Four Past Midnight - Stephen King [231]
'I believe you,' Sam repeated, and patted Dave's horribly bony shoulder. He found himself wondering, God help him, if Dave had fleas. On the heels of this uncharitable thought came another: he wondered if any of the other Rotarians, those hale and hearty fellows with whom he had made such a hit a week ago, had been down to this end of town lately. He wondered if they even knew about Angle Street. And he wondered if Spencer Michael Free had been thinking about such men as Lukey and Rudolph and Dirty Dave when he wrote that it was the human touch in this world that counted - the touch of your hand and mine. Sam felt a sudden burst of shame at the recollection of his speech, so full of innocent boosterism. and approval for the simple pleasures of small-town life.
'That's good,' Dave said. 'Then I can come back next month?'
'Sure. You took the papers to the Recycling Center, right?'
'Uh-huh.' Dirty Dave pointed with a finger which ended in a yellow, ragged nail. 'Right over there. But they're closed.'
Sam nodded. 'What are you doing?' he asked.
'Aw, just passin the time,' Dave said, and turned the poster around so Sam could see it.
It showed a picture of a smiling woman holding a platter of fried chicken, and the first thing that struck Sam was that it was good - really good. Wino or not, Dirty Dave had a natural touch. Above the picture, the following was neatly printed:
CHICKEN DINNER AT THE 1 ST METHODIST CHURCH
TO BENEFIT 'ANGEL STREET' HOMELESS SHELTER
APRIL 15TH
6:00 To 8:00 P.M.
COME ONE COME ALL
'It's before the AA meeting,' Dave said, 'but you can't put nothing on the poster about AA. That's because it's sort of secret.'
'I know,' Sam said. He paused, then asked: 'Do you go to AA? You don't have to answer if you don't want to. I know it's really none of my business.'
'I go,' Dave said, 'but it's hard, Mr Peebles. I got more white chips than Carter has got liver pills. I'm good for a month, sometimes two, and once I went sober almost a whole year. But it's hard.' He shook his head. 'Some people can't never get with the program, they say. I must be one of those. But I keep trying.'
Sam's eyes were drawn back to the woman with her platter of chicken. The picture was too detailed to be a cartoon or a sketch, but it wasn't a painting, either. It was clear that Dirty Dave had done it in a hurry, but he had caught a kindness about the eyes and a faint slant of humor, like one last sunbeam at the close of day, in the mouth. And the oddest thing was that the woman looked familiar to Sam.
'Is that a real person?' he asked Dave.
Dave's smile widened. He nodded. 'That's Sarah. She's a great gal, Mr Peebles. This place would have closed down five years ago except for her. She finds people to give money just when it seems the taxes will be too much or we won't be able to fix the place up enough to satisfy the building inspectors when they come. She calls the people who give the money angels, but she's the angel. We named the place for Sarah. Of course, Tommy St John spelled part of it wrong when he made the sign, but he meant well.' Dirty Dave fell silent for a moment, looking at his poster. Without looking up, he added: 'Tommy's dead now, a course. Died this last winter. His liver busted.'
'Oh,' Sam said, and then he added lamely, 'I'm sorry.'
'Don't be. He's well out of it.'
'Chow-de-dow!' Lukey exclaimed, getting up. 'Chow-de-dow! Ain't that some fuckin chow-de-dow!' He brought his poster over to Dave. Below the orange squiggles he had drawn a monster woman whose legs ended in sharkfins Sam thought were meant to be shoes. Balanced on one hand was a misshapen plate which appeared to be loaded with blue snakes. Clutched in the other was a cylindrical brown object.
Dave took the poster from Lukey and examined it. 'This is good, Lukey.'
Lukey's lips peeled back in a gleeful smile. He pointed at the brown thing. 'Look, Dave! She got her a Slim Fuckin Slim Jim!'
'She sure does. Purty