But you will, Susannah thought. Because we need you to. We need you to.
She grasped it tightly and began turning it slowly counter-clockwise. A pain went through her
head and she grimaced. Another momentarily constricted her throat, as if she’d gotten a fishbone stuck in there, but then both pains cleared. To her right an entire bank of lights flashed on, most of them amber, a few bright red.
“WARNING,” said a voice that sounded eerily like that of Blaine the Mono. “THIS
OPERATION MAY EXCEED SAFETY PARAMETERS.”
No shit, Sherlock, Susannah thought. The LABOR FORCE dial was now down to 6. When she
turned it past 5, another bank of amber and red lights flashed on, and three of the monitors
showing Calla scenes shorted out with sizzling pops. Another pain gripped her head like
invisible pressing fingers. From somewhere beneath her came the start-up whine of motors or
turbines. Big ones, from the sound. She could feel them thrumming against her feet, which were
bare, of course — Mia had gotten the shoes. Oh well, she thought, I didn’t have any feet at all before this, so maybe I’m ahead of the game.
“WARNING,” said the mechanical voice. “WHAT YOU’RE DOING IS DANGEROUS,
SUSANNAH OF NEW YORK. HEAR ME I BEG. IT’S NOT NICE TO FOOL MOTHER
NATURE.”
One of Roland’s proverbs occurred to her: You do what you need to, and I’ll do what I need to, and we’ll see who gets the goose. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but it seemed to fit this
situation, so she repeated it aloud as she slowly but steadily turned the LABOR FORCE dial past 4, to 3 . . .
She meant to turn the dial all the way back to 1, but the pain which ripped through her head
when the absurd thing passed 2 was so huge — so sickening — that she dropped her hand.
For a moment the pain continued — intensified, even —and she thought it would kill her. Mia
would topple off the bench where she was sitting, and both of them would be dead before their
shared body hit the concrete in front of the turtle sculpture. Tomorrow or the next day, her
remains would take a quick trip to Potter’s Field. And what would go on the death certificate?
Stroke? Heart attack? Or maybe that old standby of the medical man in a hurry, natural causes?
But the pain subsided and she was still alive when it did. She sat in front of the console with the two ridiculous dials and the toggle-switch, taking deep breaths and wiping the sweat from her cheeks with both hands. Boy-howdy, when it came to visualization technique, she had to be the
champ of the world.
This is more than visualization — you know that, right?
She supposed she did. Something had changed her —had changed all of them. Jake had gotten
the touch, which was a kind of telepathy. Eddie had grown (was still growing) into some sort of ability to create powerful, talismanic objects — one of them had already served to open a door
between two worlds. And she?
I . . . see. That’s all. Except if I see it hard enough, it starts to be real. The way Detta Walker got to be real.
All over this version of the Dogan, amber lights were glowing. Even as she looked, some
turned red. Beneath her feet — special guest feet, she thought them — the floor trembled and
thrummed. Enough of this and cracks would start to appear in its elderly surface. Cracks that
would widen and deepen. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the House of Usher.
Susannah got up from the chair and looked around. She should go back. Was there anything
else that needed doing before she did?
One thing occurred to her.
THREE
Susannah closed her eyes and imagined a radio mike. When she opened them the mike was there,
standing on the console to the right of the two dials and the toggle-switch. She had imagined a Zenith trademark, right down to the lightning-bolt Z, on the microphone’s base, but NORTH
CENTRAL positronics had been stamped there, instead. So something was messing in with her
visualization technique. She found that extremely scary.
On the control panel directly behind the microphone was a semicircular, tri-colored readout
with the words SUSANNAH-MIO printed below it. A needle was moving out of the green and
into the yellow. Beyond the yellow segment the dial turned red, and a single word was printed in black: DANGER.
Susannah picked up the mike, saw no way to use it, closed her eyes again, and imagined a
toggle-switch like the one-marked with AWAKE and ASLEEP, only this time on the side of the
mike. When she opened her eyes again, the switch was there. She pressed it.
“Eddie,” she said. She felt a little foolish, but went on, anyway. “Eddie, if you hear me, I’m okay, at least for the time being. I’m with Mia, in New York. It’s June first of 1999, and I’m
going to try and help her have the baby. I don’t see any other choice. If nothing else, I have to be rid of it myself. Eddie, you take care of yourself. I . . .” Her eyes welled with tears. “I love you, sugar. So much.”
The tears spilled down her cheeks. She started to wipe them away and then stopped herself.
Didn’t she have a right to cry for her man? As much right as any other woman?
She waited for a response, knowing she could make one if she wanted to and resisting the
urge. This wasn’t a situation where talking to herself in Eddie’s voice would do any good.
Suddenly her vision doubled in front of her eyes. She saw the Dogan for the unreal shade that
it was. Beyond its walls were not the deserty wastelands on the east side of the Whye but Second Avenue with its rushing traffic.
Mia had opened her eyes. She was feeling fine again — thanks to me, honeybunch, thanks to me — and was ready to move on.
Susannah went back.
FOUR
A black woman (who still thought of herself as a Negro woman) was sitting on a bench in New
York City in the spring of ’99. A black woman with her traveling bags — her gunna — spread
around her. One of them was a faded red. NOTHING BUT STRIKES AT MIDTOWN LANES
was printed on it. It had been pink on the other side. The color of the rose.
Mia stood up. Susannah promptly came forward and made her sit down again.
What did you do that for? Mia asked, surprised.
I don’t know, I don’t have a clue. But let’s us palaver a little. Why don’t you start by telling me where you want to go?
I need a telefung. Someone will call.
Tele phone, Susannah said. And by the way, there’s blood on our shirt, sugar, Margaret Eisenhart’s blood, and sooner or later someone’s gonna recognize it for what it is. Then where will you be?
The response to this was wordless, a swell of smiling contempt. It made Susannah angry. Five
minutes ago — or maybe fifteen, it was hard to keep track of time when you were having fun —
this hijacking bitch had been screaming for help. And now that she’d gotten it, what her rescuer got was an internal contemptuous smile. What made it worse was that the bitch was right: she
could probably stroll around Midtown all day without anyone asking her if that was dried blood
on her shirt, or had she maybe just spilled her chocolate egg-cream.
All right, she said, but even if nobody bothers you about the blood, where are you going to store your goods? Then another question occurred to her, one that probably should have come to her right away.
Mia, how do you even know what a telephone is? And don’t tell me they have em where you
came from, either.
No response. Only a kind of watchful silence. But she had wiped the smile off the bitch’s face; she’d done that much.
You have friends, don’t you? Or at least you think they’re friends. Folks you’ve been talking to behind my back. Folks that ‘II help you. Or so you think.
Are you going to help me or not? Back to that. And angry. But beneath the anger, what?
Fright? Probably that was too strong, at least for now. But worry, certainly. How long have I —
have we — got before the labor starts up again?
Susannah guessed somewhere between six and ten hours — certainly before midnight saw in
June second — but tried to keep this to herself.
I don’t know. Not all that long.
Then we have to get started. I have to find a telefung. Phone. In a private place.
Susannah thought there was a hotel at the First Avenue end of Forty-sixth Street, and tried to