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reason Jack thought of a large； dozing cat。 Watson jingled his keys and whistled。
Lost your… （When he went back into his study and saw Danny standing there； wearing nothing but his training pants and a grin； a slow； red cloud of rage had eclipsed Jack's reason。 It had seemed slow subjectively； inside his head； but it must have all happened in less than a minute。 It only seemed slow the way some dreams seem slow。 The bad ones。 Every door and drawer in his study seemed to have been ransacked in the time he had been gone。 Closet； cupboards； the sliding bookcase。 Every desk drawer yanked out to the stop。 His manuscript； the three… act play he had been slowly developing from a novelette he had written seven years ago as an under…graduate； was scattered all over the floor。 He had been drinking a beer and doing the Act II corrections when Wendy said the phone was for him； and Danny had poured the can of beer all over the pages。 Probably to see it foam。 See it foam； see it foam； the words played over and over in his mind like a single sick chord on an out…of…tune piano； pleting the circuit of his rage。 He stepped deliberately toward his threeyear…old son； who was looking up at him with that pleased grin； his pleasure at the job of work so successfully and recently pleted in Daddy's study； Danny began to say something and that was when he had grabbed Danny's hand and bent it to make him drop the typewriter eraser and the mechanical pencil he was clenching in it。
Danny had cried out a little 。 。 。 no 。 。 。 no 。 。 。 tell the truth 。 。 。 he screamed。 It was all hard to remember through the fog of anger； the sick single thump of that one Spike Jones chord。 Wendy somewhere； asking what was wrong。 Her voice faint； damped by the inner mist。 This was between the two of them。 He had whirled Danny around to spank him； his big adult fingers digging into the scant meat of the boy's forearm； meeting around it in a closed fist； and the snap of the breaking bone had not been loud； not loud but it had been very loud； HUGE； but not loud。 Just enough of a sound to slit through the red fog like an arrow… but instead of letting in sunlight； that sound let in the dark clouds of shame and remorse； the terror； the agonizing convulsion of the spirit。 A clean sound with the past on one side of it and all the future on the other； a sound like a breaking pencil lead or a small piece of kindling when you brought it down over your knee。 A moment of utter silence on the other side； in respect to the beginning future maybe； all the rest of his life。 Seeing Danny's face drain of color until it was like cheese； seeing his eyes； always large； grow larger still； and glassy； Jack sure the boy was going to faint dead away into the puddle of beer and papers； his own voice； weak and drunk； slurry； trying to take it all back； to find a way around that not too loud sound of bone cracking and into the past…is there a status quo in the house？…saying： Danny； are you all right？ Danny's answering shriek； then Wendy's shocked gasp as she came around them and saw the peculiar angle Danny's forearm had to his elbow； no arm was meant to hang quite that way in a world of normal families。 Her own scream as she swept him into her arms； and a nonsense babble： Oh God Danny oh dear God oh sweet God your poor sweet arm； and Jack was standing there； stunned and stupid； trying to understand how a thing like this could have happened。 He was standing there and his eyes met the eyes of his wife and he saw that Wendy hated him。 It did not occur to him what the hate might mean in practical terms； it was only later that he realized she might have left him that night； gone to a motel； gotten a divorce lawyer in the morning； or called the police。 He saw only that his wife hated him and he felt staggered by it； all alone。 He felt awful。 This was what oning death felt like。 Then she fled for the telephone and dialed the hospital with their screaming boy wedged in the crook of her arm and Jack did not go after her； he only stood in the ruins of his office； smelling beer and thinking…） You lost your temper。
He rubbed his hand harshly across his lips and followed Watson into the boiler room。 It was humid in here； but it was more than the humidity that brought the sick and slimy sweat onto his brow and stomach and legs。 The remembering did that； it was a total thing that made that night two years ago seem like two hours ago。 There was no lag。 It brought the shame and revulsion back； the sense of having no worth at all； and that feeling always made him want to have a drink； and the wanting of a drink brought still blacker despair…would he ever have an hour； not a week or even a day； mind you； but just one waking hour when the craving for a drink wouldn't surprise him like this？
