Which probably explains all there is about you worth knowing, sugar, she thought.
“Susannah?” Roland asked. “Do you hear me?”
“Hear you well,” she told him. “Don’t you worry about me.”
“If it goes as I want, they’ll see you little and you’ll see them much.”
As a woman who’d grown up black in mid-twentieth-century America (Odetta had laughed and applauded her way through Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, often rocking back and forth in her seat like one who has been visited by a revelation), Susannah knew exactly what he wanted. And would give it to him. There was a part of her—a spiteful Detta Walker part—that would always resent Roland’s ascendancy in her heart and mind, but for the most part she recognized him for what he was: the last of his kind. Maybe even a hero.
TWO
Watching Roland make the introductions (Susannah was presented dead last, after Jake, and almost negligendy), she had time to reflect on how fine she felt now that the nagging gas-pains in her left side had departed. Hell, even the lingering headache had gone its way, and that sucker had been hanging around—
sometimes in the back of her head, sometimes at one temple or the other, sometimes just above her left eye, like a migraine waiting to hatch—for a week or more. And of course there were the mornings. Every one found her feeling nauseated and with a bad case of jelly-leg for the first hour or so. She never vomited, but for that first hour she always felt on the verge of it. She wasn’t stupid enough to mistake such symptoms, but had reason to know they meant nothing. She just hoped she wouldn’t embarrass herself by swelling up as her Mama’s friend Jessica had done, not once but twice. Two false pregnancies, and in both cases that woman had looked ready to bust out twins. Triplets, even. But of course Jessica Beasley’s periods had stopped, and that made it all too easy for a woman to believe she was with child. Susannah knew she wasn’t pregnant for the simplest of reasons: she was still menstruating. She had begun a period on the very day they had awakened back on the Path of the Beam, with the Green Palace twenty-five or thirty miles behind them.
She’d had another since then. Both courses had been exceptionally heavy, necessitating the use of many rags to soak up the dark flow, and before then her menses had always been light, some months no more than a few of the spots her mother called “a lady’s roses.” Yet she didn’t complain, because before her arrival in this
world, her periods had usually been painful and sometimes excruciating. The two she’d had since returning to the Path of the Beam hadn’t hurt at all. If not for the soaked rags she’d carefully buried to one side of their path or the other, she wouldn’t have had a clue that it was her time of the month. Maybe it was the purity of the water.
Of course she knew what all this was about; it didn’t take a rocket scientist, as Eddie sometimes said. The crazy, scrambled dreams she couldn’t recall, the weakness and nausea in the mornings, the transient headaches, the strangely fierce gas attacks and occasional cramps all came down to the same thing: she wanted his baby. More than anything else in the world, she wanted Eddie Dean’s chap growing in her belly.
What she didn’t want was to puff up in a humiliating false pregnancy.
Never mind all that now, she thought as Callahan approached with the others. Right now you’ve got to watch.
Got to see what Roland and Eddie and Jake don’t see. That way nothing gets dropped. And she felt she could do that job very well.
Really, she had never felt finer in her life.
THREE
Callahan came first. Behind him were two men, one who looked about thirty and another who looked to Susannah nearly twice that. The older man had heavy cheeks that would be jowls in another five years or so, and lines carving their courses from the sides of his nose down to his chin. “I-want lines,” her father would have called them (and Dan Holmes had had a pretty good set of his own). The younger man wore a battered sombrero, the older a clean white Stetson that made Susannah want to smile—it looked like the kind of hat the good guy would wear in an old black-and-white Western movie. Still, she guessed a lid like that didn’t come cheap, and she thought the man wearing it had to be Wayne Overholser. “The big farmer,” Roland had called him. The one that had to be convinced, according to Callahan.
But not by us, Susannah thought, which was sort of a relief. The tight mouth, the shrewd eyes, and most of all those deep-carved lines (there was another slashed vertically into his brow, just above the eyes) suggested sai Overholser would be a pain in the ass when it came to convincing.
Just behind these two—specifically behind the younger of the two—there came a tall, handsome woman, probably not black but nonetheless nearly as dark-skinned as Susannah herself. Bringing up the rear was an earnest-looking man in spectacles and farmer’s clothes and a likely-looking boy probably two or three years older than Jake. The resemblance between this pair was impossible to miss; they had to be Slightman the Elder and Younger.
Boy may be older than Jake in years, she thought, but he’s got a soft bok about him, all the same. True, but not necessarily a bad thing. Jake had seen far too much for a boy not yet in his teens. Done too much, as well.
Overholser looked at their guns (Roland and Eddie each wore one of the big revolvers with the sandalwood grips; the .44 Ruger from New York City hung under Jake’s arm in what Roland called a docker’s clutch), then at Roland. He made a perfunctory salute, his half-closed fist skimming somewhere at least close to his forehead. There was no bow. If Roland was offended by this, it didn’t show on his face. Nothing showed on his face but polite interest.
“Hile, gunslinger,” the man who had been walking beside Overholser said, and this one actually dropped to one knee, with his head down and his brow resting on his fist. “I am Tian Jaffords, son of Luke. This lady is my wife, Zalia.”
“Hile,” Roland said. “Let me be Roland to you, if it suits. May your days be long upon the earth, sai Jaffords.”
“Tian. Please. And may you and your friends have twice the—”
“I’m Overholser,” the man in the white Stetson broke in brusquely. “We’ve come to meet you—you and your friends— at the request of Callahan and young Jaffords. I’d pass the formalities and get down to business as soon as possible, do ya take no offense, I beg.”
“Ask pardon but that’s not quite how it is,” Jaffords said. “There was a meeting, and the men of the Calla voted—”
Overholser broke in again. He was, Susannah thought, just that kind of man. She doubted he was even aware he was doing it. “The town, yes. The Calla. I’ve come along with every wish to do right by my town and my neighbors, but this is a busy time for me, none busier—”
“Charyou tree,” Roland said mildly, and although Susannah knew a deeper meaning for this phrase, one that made her back prickle, Overholser’s eyes lit up. She had her first inkling then of how this day was going to go.
“Come reap, yessir, say thankee.” Off to one side, Callahan was gazing into the woods with a kind of studied patience. Behind Overholser, Tian Jaffords and his wife exchanged an embarrassed glance. The Slightmans only waited and watched. “You understand that much, anyway.”
“In Gilead we were surrounded by farms and freeholds,” Roland said. “I got my share of hay and corn in barn. Aye, and sharproot, too.”
Overholser was giving Roland a grin that Susannah found fairly offensive. It said, We know better than that, don’t we, sail We’re both men of the world, after all. “Where are you from really, sai Roland?”
“My friend, you need to see an audiologist,” Eddie said.
Overholser looked at him, puzzled. “Beg-my-ear?”
Eddie made a there, you see? gesture and nodded. “Exactly what I mean.”
“Be still, Eddie,” Roland said. Still as mild as milk. “Sai Overholser, we may take a moment to exchange names and speak a good wish or two, surely. For that is how civilized, kindly folk behave, is it not?” Roland paused—a brief, underlining pause— and then said, “With harriers it may be different, but there are no harriers here.”
Overholser’s lips pressed together and he looked hard at Roland, ready to take offense. He saw nothing in the gunslinger’s face that offered it, and relaxed again. “Thankee,” he said. “Tian and Zalia Jaffords, as told—”