'There are peppermint candies in the bag, too,' I said. 'Canada Mints. I think he still likes them - he won't stop sniffing, if I hold one out to him - but his digestion has gotten too bad to eat them. I bring him toast, instead.'
I squatted again, broke a small fragment off the piece I'd brought with me from the sunroom, and put it on the floor. Mr. Jingles sniffed at it, then picked it up in his paws and began to eat. His tail was coiled neatly around him. He finished, then looked expectantly up.
'Sometimes us old fellas can surprise you with our appetites,' I said to Elaine, and handed her the toast. 'You try.'
She broke off another fragment and dropped it on the floor. Mr. Jingles approached it, sniffed, looked at Elaine... then picked it up and began to eat.
'You see?' I said. 'He knows you're not a floater.'
'Where did he come from, Paul?'
'Haven't a clue. One day when I went out for my early-morning walk, he was just here, lying on the kitchen steps. I knew who he was right away, but I got a spool out of the laundry room occasional basket just to be sure. And I got him a cigar box. Lined it with the softest stuff I could find. He's like us, Ellie, I think - most days just one big sore place. Still, he hasn't lost all his zest for living. He still likes his spool, and he still likes a visit from his old blockmate. Sixty years I held the story of John Coffey inside me, sixty and more, and now I've told it. I kind of had the idea that's why he came back. To let me know I should hurry up and do it while there was still time. Because I'm like him - getting there.'
'Getting where?'
'Oh, you know,' I said, and we watched Mr. Jingles for awhile in silence. Then, for no reason I could tell you, I tossed the spool again, even though Elaine had asked me not to. Maybe only because, in a way, him chasing a spool was like old people having their slow and careful version of sex - you might not want to watch it, you who are young and convinced that, when it comes to old age, an exception will be made in your case, but they still want to do it.
Mr. Jingles set off after the rolling spool again, clearly with pain, and just as clearly (to me, at least) with all his old, obsessive enjoyment.
'Ivy-glass windows,' she whispered, watching him go.
'Ivy-glass windows,' I agreed, smiling.
'John Coffey touched the mouse the way he touched you. He didn't just make you better of what was wrong with you then, he made you... what, resistant?'
'That's as good a word as any, I think.'
'Resistant to the things that eventually bring the rest of us down like trees with termites in them. You... and him. Mr. Jingles. When he cupped Mr. Jingles in his hands.'
'That's right. Whatever power worked through John did that - that's what I think, anyway - and now it's finally wearing off. The termites have chewed their way through our bark. It took a little longer than it does ordinarily, but they got there. I may have a few more years, men still live longer than mice, I guess, but Mr. Jingles's time is just about up.'
He reached the spool, limped around it, fell over on his side, breathing rapidly (we could see his respiration moving through his gray fur like ripples), then got up and began to push it gamely back with his nose. His fur was gray, his gait was unsteady, but the oilspots that were his eyes gleamed as brightly as ever.
'You think he wanted you to write what you have written,' she said. 'Is that so, Paul?'
'Not Mr. Jingles,' I said. 'Not him but the force that - '
'Why, Paulie! And Elaine Connelly, too!' a voice cried from the open door. It was loaded with a kind of satiric horror. 'As I live and breathe! What in the goodness can you two be doing here?'
I turned, not at all surprised to see Brad Dolan there in the doorway. He was grinning as a man only does when he feels he's fooled you right good and proper. How far down the road had he driven after his shift was over? Maybe only as far as The Wrangler for a beer or two and maybe a lap-dance before coming back.
'Get out,' Elaine said coldly. 'Get out right now.'
'Don't you tell me to get out, you wrinkledy old bitch,' he said, still smiling. 'Maybe you can tell me that up the hill, but you ain't tip the hill now. This ain't where you're supposed to be. This is off-limits. Little love-nest, Paulie? Is that what you got here? Kind of a Playboy pad for the geriatric... ' His eyes widened as he at last saw the shed's tenant. 'What the f**k?'
I didn't turn to look. I knew what was there, for one thing; for another, the past had suddenly doubled over the present, making one terrible image, three-dimensional in its reality. It wasn't Brad Dolan standing there in the doorway but Percy Wetmore. In another moment he would rush into the shed and crush Mr. Jingles (who no longer had a hope of outrunning him) under his shoe, and this time there was no John Coffey to bring him back from the edge of death. Any more than there had been a John Coffey when I needed him on that rainy day in Alabama.