Yeah, it aint bad for a grandma ride. He reset his derby so it slanted the other way and cast an appraising eye over me. How tall are you? Sixthree? Sixfour. Uhhuh. Lets see how you like ridin all sixfour of you on the Spin in the middle of July, wearin the fur and singin Happy Birthday to some spoiledrotten little snothole with cotton candy in one hand and a meltin Kollie Kone in the other. Wearing what fur? But he was headed back to his machinery and didnt answer. Maybe he couldnt hear me over his radio, which was now blasting Crocodile Rock. Or maybe he just wanted my future occupation as one of Joylands cadre of Happy Hounds to come as a surprise. I had over an hour to kill before meeting with Fred Dean again, so I strolled up Hound Dog Way toward a lunchwagon that looked like it was doing a pretty good business. Not everything at Joyland was caninethemed, but plenty of stuff was, including this particular eatery, which was called PupALicious. I was on a ridiculously tight budget for this little jobhunting expedition, but I thought I could afford a couple of bucks for a chilidog and a paper cup of French fries. When I reached the palmreading concession, Madame Fortuna planted herself in my path. Except thats not quite right, because she was only Fortuna between May fifteenth and Labor Day. During those sixteen weeks, she dressed in long skirts, gauzy, layered blouses, and shawls decorated with various cabalistic symbols. Gold hoops hung from her ears, so heavy they dragged the lobes down, and she talked in a thick Romany accent that made her sound like a character from a 1930s frightflick, the kind featuring mistshrouded castles and howling wolves. During the rest of the year she was a childless widow from Brooklyn who collected Hummel figures and liked movies (especially the weepyass kind where some chick gets cancer and dies beautifully). Today she was smartly put together in a black pantsuit and low heels. A rosepink scarf around her throat added a touch of color. As Fortuna, she sported masses of wild gray locks, but that was a wig, and still stored under its own glass dome in her little Heavens Bay house. Her actual hair was a cropped cap of dyed black. The Love Story fan from Brooklyn and Fortuna the Seer only came together in one respect both fancied themselves psychic. There is a shadow over you, young man, she announced. I looked down and saw she was absolutely right. I was standing in the shadow of the Carolina Spin. We both were. Not that, stupidnik. Over your future. You will have a hunger. I had a bad one already, but a PupALicious footlong would soon take care of it. Thats very interesting, Mrs. . . . um . . . Rosalind Gold, she said, holding out her hand. But you can call me Rozzie. Everyone does. But during the season . . . She fell into character, which meant she sounded like Bela Lugosi with breasts. Doorink the season, I am . . . Fortuna! I shook with her. If shed been in costume as well as in character, half a dozen gold bangles would have clattered on her wrist. Very nice to meet you. And, trying on the same accent I am . . . Devin! She wasnt amused. An Irish name? Right. The Irish are full of sorrow, and many have the sight. I dont know if you do, but you will meet someone who does. Actually, I was full of happiness . . . along with that surpassing desire to put a PupALicious pup, preferably loaded with chili, down my throat. This was feeling like an adventure. I told myself Id probably feel less that way when I was swabbing out toilets at the end of a busy day, or cleaning puke from the seats of the Whirly Cups, but just then everything seemed perfect. Are you practicing your act? She drew herself up to her full height, which might have been fivetwo. Is no act, my lad. She said ect for act. Jews are the most psychically sensitive race on earth. This is a thing everyone knows. She dropped the accent. Also, Joyland beats hanging out a palmistry shingle on Second Avenue. Sorrowful or not, I like you. You give off good vibrations. One of my very favorite Beach Boys songs. But you are on the edge of great sorrow. She paused, doing the old emphasis thing. And, perhaps, danger. Do you see a beautiful woman with dark hair in my future? Wendy was a beautiful woman with dark hair. No, Rozzie said, and what came next stopped me dead. She is in your past. Ohhkay. I walked around her in the direction of PupALicious, being careful not to touch her. She was a charlatan, I didnt have a single doubt about that, but touching her just then still seemed like a lousy idea. No good. She walked with me. In your future is a little girl and a little boy. The boy has a dog. A Happy Hound, I bet. Probably named Howie. She ignored this latest attempt at levity. The girl wears a red hat and carries a doll. One of these children has the sight. I dont know which. It is hidden from me. I hardly heard that part of her spiel. I was thinking of the previous pronouncement, made in a flat Brooklyn accent She is in your past. Madame Fortuna got a lot of stuff wrong, I found out, but she did seem to have a genuine psychic touch, and on the day I interviewed for a summer at Joyland, she was hitting on all cylinders. I got the job. Mr. Dean was especially pleased by my Red Cross lifesaving certificate, obtained at the YMCA the summer I turned sixteen. That was what I called my Boredom Summer. In the years since, Ive discovered theres a lot to be said for boredom. I told Mr. Dean when my finals ended, and promised him that Id be at Joyland two days later, ready for team assignment and training. We shook hands and he welcomed me aboard. I had a moment when I wondered if he was going to encourage me to do the Happy Hound Bark with him, or something equivalent, but he just wished me a good day and walked out of the office with me, a little man with sharp eyes and a lithe stride. Standing on the little cementblock porch of the employment office, listening to the pound of the surf and smelling the damp salt air, I felt excited all over again, and hungry for summer to begin. Youre in the amusement business now, young Mr. Jones, my new boss said. Not the carny businessnot exactly, not the way we run things todaybut not so far removed from it, either. Do you know what that means, to be in the amusement business? No, sir, not exactly. His eyes were solemn, but there was a ghost of a grin on his mouth. It means the rubes have to leave with smiles on their facesand by the way, if I ever hear you call the customers rubes, youre going to be out the door so fast you wont know what hit you. I can say it, because Ive been in the amusement business since I was old enough to shave. Theyre rubesno different from the redneck Okies and Arkies that rubbernecked their way through every carny I worked for after World War II. The people who come to Joyland may wear better clothes and drive Fords and Volkswagen microbuses instead of Farmall pickups, but the place turns em into rubes with their mouths hung open. If it doesnt, its not doing its job. But to you, theyre the conies. When they hear it, they think Coney Island. We know better. Theyre rabbits, Mr. Jones, nice plump funloving rabbits, hopping from ride to ride and shy to shy instead of from hole to hole. He dropped me a wink and gave my shoulder a squeeze. The conies have to leave happy, or this place dries up and blows away. Ive seen it happen, and when it does, it happens fast. Its an amusement park, young Mr. Jones, so pet the conies and give their ears only the gentlest of tugs. In a word, amuse them. Okay, I said . . . although I didnt know how much customer amusement Id be providing by polishing the Devil Wagons (Joylands version of Dodgem cars) or running a streetsweeper down Hound Dog Way after the gates closed. And dont you dare leave me in the lurch. Be here on the agreedupon date, and five minutes before the agreedupon time. Okay. There are two important showbiz rules, kiddo always know where your wallet is . . . and show up. When I walked out beneath the big arch with WELCOME TO JOYLAND written on it in neon letters (now off) and into the mostly empty parking lot, Lane Hardy was leaning against one of the shuttered ticket booths, smoking the cigarette previously parked behind his ear. Cant smoke on the grounds anymore, he said. New rule. Mr. Easterbrook says were the first park in America to have it, but we wont be the last. Get the job? I did. Congratulations. Did Freddy give you the carny spiel? Sort of, yeah. Tell you about petting the conies? Yeah. He can be a pain in the banana, but hes oldtime showbiz, seen it all, most of it twice, and hes not wrong. I think youll do okay. Youve got a carny look about you, kid.