Everything seemed fine; the street was dozing through what might have been an afternoon in early August.
Eddie hurried up Polly's walk, fumbling an official-looking envelope out of his shirt as he went. Mr. Gaunt had called him only ten minutes ago, telling him it was time to finish paying for his medallion, and here he was... of course. Mr. Gaunt was the sort of guy who, when he said frog, you jumped.
Eddie climbed the three steps to Polly's porch. A hot little gust of breeze stirred the windchimes above the door, making them jingle softly together. It was the most civilized sound imaginable, but Eddie jumped slightly anyway. He took another look around, saw no one, then looked down at the envelope again. Addressed to "Ms. Patricia Chalmers"-pretty hoity-toity! Eddie hadn't the slightest idea that Polly's real first name was Patricia, nor did he care. His job was to do this little trick and then get the hell out of here.
He dropped the letter into the mail-slot. It fluttered down and landed on top of the other mail: two catalogues and a cable-TV brochure. just a business-length envelope with Polly's name and address centered below the metered mail stamp in the upper right corner and the return address in the upper left: San Francisco Department of Child Welfare 666 Geary Street San Francisco, California 94112
3
"What is it?" Alan asked as he and Polly walked slowly down the hill toward Alan's station wagon. He had hoped to pass at least a word with Norris, but Norris had already gotten into his VW and taken off.
Back to the lake for a little more fishing before the sun went down, probably.
Polly looked up at him, still red-eyed and too pale, but smiling tentatively. "What is what?"
"Your hands. What's made them all better? It's like magic."
"Yes," she said, and held them out before her, splay-fingered, so they could both look at them. "It is, isn't it?" Her smile was a little more natural now.
Her fingers were still twisted, still crooked, and the joints were still bunched, but the acute swelling which had been there Friday night was almost completely gone.
"Come on, lady. Give."
"I'm not sure I want to tell you," she said. "I'm a little embarrassed, actually."
They stopped and waved at Rosalie as she drove by in her old blue Toyota.
"Come on," Alan said. "'Fess up."
"Well," she said, "I guess it was just a matter of finally meeting the right doctor." Slow color was rising in her cheeks.
"Who's that?"
"Dr. Gaunt," she said with a nervous little laugh. "Dr. Leland Gaunt."
"Gaunt!" He looked at her in surprise. "What does he have to do with your hands?"
"Drive me down to his shop and I'll tell you on the way."
4
Five minutes later (one of the nicest things about living in Castle Rock, Alan sometimes thought, was that almost everything was only five minutes away), he swung into one of the slant spaces in front of Needful Things. There was a sign in the window, one Alan had seen before:
TUESDAYS AND THURSDAYS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.
It suddenly occurred to Alan-who hadn't thought about this aspect of the new store at all until now-that closed except "by appointment" was one f**k of a strange way to run a small-town business.
"Alan?" Polly asked hesitantly. "You look mad."
"I'm not mad," he said. "What in the world do I have to be mad about? The truth is, I don't know how I feel. I guess-" He uttered a short laugh, shook his head, and started again. "I guess I'm what Todd used to call 'gabberflasted.' Quack remedies? It just doesn't seem like you, Polly."
Her lips tightened at once, and there was a warning in her eyes when she turned to look at him. "'Quack' isn't the word I'd have used.
Quack is for ducks and... and prayer-wheels from the ads in the back of Inside View. 'Quack' is the wrong word to use if a thing works, Alan. Do you think I'm wrong?"
He opened his mouth-to say what, he wasn't sure-but she went on before he could say anything.
"Look at this." She held her hands out in the sunshine flooding through the windshield, then opened them and closed them effortlessly several times.
"All right. Poor choice of words. What I-"
"Yes, I'd say so. A very poor choice."
"I'm sorry."
She turned all the way around to face him then, sitting where Annie had so often sat, sitting in what had once been the Pangborn family car. Why haven't I traded this thing yet? Alan wondered.
What am I-crazy?
Polly placed her hands gently over Alan's. "Oh, this is starting to feel really uncomfortable-we never argue, and I'm not going to start now. I buried a good companion today. I'm not going to have a fight with my boyfriend, as well."
A slow grin lit his face. "That what I am? Your boyfriend?"
"Well... you're my friend. Can I at least say that?"
He hugged her, a little astonished at how close they had come to having harsh words. And not because she felt worse; because she felt better. "Honey, you can say anything you want. I love you a bunch."
"And we're not going to fight, no matter what."
He nodded solemnly. "No matter what."