"Jesus, Roland! He's got a Bobby Doerr...two Ted Williams balls...a Johnny Pesky...a Frank Malzone..."
"Those names don't mean anything to you, do they?" John Cullum asked Roland.
"No," Roland said. "My friend...thank you." He took a light from the match sai Cullum offered. "My friend hasn't been on this side very much for quite awhile. I think he misses it."
"Gorry," Cullum said. "Walk-ins! Walk-ins inmy house! I can't hardly believe it!"
"Where's Dewey Evans?" Eddie asked. "You don't have a Dewey Evans ball."
"Pardon?" Cullum asked. It came outpaaa-aaadon.
"Maybe they don't call him that yet," Eddie said, almost to himself. "Dwight Evans? Right fielder?"
"Oh." Cullum nodded. "Well, I only have the best in that cabinet, don't you know."
"Dewey fills the bill, believe me," Eddie said. "Maybe he's not worthy of being in the John Cullum Hall of Fame yet, but wait a few years. Wait until '86. And by the way, John, as a fan of the game, I want to say two words to you, okay?"
"Sure," Cullum said. It came out exactly as the word was said in the Calla: SHO -ah.
Roland, meanwhile, had taken a drag from his smoke. He blew it out and looked at the cigarette, frowning.
"The words areRoger Clemens, " Eddie said. "Remember that name."
"Clemens," John Cullum said, but dubiously. Faintly, from the far side of Keywadin Pond, came the sound of more sirens. "Roger Clemens, ayuh, I'll remember. Who is he?"
"You're gonna want him in here, leave it at that," Eddie said, tapping the case. "Maybe on the same shelf with the Babe."
Cullum's eyes gleamed. "Tell me somethin, son. Have the Red Sox won it all yet? Have they - "
"This isn't a smoke, it's nothing but murky air," Roland said. He gave Cullum a reproachful look that was so un-Roland that it made Eddie grin. "No taste to speak of at all. People here actuallysmoke these?"
Cullum took the cigarette from Roland's fingers, broke the filter off the end, and gave it back to him. "Try it now," he said, and returned his attention to Eddie. "So? I got you out of a jam on t'other side of the water. Seems like you owe me one. Have they ever won the Series? At least up to your time?"
Eddie's grin faded and he looked at the old man seriously. "I'll tell you if you really want me to, John. Butdo ya?"
John considered, puffing his pipe. Then he said, "I s'pose not. Knowin'd spoil it."
"Tell you one thing," Eddie said cheerfully. The pills John had given him were kicking in and hefelt cheerful. A little bit, anyway. "You don't want to die before 1986. That one's gonna be a corker."
"Ayuh?"
"Say absolutely true." Then Eddie turned to the gunslinger. "What are we going to do about our gunna, Roland?"
Roland hadn't even thought about it until this moment. All their few worldly possessions, from Eddie's fine new whittling knife, purchased in Took's Store, to Roland's ancient grow-bag, given to him by his father far on the other side of time's horizon, had been left behind when they came through the door. When they had beenblown through the door. The gunslinger assumed their gunna had been left lying in the dirt in front of the East Stoneham store, although he couldn't remember for sure; he'd been too fiercely focused on getting Eddie and himself to safety before the fellow with the long-sighted rifle blew their heads off. It hurt to think of all those companions of the long trek burned up in the fire that had undoubtedly claimed the store by now. It hurt even worse to think of them in the hands of Jack Andolini. Roland had a brief but vivid picture of his grow-bag hanging on Andolini's belt like a 'backy-pouch (or an enemy's scalp) and winced.
"Roland? What about our - "
"We have our guns, and that's all the gunna we need," Roland said, more roughly than he had intended. "Jake has theChoo-Choo book, and I can make another compass should we need one. Otherwise - "
"But - "
"If you're talkin about your goods, sonny, I c'n ask some questions about em when the time comes," Cullum said. "But for the time being, I think your friend's right."
Eddieknew his friend was right. His friend was almostalways right, which was one of the few things Eddie still hated about him. He wanted his gunna, goddammit, and not just for the one clean pair of jeans and the two clean shirts. Nor for extra ammo or the whittling knife, fine as it was. There had been a lock of Susannah's hair in his leather swag-bag, and it had still carried a faint whiff of her smell.That was what he missed. But done was done.
"John," he said, "what day is this?"
The man's bristly gray eyebrows went up. "You serious?" And when Eddie nodded: "Ninth of July. Year of our Lord nineteen-seventy-seven."