The Waste Lands (The Dark Tower #3)(49)

“What did you say to me?” His father’s blue eyes widened. They were very bloodshot tonight. Jake guessed he had been dipping heavily into his supply of magic powder, and that probably made this a bad time to cross him, but Jake realized he intended to cross him just the same. He would not be shaken like a mouse in the jaws of a sadistic tomcat. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again. He suddenly realized that a large part of his anger stemmed from one simple fact: he could not talk to them about what had happened—what was still happening. They had closed all the doors.

But I have a key, he thought, and touched its shape through the fabric of his pants. And the rest of that strange verse occurred to him: If you want to run and play, /Come along the BEAM today.

“I said let go of me,” he repeated. “I’ve got a sprained ankle and you’re hurting it.”

“I’ll hurt more than your ankle if you don’t—” Sudden strength seemed to How into Jake. He seized the hand clamped on his arm just below the shoulder and shoved it violently away. His father’s mouth dropped open.

“I don’t work for you,” Jake said. “I’m your son, remember? If you forgot, check the picture on your desk.”

His father’s upper lip pulled back from his perfectly capped teeth in a snarl that was two parts surprise and one part fury. “Don’t you talk to me like that, mister—where in the hell is your respect?” “I don’t know. Maybe I lost it on the way home.” “You spend the whole goddamn day absent without leave and then you stand there running your fat, disrespectful mouth—“

“Stop it! Stop it, both of you!” Jake’s mother cried. She sounded near tears in spite of the tranquilizers perking through her system. Jake’s father reached for Jake’s arm again, then changed his mind. The surprising force with which his son had torn his hand away a moment ago might have had something to do with it. Or perhaps it was only the look in Jake’s eyes. “I want to know where you’ve been.” “Out. I told you that. And that’s all I’m going to tell you.” “Fuck that! Your headmaster called, your French teacher actually came here, and they both had beaucoup questions for you! So do I, and I want some answers!” “Your clothes are dirty,” his mother observed, and then added tim-idly: “Were you mugged, Johnny? Did you play hookey and get mugged?” “Of course he wasn’t mugged,” Elmer Chambers snarled. “Still wearing his watch, isn’t he?”

“But there’s blood on his head.”

“It’s okay, Mom. I just bumped it.”

“But—“

“I’m going to go to bed. I’m very, very tired. If you want to talk about this in the morning, okay. Maybe we’ll all be able to make some sense then. But for now, I don’t have a thing to say.”

His father took a step after him, reaching out. “No, Elmer!” Jake’s mother almost screamed. Chambers ignored her. He grabbed Jake by the back of the blazer. “Don’t you just walk away from me—” he began, and then Jake whirled, tearing the blazer out of his hand. The seam under the right arm, already strained, let go with a rough purring sound.

His father saw those blazing eyes and stepped away. The rage on his face was doused by something that looked like terror. That blaze was not metaphorical; Jake’s eyes actually seemed to be on fire. His mother gave voice to a strengthless little scream, clapped one hand to her mouth, took two large, stumbling steps backward, and dropped into her rocking chair with a small thud. “Leave. . me . . . alone,” Jake said.

“What’s happened to you?” his father asked, and now his tone was almost plaintive. “What in the hell’s happened to you? You bug out of school without a word to anyone on the first day of exams, you come back filthy from head to toe . . . and you act as if you’ve gone crazy.” Well, there it was—you act as if you’ve gone crazy. What he’d been afraid of ever since the voices started three weeks ago. The Dread Accu-sation. Only now that it was out, Jake found it didn’t frighten him much at all, perhaps because he had finally put the issue to rest in his own mind. Yes, something had happened to him. Was still happening. But no—he had not gone crazy. At least, not yet.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he repeated. He walked across the dining room, and this time his father didn’t try to stop him. He had almost reached the hall when his mother’s voice, worried, stopped him: “Johnny . . . are you all right?”

And what should he answer? Yes? No? Both of the above? Neither of the above? But the voices had stopped, and that was something. That was, in fact, quite a lot. “Better,” he said at last. He went down to his room and closed the door firmly behind him. The sound of the door snicking firmly shut between him and all the rest of the round world filled him with tremen-dous relief.

HE STOOD BY THE door for a little while, listening. His mother’s voice was only a murmur, his father’s voice a little louder. His mother said something about blood, and a doctor. His father said the kid was fine; the only thing wrong with the kid was the junk coming out of his mouth, and he would fix that. His mother said something about calming down. His father said he was calm.

His mother said—

He said, she said, blah, blah, blah. Jake still loved them—he was pretty sure he did, anyway—but other stuff had happened now, and these things had made it necessary that still other things must occur. Why? Because something was wrong with the rose. And maybe because he wanted to run and play . . . and see his eyes again, as blue as the sky above the way station had been.