don't need nobody cutting up on my bus. '
Callahan nods. No cutting up, that's a big ten-four. The driver goes into the combination grocery store-liquor store—short-order restaurant that exists here on the rim of Hartford, on the rim of morning, under yellow hi-intensity lights. There are secret highways in America, highways in hiding. This place stands at one of the entrance ramps leading into that network of darkside roads, and Callahan senses it. It's in the way the Dixie cups and crumpled cigarette packs blow across the tarmac in the pre-dawn wind. It whispers from the sign on the gas pumps, the one that says pay for gas in advance after sundown. It's in the teenage boy across the street, sitting on a porch stoop at four-thirty in the morning with his head in his arms, a silent essay in pain. The secret highways are out close, and they whisper to him. 'Come on, buddy, ' they say. 'Here is where you can forget everything, even the name they tied on you when you were nothing but a naked, blatting baby still smeared with your mother's blood. They tied a name to you like a can to a dog's tail, didn't they ? But you don't need to drag it around here. Come. Come on. 'But he goes nowhere. He's waiting for the bus driver, and pretty soon the bus driver comes back, and he's got a pint of Old Log Cabin in a brown paper sack. This is a brand Callahan knows well, a pint of the stuff probably goes for two dollars and a quarter out here in the boonies, which means the bus driver has just earned himself a twenty-eight-dollar tip, give or take. Not bad. But it's the American way, isn't it? Give a lot to get a little. And if the Log Cabin will take that terrible taste out of his mouth —much worse than the throbbing in his burned hand —it will be worth every penny of the thirty bucks. Hell, it would be worth a C-note .
'No cutting up, ' the driver says. 'I'll put you out right in the middle of the Cross Bronx Expressway if you start cutting up. I swear to God I will'
By the time the Greyhound pulls into the Port Authority, Don Callahan is drunk. But he doesn't cut up; he simply sits quietly until it's time to get off and join the flow of six o'clock humanity under the cold fluorescent lights: the junkies, the cabbies, the shoeshine boys, the girls who'll blow you for ten dollars, the boys dressed up as girls who'll blow you for five dollars, the cops twirling their nightsticks, the dope dealers carrying their transistor radios, the blue-collar guys who are just coming in from New Jersey. Callahan joins them, drunk but quiet; the nightstick-twirling cops do not give him so much as a second glance. The Port Authority air smells of cigarette smoke and joysticks and exhaust. The docked buses rumble. Everyone here looks cut loose. Under the cold white fluorescents, they all look dead.
No, he thinks, walking under a sign reading to STREET . Not dead, that's wrong. Un ndead.
EIGHT 'Man,' Eddie said. 'You been to the wars, haven't you? Greek, Roman, and Vietnam.'
When the Old Fella began, Eddie had been hoping he'd gallop through his story so they could go into the church and look at whatever was stashed there. He hadn't expected to be touched, let alone shaken, but he had been. Callahan knew stuff Eddie thought no one else could possibly know: the sadness of Dixie cups rolling across the pavement, the rusty hopelessness of that sign on the gas pumps, the look of the human eye in the hour before dawn.
Most of all about how sometimes you had to have it.
'The wars? I don't know,' Callahan said. Then he sighed and nodded. 'Yes, I suppose so. I spent that first day in movie theaters and that first night in Washington Square Park. I saw that the other homeless people covered themselves up with newspapers, so that's what I did. And here's an example of how life—the quality of life and the texture of life—seemed to have changed for me, beginning on the day of Danny Glick's burial. You won't understand right away, but bear with me.' He looked at Eddie and smiled. 'And don't worry, son, I'm not going to talk the day away. Or even the morning.'
'You go on and tell it any old way it does ya fine,' Eddie said.
Callahan burst out laughing. 'Say thankya! Aye, say thankya big! What I was going to tell you is that I'd covered my top half with the Daily News and the headline said HITLER BROTHERS STRIKE IN QUEENS.'
'Oh my God, the Hitler Brothers,' Eddie said. 'I remember them. Couple of morons. They beat up… what? Jews? Blacks?'
'Both,' Callahan said. 'And carved swastikas on their foreheads. They didn't have a chance to finish mine. Which is good, because what they had in mind after the cutting was a lot more than a simple beating. And that was years later, when I came back to New York.'
'Swastika,' Roland said. 'The sigul on the plane we found near River Crossing? The one with David Quick inside it?'
'Uh-huh,' Eddie said, and drew one in the grass with the toe of his boot. The grass sprang up almost immediately, but not before Roland saw that yes, the mark on Callahan's forehead could have been meant to be one of those. If it had been finished.
'On that day in late October of 1975,' Callahan said, 'the Hitler Brothers were just a headline I slept under. I spent most of that second day in New York walking around and fighting the urge to score a bottle. There was part of me that wanted to fight instead of drink. To try and atone. At the same time, I could feel Barlow's blood working into me, getting in deeper and deeper. The world smelled different, and not better. Things looked different, and not better. And the taste of him came creeping back into my mouth, a taste like dead fish or rotten wine.
'I had no hope of salvation. Never think it. But atonement isn't about salvation, anyway. Not about heaven. It's about clearing your conscience here on earth. And you can't do it drunk. I didn't think of myself as an alcoholic, not even then, but I did wonder if he'd turned me into a vampire. If the sun would start to burn my skin, and I'd start looking at ladies' necks.' He shrugged, laughed. 'Or maybe gentlemen's. You know what they say about the priesthood; we're just a bunch of closet queers running around and shaking the cross in people's faces.'
'But you weren't a vampire,' Eddie said.
'Not even a Type Three. Nothing but unclean. On the outside of everything. Cast away. Always smelling his stink and always seeing the world the way things like him must see it, in shades of gray and red. Red was the only bright color I was allowed to see for years. Everything else was just a whisper.
'I guess I was looking for a ManPower office—you know, the day-labor company? I was still pretty rugged in those days, and of course I was a lot younger, as well.
'I didn't find ManPower. What I did find was a place called Home. This was on First Avenue and Forty-seventh Street, not far from the U.N.'
Roland, Eddie, and Susannah exchanged a look. Whatever Home was, it had existed only two blocks from the vacant lot. Only it wouldn't have been vacant back then , Eddie thought. Not back in 1975. In '75 it would still have been Tom and Jerry's Artistic Deli, Party Platters Our Specialty . He suddenly wished Jake were here. Eddie thought that by now the kid would have been jumping up and down with excitement.
'What kind of shop was Home?' Roland asked.
'Not a shop at all. A shelter. A wet shelter. I can't say for sure that it was the only one in Manhattan, but I bet it was one of the very few. I didn't know much about shelters then—just a little bit from my first parish—but as time went by, I learned a great deal. I saw the system from both sides. There were times when I was the guy who ladled out the soup at six p.m. and passed out the blankets at nine; at other times I was the guy who drank the soup and slept under the blankets. After a head-check for lice, of course.
'There are shelters that won't let you in if they smell booze on your breath. And there are ones where they'll let you in if you claim you're at least two hours downstream from your last drink. There are places—a few— that'll let you in pissyassed drunk, as long as they can search you at the door and get rid of all your hooch. Once
