Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [126]
“It was more than that,” Roland said.
Callahan turned to him.
“You went todash, Pere. Something was calling you from this world. The thing in your church, I suspect, although it would not have been in your church when you first knew of it.”
“No,” Callahan said. He was regarding Roland with wary respect. “It was not. How do you know? Tell me, I beg.”
Roland did not. “Go on,” he said. “What happened to you next?”
“Lupe happened next,” Callahan said.
Nine
His last name was Delgado.
Roland registered only a moment of surprise at this—a widening of the eyes—but Eddie and Susannah knew the gunslinger well enough to understand that even this was extraordinary. At the same time they had become almost used to these coincidences that could not possibly be coincidences, to the feeling that each one was the click of some great turning cog.
Lupe Delgado was thirty-two, an alcoholic almost five one-day-at-a-time years from his last drink, and had been working at Home since 1974. Magruder had founded the place, but it was Lupe Delgado who invested it with real life and purpose. During his days, he was part of the maintenance crew at the Plaza Hotel, on Fifth Avenue. Nights, he worked at the shelter. He had helped to craft Home’s “wet” policy, and had been the first person to greet Callahan when he walked in.
“I was in New York a little over a year that first time,” Callahan said, “but by March of 1976, I had…” He paused, struggling to say what all three of them understood from the look on his face. His skin had flushed rosy except for where the scar lay; that seemed to glow an almost preternatural white by comparison.
“Oh, okay, I suppose you’d say that by March I’d fallen in love with him. Does that make me a queer? A faggot? I don’t know. They say we all are, don’t they? Some do, anyway. And why not? Every month or two there seemed to be another story in the paper about a priest with a penchant for sticking his hand up the altar boys’ skirts. As for myself, I had no reason to think of myself as queer. God knows I wasn’t immune to the turn of a pretty female leg, priest or not, and molesting the altar boys never crossed my mind. Nor was there ever anything physical between Lupe and me. But I loved him, and I’m not just talking about his mind or his dedication or his ambitions for Home. Not just because he’d chosen to do his real work among the poor, like Christ, either. There was a physical attraction.”
Callahan paused, struggled, then burst out: “God, he was beautiful. Beautiful!”
“What happened to him?” Roland asked.
“He came in one snowy night in late March. The place was full, and the natives were restless. There had already been one fistfight, and we were still picking up from that. There was a guy with a full-blown fit of the dt’s, and Rowan Magruder had him in back, in his office, feeding him coffee laced with whiskey. As I think I told you, we had no lockup room at Home. It was dinnertime, half an hour past, actually, and three of the volunteers hadn’t come in because of the weather. The radio was on and a couple of women were dancing. ‘Feeding time in the zoo,’ Lupe used to say.
“I was taking off my coat, heading for the kitchen…this fellow named Frank Spinelli collared me…wanted to know about a letter of recommendation I’d promised to write him…there was a woman, Lisa somebody, who wanted help with one of the AA steps, ‘Made a list of those we had harmed’…there was a young guy who wanted help with a job application, he could read a little but not write…something starting to burn on the stove…complete confusion. And I liked it. It had a way of sweeping you up and carrying you along. But in the middle of it all, I stopped. There were no bells and the only aromas were drunk’s b.o.