Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [106]
When the dancing was done, there was singing. This began with the band itself—a mournful love-ballad and then an uptempo number so deep in the Calla’s patois that Eddie couldn’t follow the lyric. He didn’t have to in order to know it was at least mildly ribald; there were shouts and laughter from the men and screams of glee from the ladies. Some of the older ones covered their ears.
After these first two tunes, several people from the Calla mounted the bandstand to sing. Eddie didn’t think any of them would have gotten very far on Star Search, but each was greeted warmly as they stepped to the front of the band and were cheered lustily (and in the case of one pretty young matron, lust fully) as they stepped down. Two girls of about nine, obviously identical twins, sang a ballad called “Streets of Campara” in perfect, aching harmony, accompanied by just a single guitar which one of them played. Eddie was struck by the rapt silence in which the folken listened. Although most of the men were now deep in drink, not a single one of these broke the attentive quiet. No baby-bangers went off. A good many (the one named Haycox among them) listened with tears streaming down their faces. If asked earlier, Eddie would have said of course he understood the emotional weight beneath which this town was laboring. He hadn’t. He knew that now.
When the song about the kidnapped woman and the dying cowboy ended, there was a moment of utter silence—not even the nightbirds cried. It was followed by wild applause. Eddie thought, If they showed hands on what to do about the Wolves right now, not even Pa Cartwright would dare vote to stand aside.
The girls curtsied and leaped nimbly down to the grass. Eddie thought that would be it for the night, but then, to his surprise, Callahan climbed on stage.
He said, “Here’s an even sadder song my mother taught me” and then launched into a cheerful Irish ditty called “Buy Me Another Round You Booger You.” It was at least as dirty as the one the band had played earlier, but this time Eddie could understand most of the words. He and the rest of the town gleefully joined in on the last line of every verse: Before y’ez put me in the ground, buy me another round, you booger you!
Susannah rolled her wheelchair over to the gazebo and was helped up during the round of applause that followed the Old Fella’s song. She spoke briefly to the three guitarists and showed them something on the neck of one of the instruments. They all nodded. Eddie guessed they either knew the song or a version of it.
The crowd waited expectantly, none more so than the lady’s husband. He was delighted but not entirely surprised when she voyaged upon “Maid of Constant Sorrow,” which she had sometimes sung on the trail. Susannah was no Joan Baez, but her voice was true, full of emotion. And why not? It was the song of a woman who has left her home for a strange place. When she finished, there was no silence, as after the little girls’ duet, but a round of honest, enthusiastic applause. There were cries of Yar! and Again! and More staves! Susannah offered no more staves (for she’d sung all the ones she knew) but gave them a deep curtsy, instead. Eddie clapped until his hands hurt, then stuck his fingers in the corners of his mouth and whistled.
And then—the wonders of this evening would never end, it seemed—Roland himself was climbing up as Susannah was handed carefully down.