“Churchbells,” Ev said.

It was not the Methodist churchbells that Ev had grown up with and expected which rang out at a quarter to ten, calling Ruth's mourners-both the real ones and those prepared to shed copious floods of crocodile tears-to the Methodist church, where the first act of the three-act festivities was to be played out (Act II: Graveside Ceremonies; Act Ill: Refreshments in the Town Library).

Reverend Goohringer, a shy man who usually had not the fortitude to say boo to a goose, had gone around town a few weeks ago telling people he was getting damned tired of all that gonging.

“Then why don't you do something about it, Gooey?” Pamela Sargent asked him.

Rev. Lester Goohringer had never been called “Gooey” in his entire life, but in his current state of rancor he barely noticed.

“Maybe I will,” he said, looking at her through his thick glasses grimly. “Just maybe I will.”

“Got any ideas?”

“I might,” he said slyly. “Time'll tell, won't it?”

“It always does, Gooey,” she said. “Always does.”

The Reverend Goohringer in fact had a fine idea about those bells-he could hardly believe it had never occurred to him before, it was so simple and beautiful. And the best thing about it was that he wouldn't have to take it up with the deacons, or with the Ladies” Aid (an organization which apparently only attracted two types of women-fat slobs with boobs the size of barrels and skinny-assed, flat-chested sluts like Pamela Sargent, with her fake ivory cigarette holder and her raspy smoker's cough), or with the few well-to-do members of his congregation… going to them always gave him a week's worth of acid indigestion. He did not like to beg. No, this was something the Rev. Lester Goohringer could do all by himself, and so he did it. Fuck “em all if they couldn't take a joke.

“And if you ever call me Gooey again, Pam,” he had whispered as he rewired the fuse box in the church basement so it could handle the heavy voltage his idea would require, “I'll jam the plumber's friend in the parsonage pissoir up your twat and plunge out your brains… if you haven't pissed “em all away.”

He cackled and went on rewiring. Rev. Lester Goohringer had never had such blunt thoughts or said such blunt things in his life, and he found the experience liberating and exhilarating. He was, in fact, prepared to tell anyone in Haven who didn't like his new carillon that they could take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.

But everyone in town had thought the change nothing short of magnificent. It was, too. And today the Rev. Goohringer felt a real heart-swell of pride as he flicked the new switch in the vestry and the sound of the bells floated out over Haven, playing a medley of hymns. The carillon was programmable, and today Lester Goohringer plugged in the hymns which had been particular favorites of Ruth's. They included such old Methodist and Baptist standbys as “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” and “This is My Father's World.”

The Rev. Goohringer stood back, rubbing his hands together, and watched as people began to move toward the church in groups and twos and threes, drawn by the bells, the bells, the calling of the bells.

“Hot damn!” the Rev. Goohringer exclaimed. He had never felt better in his life, and he meant to send Ruth McCausland off in style. He intended to preach one pie-cutter of a eulogy.

After all, they had all loved her.

The bells.

Dave Rutledge, Haven's oldest citizen, tipped an ear toward them and smiled toothlessly-even if the bells had jangled discordantly he would have smiled, because he could hear them. Until early July, Dave had been almost completely deaf, and his lower limbs were always cold and white as his circulation steadily failed. He was, after all, ninety, and that made him an old dog. But this month, his hearing and circulation had magically improved. People told him he looked ten years younger, and by Christ, he felt twenty years younger. And my, wasn't the sound of those bells playing just the sweetest thing? Dave got up and started toward the church.

The calling of the bells.

In January, the aide U. S. Representative Brennan had sent to Haven had been in D. C., and there he had met a beautiful young woman named Annabelle. This summer she had come to Maine to be with him, and had come to Haven with him this morning to keep him company. He had promised her they would overnight in Bar Harbor before going back to Augusta. At first she thought it had been a bad idea, because she began to feel a little nauseated in the restaurant and hadn't been able to finish her breakfast. For one thing, the short-order cook looked like an older, fatter version of Charles Manson. He kept smiling the strangest, slyest little smile when he thought no one was looking-it was enough to make you wonder if he had powdered the scrambled eggs with arsenic. But the sound of the bells chiming out hymns she had not heard since her Nebraska childhood charmed her with wonder.

“My God, Marty, how can a little wide-place-in-the-road town like this one afford a gorgeous carillon like that?”

“Maybe some rich summer tourist died and left it to them,” Marty said vaguely. He had no interest in the carillon. He'd had a headache ever since they got here, and it was getting worse. Also, one of his gums was bleeding. Pyorrhoea ran in his family; he hoped to God it wasn't that. “Come on, let's go over to the church.” So we can get it done and go up to Bar Harbor and screw our brains out, he thought. Christ, this is one creepy little town.

They started across the street together, she in a black suit (but, she had told him archly on their way up, her underwear was all white silk… what little of it there was), he in a governmental charcoal gray. The people of Haven, dressed in their soberest finery, walked with them. Marty saw a surprising number of powder-blue state-police uniforms.

“Look, Marty! The clock!”

She was pointing at the tower of the town hall. It was good solid red brick, but for a moment it seemed to swim and waver before Marty's eyes. His headache was instantly worse. Maybe it was eyestrain. He'd had a checkup three months ago and the guy had said his vision was good enough to fly a jet fighter, but maybe he had been wrong. Half the professional people in America were on coke these days. He had read all about it in Time… and why was his mind wandering like this, anyway? It was the bells. They seemed to be echoing and multiplying in his head. Ten, a hundred, a thousand, a million, all playing “When We Meet at Jesus” Feet.”

“What about the clock?” he asked irritably.

“The hands are funny,” she said. “They look almost… drawn on.”

The calling of the bells.

Eddie Stampnell of the Derry barracks crossed the street with Andy Rideout from Orono-both of them had known Ruth, liked her.

“Pretty, ain't it?” Eddie asked dubiously.

“Maybe,” Andy said. “I just keep thinking of Bent and Jingles getting blown away by a couple of numbmit rubes out here, probably buried in some farmer's potato field, and it just sounds like a bone-phone to me. Seems like Haven's bad luck now. I know that's stupid, but that's how I feel.”

“It's bad luck for my head,” Eddie replied. “It aches like a bastard.”

“Well, let's get it over and get out,” Andy said. “She was a good woman, but she's gone. And between you and me, I don't care if I never spend another fifteen minutes in Haven now that she is.”

They stepped into the Methodist church together, neither of them looking at Rev. Lester Goohringer, who stood beside the switch which controlled his lovely carillon, smiling and rubbing his dry hands together and accepting the compliments of all and sundry.