〃The boiler；〃 Watson announced。 He pulled a red and blue bandanna from his back pocket； blew his nose with a decisive honk； and thrust it back out of sight after a short peek into it to see if he had gotten anything interesting。
The boiler stood on four cement blocks； a long and cylindrical metal tank； copper…jacketed and often patched。 It squatted beneath a confusion of pipes and ducts which zigzagged upward into the high； cobweb…festooned basement ceiling。
To Jack's right； two large heating pipes came through the wall from the furnace in the adjoining room。
〃Pressure gauge is here。〃 Watson tapped it。 〃Pounds per square inch； psi。 I guess you'd know that。 I got her up to a hundred now； and the rooms get a little chilly at night。 Few guests plain； what the fuck。 They're crazy to e up here in September anyway。 Besides； this is an old baby。 Got more patches on her than a pair of welfare overalls。〃 Out came the bandanna。 A honk。 A peek。 Back it went。
〃I got me a fuckin cold；〃 Watson said conversationally。 〃I get one every September。 I be tinkering down here with this old whore； then I be out cuttin the grass or rakin that rogue court。 Get a chill and catch a cold； my old mum used to say。 God bless her； she been dead six year。 The cancer got her。 Once the cancer gets you； you might as well make your will。
〃You'll want to keep your press up to no more than fifty； maybe sixty。 Mr。
Ullman； be says to heat the west wing one day； central wing the next； east wing the day after that。 Ain't he a crazyman？ I hate that little fucker。 Yap…yap…yap all the livelong day； he's just like one a those little dogs that bites you on the ankle then run around an pee all over the rug。 If brains was black powder he couldn't blow his own nose。 It's a pity the things you see when you ain't got a gun。
〃Look here。 You open an close these ducks by pullin these rings。 I got em all marked for you。 The blue tags all go to the rooms in the east wing。 Red tags is the middle。 Yellow is the west wing。 When you go to heat the west wing； you got to remember that's the side of the hotel that really catches the weather。 When it whoops； those rooms get as cold as a frigid woman with an ice cube up her works。 You can run your press all the way to eighty on west wing days。 I would； anyway。〃
〃The thermostats upstairs…〃 Jack began。
Watson shook his bead vehemently； making his fluffy hair bounce on his skull。
〃They ain't hooked up。 They're just there for show。 Some of these people from California； they don't think things is right unless they got it hot enough to grow a palm tree in their fuckin bedroom。 All the heat es from down here。 Got to watch the press； though。 See her creep？〃 He tapped the main dial； which had crept from a hundred pounds per square inch to a hundred and two as Watson soliloquized。 Jack felt a sudden shiver cross his back in a hurry and thought： The goose just walked over my grave。 Then Watson gave the pressure wheel a spin and dumped the boiler off： There was a great hissing； and the needle dropped back to ninety…one。 Watson twisted the valve shut and the hissing died reluctantly。
〃She creeps；〃 Watson said。 〃You tell that fat little peckerwood Ullman； he drags out the account books and spends three hours showing how he can't afford a new one until 1982。 I tell you； this whole place is gonna go sky…high someday； and I just hope that fat fuck's here to ride the rocket。 God； I wish I could be as charitable as my mother was。 She could see the good in everyone。 Me； I'm just as mean as a snake with the shingles。 What the fuck； a man can't help his nature。
〃Now you got to remember to e down here twice a day and once at night before you rack in。 You got to check the press。 If you forget； it'll just creep and creep and like as not you an your fambly'll wake up on the fuckin moon。 You just dump her off a little and you'll have no trouble。〃
〃What's top end？〃
〃Oh； she's rated for two…fifty； but she'd blow long before that now。 You couldn't get me to e down an stand next to her when that dial was up to one hundred and eighty。〃
〃There's no automatic shutdown？〃
〃No； there ain't。 This was built before such things were required。 Federal government's into everything these days； ain't it？ FBI openin mail； CIA buggin the goddam phones 。 。 。 and look what happened to that Nixon。 Wasn't that a sorry sight？
〃But if you just e down here regular an check the press； you'll be fine。 An remember