Stephen King – The Dark Tower

fish—”

Oy barked in alarm. Susannah felt sudden wet warmth run down the side of her neck and

onto her shoulder.

“Stop, Joe,” Roland said. He sounded out of breath. Weak. With laughter, Susannah

supposed. Oh, but the side of her face hurt, and—

Joe opened his eyes, looking annoyed. “What? Jesus Christ, you wanted it and I wasgiving

it to ya!”

“Susannah’s hurt herself.” The gunslinger was up and looking at her, laughter lost in

concern.

“I’m not hurt, Roland, I just slapped myself upside the head a little harder than I m—”

Then she looked at her hand and was dismayed to see it was wearing a red glove.

Nine

Oy barked again. Roland snatched the napkin from beside his overturned cup. One end

was brown and soaking with coffee, but the other was dry. He pressed it against the

gushing sore and Susannah winced away from his touch at first, her eyes filling with tears.

“Nay, let me stop the bleeding at least,” Roland murmured, and grasped her head, working

his fingers gently into the tight cap of her curls. “Hold steady.” And for him she managed

to do it.

Through her watering eyes Susannah thought Joe still looked pissed that she had

interrupted his comedy routine in such drastic (not to mention messy) fashion, and in a way

she didn’t blame him. He’d been doing a really good job; she’d gone and spoiled it. Aside

from the pain, which was abating a little now, she was horribly embarrassed, remembering

the time she had started her period in gym class and a little trickle of blood had run down

her thigh for the whole world to see—that part of it with whom she had third-period PE, at

any rate. Some of the girls had begun chantingPlug it UP!, as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

Mixed with this memory was fear concerning the sore itself. What if it was cancer? Before,

she’d always been able to thrust this idea away before it was fully articulated in her mind.

This time she couldn’t. What if she’d caught her stupid self a cancer on her trek through the Badlands?

Her stomach knotted, then heaved. She kept her fine dinner in its place, but perhaps only

for the time being.

Suddenly she wanted to be alone,needed to be alone. If she was going to vomit, she didn’t want to do it in front of Roland and this stranger. Even if she wasn’t, she wanted some time

to get herself back under control. A gust of wind strong enough to shake the entire cottage

roared past like a hot-enj in full flight; the lights flickered and her stomach knotted again at the sea-sick motion of the shadows on the wall.

“I’ve got to go…the bathroom…” she managed to say. For a moment the world wavered,

but then it steadied down again. In the fireplace a knot of wood exploded, shooting a flurry

of crimson sparks up the chimney.

“You sure?” Joe asked. He was no longer angry (if he had been), but he was looking at her

doubtfully.

“Let her go,” Roland said. “She needs to settle herself down, I think.”

Susannah began to give him a grateful smile, but it hurt the sore place and started it

bleeding again, too. She didn’t know what else might change in the immediate future

thanks to the dumb, unhealing sore, but shedid know she was done listening to jokes for

awhile. She’d need a transfusion if she did much more laughing.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “Don’t you boys go and eat all the rest of that pudding on me.” The very thought of food made her feel ill, but it was something to say.

“On the subject of pudding, I make no promise,” Roland said. Then, as she began to turn

away: “If thee feels light-headed in there, call me.”

“I will,” she said. “Thank you, Roland.”

Ten

Although Joe Collins lived alone, his bathroom had a pleasantly feminine feel to it.

Susannah had noticed that the first time she’d used it. The wallpaper was pink, with green

leaves and—what else?—wild roses. The john looked perfectly modern except for the ring,

which was wood instead of plastic. Had he carved it himself? She didn’t think it was out of

the question, although probably the robot had brought it from some forgotten store of stuff.

Stuttering Carl? Was that what Joe called the robot? No, Bill. Stuttering Bill.

On one side of the john there was a stool, on the other a claw-foot tub with a shower

attachment that made her think of Hitchcock’sPsycho (butevery shower made her think of

that damned movie since she’d seen it in Times Square). There was also a porcelain

washstand set in a waist-high wooden cabinet—good old plainoak rather than ironwood,

she judged. There was a mirror above it. She presumed you swung it out and there were

your pills and potions. All the comforts of home.

She removed the napkin with a wince and a little hissing cry. It had stuck in the drying

blood, and pulling it away hurt. She was dismayed by the amount of blood on her cheeks,

lips, and chin—not to mention her neck and the shoulder of her shirt. She told herself not to let it make her crazy; you ripped the top off something and it was going to bleed, that was

all. Especially if it was on your stupidface .

In the other room she heard Joe say something, she couldn’t tell what, and Roland’s

response: a few words with a chuckle tacked on at the end.So weird to hear him do that, she

thought.Almost like he’s drunk . Had she ever seen Roland drunk? She realized she had not.

Never falling-down drunk, never mother-naked, never fully caught by laughter…until

now.

Ten’ yo business, woman,Detta told her.

“All right,” she muttered. “All right, all right.”

Thinking drunk. Thinking naked. Thinking lost in laughter. Thinking they were all so

close to being the same thing.

Maybe theywere the same thing.

Then she got up on the stool and turned on the water. It came in a gush, blotting out the

sounds from the other room.

She settled for cold, splashing it gently on her face, then using a facecloth—even more

gently—to clean the skin around the sore. When that was done, she patted the sore itself.

Doing it didn’t hurt as much as she’d been afraid it might. Susannah was a little encouraged.

When she was done, she rinsed out Joe’s facecloth before the bloodstains could set and

leaned close to the mirror. What she saw made her breathe a sigh of relief. Slapping her

hand incautiously to her face like that had torn the entire top off the sore, but maybe in the end that would turn out to be for the best. One thing was for sure: if Joe had a bottle of

hydrogen peroxide or some kind of antibiotic cream in his medicine cabinet, she intended

to give the damned mess a good cleaning-out while it was open. And ne’mine how much it

might sting. Such a cleansing was due and overdue. Once it was finished, she’d bandage it

over and then just hope for the best.

She spread the facecloth on the side of the basin to dry, then plucked a towel (it was the

same shade of pink as the wallpaper) from a fluffy stack on a nearby shelf. She got it

halfway to her face, then froze. There was a piece of notepaper lying on the next towel in

the stack. It was headed with a flower-decked bench being lowered by a pair of happy

cartoon angels. Beneath was this printed, bold-face line:

And, in faded fountain pen ink:

Frowning, Susannah plucked the sheet of notepaper from the stack of towels. Who had left

it here? Joe? She doubted it like hell. She turned the paper over. Here the same hand had

written:

In the other room, Joe continued to speak and this time Roland burst out laughing instead

of just chuckling. It sounded to Susannah as if Joe had resumed his monologue. In a way

she could understand that—he’d been doing something he loved, something he hadn’t had

a chance to do in a good long stretch of years—but part of her didn’t like the idea at all.

That Joe would resume while she was in the bathroom tending to herself, that Roland

wouldlet him resume. Would listen and laugh while she was shedding blood. It seemed like

a rotten, boys-clubby kind of thing to do. She supposed she had gotten used to better from

Eddie.

Why don’t you forget the boys for the time being and concentrate on what’s right in front

of you? What does it mean?

One thing seemed obvious: someone had expected her to come in here and find that note.

Not Roland, not Joe.Her .What a bad girl, it said.Girl .

But who could have known? Who could have been sure? It wasn’t as if she made a habit of