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This is how much better Susannah's shot-in-the-head husband is: he went to a meeting with his publisher today. Now, all cards on the table, he did not fly himself down to the city, as he is fond of doing; Calyx sent someone up to Castle Rock. Eddie met him at Dud's, a terrible greasy hole of a bar which Eddie insists has the best burgers in town (no), and now they are snowed in, since at about ten am it decided to start snowing and shows no intention of stopping short of the next Superbowl.

This would be fine, and in fact slightly hilarious (she told him just to have the publisher over to the house), except no one has been doing any shopping. Eddie was supposed to bring her back one of those (nasty) burgers. Three hours ago.

Susannah has a bowl of chili (paid for with Mastercard, along with her tab) and an old-style Coke float. You can't get the ice cream anymore; and for that matter, in Eddie Toren's world, you can't get the Coke. Good deal, overall.

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"And is, pretty often." Wry. "You tell me something, Mrs. Toren -- if you were going to name your rottweiler after anybody, who'd it be?"

She takes some time. "George Wallace."

History wins, every time.

Bobby's eyebrows rise a little.

1963, he says to himself.

"Pretty damn good choice," he says aloud, and means it.

"I," she admits, "have been known to hold a grudge."

"If it's over what first comes to mind when I think about George Wallace, I think you got reason."

"I was in the Movement," she says, nodding. "Until my life got interrupted, at least. I never made it to Alabama, but he made himself an icon for the ones turning their dogs loose on folks."

The movement.

"Sure as hell did," Bobby says. A little darkly. "Does knowing he went down in history as a racist son of a bitch help at all?"

She smiles. "Sure. And it helps that we've got a black man with a pretty good shot at being President, too. The world moves on. And thank God, it's not always for the worse."

"Not always," Bobby concurs.

Just most of the time.

...it's been a bad few days.

Susannah wouldn't necessarily disagree with that, anyway.

"Do you think you'll get another dog?" she asks. "I suppose you've got to have one, in your business."

"Rumsfeld... he wasn't actually all that scary," Bobby says.

(It might be useful to remember that Bobby Singer hunts the stuff of nightmares when considering whether or not Bobby's rottweiler was scary.)

"And the yard's off the main highway that ain't I-90 -- it's pretty quiet. Not bad having a dog, which is why he and I started working together in the first place, but I don't guess you strictly need one, out where I am."

"Nothing wrong with a little company," she says. "Or a little back-up."

Edited 2008-02-24 05:35 (UTC)

"Not in the least," Bobby agrees. "We'll see. Maybe in a couple weeks or so. When things slow down a little, out by me."

That's interesting; she didn't realize salvage yards had a busy season.

She nods, though. "I don't know if we're going to get another or not. Rose might not stand for it, she raised Josie from a puppy."

"Your... daughter?" he hazards.

"That's her," she says, cheerfully. "I'll spare you the walletful of photos, but you'll have to owe me one."

Edited 2008-02-24 06:05 (UTC)

Bobby breaks into a grin. "I think we can call that a deal. How old?"

"Sixteen, for another couple of months," she says. "She's got a year and a half of high school left." Assuming she keeps up her studies in the hospital.

"That's gotta be fun."

He remembers what girls were like when he was sixteen.

He remembers what he was like when he was sixteen.

"She's willful," Susannah admits. "And she's got no idea just how lucky she is."

"Maybe raising another dog might do her some good, then," Bobby suggests.

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