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earing parkas。 They all had clear plastic masks over their mouths and noses … these looked more efficient than the painters' masks Henry had found in the snowmobile shed； but Henry had an idea that the basic purpose was the same。
The men also had automatic weapons； all of them pointed at him。 It now seemed rather lucky to Henry that he had left Jonesy's Garand and his own Winchester back at the Scout。 If he'd had a gun； he might have a dozen or more holes in him by now。
'I don't think I've got it；' he croaked。 'Whatever it is you're worried about； I don't think…'
'ON YOUR； FEET！' God's voice again。 Corning from the truck。 The men standing in front of him blocked out at least some of the glare and Henry could see more men at the foot of the hill where the roads met。 All of them had weapons； too； except for the one holding the bullhorn。
'I don't know if I can g…'
'ON YOUR FEET NOW！' God manded； and one of the men in front of him made an expressive little erking motion with the barrel of his gun。
Henry got shakily to his feet。 His legs were trembling and the ankle he'd bent was outraged； but everything was holding together； at least for the time being。 Thus ends the eggman's journey； he thought； and began to laugh。 The men in front of him looked at each other uneasily； and although they pointed their rifles at him again； he was forted to see even that small demonstration of human emotion。
In the brilliant glow of the lights mounted on the pulper's flatbed； Henry saw something lying in the snow … it had fallen from his pocket when he wiped out。 Slowly； knowing they might shoot him anyway； he bent down。
'DON'T TOUCH THAT！' God cried from His loudspeaker atop the cab of the pulp…truck； and now the men down there also raised their weapons； a little hello darkness my old friend peeping from the muzzle of each。
'Bite shit and die；' Henry said … one of the Beav's better efforts … and picked up the package。 He held it out to the armed and masked men in front of him； smiling。 'I e in peace for all mankind；' he said。 'Who wants a hot dog？'
CHAPTER TWELVE
JONESY IN THE HOSPITAL
1
This was a dream。
It didn't feel like one； but it had to be。 For one thing； he'd already been through March fifteenth once； and it seemed monstrously unfair to have to go through it again。 For another； he could remember all sorts of things from the eight months between mid…March and mid…November … helping the kids with their homework； Carla on the phone with her friends （many from the Narcotics Anonymous program）； giving a lecture at Harvard 。 。 。 and the months of physical rehab； of course。 All the endless bends； all the tiresome screaming as his joints stretched themselves out again； oh so reluctantly。 He telling Jeannie Morin； his therapist； that he couldn't。 She telling him that he could。 Tears on his face； big smile on hers （that hateful undeniable junior…miss…smile）； and in the end she had turned out to be right。 He could； he was the little engine that could； but what a price the little engine had paid。
He could remember all those things and more： getting out of bed for the first time； wiping his ass for the first time； the night in early May when he'd gone to bed thinking I'm going to get through this for the first time； the night in late May when he and Carla had made love for the first time since the accident； and afterward he'd told her an old joke： How do porcupines fuck？ Very carefully。 He could remember watching fireworks on Memorial Day； his hip and upper thigh aching like a bastard； he could remember eating watermelon on the Fourth of July； spitting seeds into the grass and watching Carla and her sisters play badminton； his hip and upper leg still aching but not so fiercely； he could remember Henry calling in September … 'Just to check in；' he'd said … and talking about all sorts of things； including the annual hunting trip to Hole in the Wall e November。 'Sure I'm ing；' Jonesy had said； not knowing then how little he would like the feel of the Garand in his hands。 They had talked about their work （Jonesy had taught the final three weeks of summer session； hopping around pretty spryly on one crutch by then）； about their families； about the books they had read and the movies they had seen； Henry had mentioned again； as he had in January； that Pete was drinking too much。 Jonesy； having already been through one substance…abuse war with his wife； hadn't wanted to talk about that； but when Henry passed along Beaver's suggestion that they stop in Derry and see Duddits Cavell when their week of hunting was over； Jonesy had agreed enthusiastically。 It had been too long； and there was nothing like a shot of Duddits to cheer a person up。 Also 。 。 。
'Henry？' he had asked。 'We made plans to go see Duddits； didn't we？ We were going on St Patrick's Day。 I don't remember it； but it's written on my office calendar。'
'Yeah；' Henry had replied。 'As a matter of fact； we did。'
'So much for the luck of the Irish； huh？'
As a result of such memories； Jonesy was positive March fifteenth had already happened。 There were all sorts of evidence supporting the thesis； his office calendar being Exhibit A。 Yet here they were again； those troublesome Ides 。 。 。 and now； oh goddam； how was this for unfair； now there seemed to be more of the fifteenth than ever。
Previously； his memory of that day faded out at around ten A。M。 He'd been in his office； drinking coffee and making a stack of books to take down to the History Department office； where there was a FREE WITH STUDENT ID table。 He hadn't been happy； but he couldn't for the life of him remember why。 According to the same office calendar on which he had spied the unkept March seventeenth appointment to go see Duddits； he'd had a March fifteenth appointment with a student named David Defuniak。 Jonesy couldn't remember what it had been about； but he later found a notation from one of his grad assistants about a make…up essay from Defuniak … short…term results of the Norman Conquest … so he supposed it had been that。 Still； what was there in a make…up assignment that could possibly have made Associate Professor Gary Jones feel unhappy？
Unhappy or not； he had been humming something； humming and then scatting the words； which were close to nonsense： Yes we can； yes we can…can； great gosh a'mighty yes we can…can。 There were a few little shreds after that … wishing Colleen； the Department secretary； a nice St Paddy's Day； grabbing a Boston Phoenix from the newspaper box outside the building； dropping a quarter into the saxophone case of a skinhead just over the bridge on the Cambridge side； feeling sorry for the guy because he was wearing a light sweater and the wind ing off the Charles was sharp … but mostly what he remembered after making that stack of giveaway books was darkness。 Consciousness had returned in the hospital； with that droning voice from a nearby room： Please stop； I can't stand it； give me a shot； where's Marcy； I want Marcy。 Or maybe it had been where's Jonesy； I want Jonesy。 Old creeping death。 Death pretending to be a patient。 Death had lost track of him … sure； it was possible； it was a big hospital stuffed full of pain； sweating agony out its very seams … and now old creeping death was trying to find him again。 Trying to trick him。 Trying to make him give himself away。
This time around； though； all that merciful darkness in the middle is gone。 This time around he not only wishes Colleen a happy St。 Paddy's Day； he tells her a joke： What do you call a Jamaican proctologist？ A Pokémon。 He goes out； his future self … his November self … riding in his March head like a stowaway。 His future self hears his March self think foat a beautiful day it turned out to be as he starts walking towards his appointment with destiny in Cambridge。 He tries to tell his March self that this is a bad idea； a grotesquely bad idea； that he can save himself months of agony just by hailing a Red Top or taking the T； but he can't get through。 Perhaps all the science…fiction stories he read about time when he was a teenager had it right： you can't change the past； no matter how you try。
He walks across the bridge； and although the wind is a l