按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
only be pushed so far before disintegrating entirely。 He would write the book。
If it meant the end of his association with Al Shockley； that would have to be。
He would write the hotel's biography； write it straight from the shoulder； and the introduction would be his hallucination that the topiary animals had moved。
The title would be uninspired but workable： Strange Resort； The Story of the Overlook Hotel。 Straight from the shoulder； yes； but it would not be written vindictively； in any effort to get back at Al or Stuart Ullman or George Hatfield or his father （miserable； bullying drunk that he had been） or anyone else； for that matter。 He would write it because the Overlook had enchanted him…could any other explanation be so simple or so true？ He would write it for the reason he felt that all great literature； fiction and nonfiction； was written： truth es out； in the end it always es out。 He would write it because he felt he had to。
Five hundred gals whole milk。 One hundred gals skim milk。 Pd。 Billed to acc't。
Three hundred pts orange juice。 Pd。
He slipped down further in his chair； still holding a clutch of the receipts； but his eyes no longer looking at what was printed there。 They had e unfocused。 His lids were slow and heavy。 His mind had slipped from the Overlook to his father； who had been a male nurse at the Berlin munity Hospital。 Big man。 A fat man who had towered to six feet two inches； he had been taller than Jack even when Jack got his full growth of six feet even…not that the old man had still been around then。 〃Runt of the litter；〃 he would say； and then cuff Jack lovingly and laugh。 There had been two other brothers； both taller than their father； and Becky； who at five…ten had only been two inches shorter than Jack and taller than he for most of their childhood。
His relationship with his father had been like the unfurling of some flower of beautiful potential； which； when wholly opened； turned out to be blighted inside。 Until he had been seven he had loved the tall； big…bellied man uncritically and strongly in spite of the spankings； the black…and…blues； the occasional black eye。
He could remember velvet summer nights； the house quiet； oldest brother Brett out with his girl； middle brother Mike studying something； Becky and their mother in the living room； watching something on the balky old TV； and he would sit in the hall dressed in a pajama singlet and nothing else； ostensibly playing with his trucks； actually waiting for the moment when the silence would be broken by the door swinging open with a large bang； the bellow of his father's wele when he saw Jacky was waiting； his own happy squeal in answer as this big man came down the hall； his pink scalp glowing beneath his crewcut in the glow of the hall light。 In that light he always looked like some soft and flapping oversized ghost in his hospital whites； the shirt always untucked （and sometimes bloody）； the pants cuffs drooping down over the black shoes。
His father would sweep him into his arms and Jacky would be propelled deliriously upward； so fast it seemed he could feel air pressure settling against his skull like a cap made out of lead； up and up； both of them crying
〃Elevator！ Elevator！〃； and there had been nights when his father in his drunkenness had not stopped the upward lift of his slabmuscled arms soon enough and Jacky had gone right over his father's flattopped head like a human projectile to crash…land on the hall floor behind his dad。 But on other nights his father would only sweep him into a giggling ecstasy； through the zone of air where beer hung around his father's face like a mist of raindrops； to be twisted and turned and shaken like a laughing rag； and finally to be set down on his feet； hiccupping with reaction。
The receipts slipped from his relaxing hand and seesawed down through the air to land lazily on the floor； his eyelids； which had settled shut with his father's image tattooed on their backs like stereopticon images； opened a little bit and then slipped back down again。 He twitched a little。 Consciousness； like the receipts； like autumn aspen leaves； seesawed lazily downward。
That had been the first phase of his relationship with his father； and as it was drawing to its end he had bee aware that Becky and his brothers； all of them older； hated the father and that their mother； a nondescript woman who rarely spoke above a mutter； only suffered him because her Catholic upbringing said that she must。 In those days it had not seemed strange to Jack that the father won all his arguments with his children by use of his fists； and it had not seemed strange that his own love should go hand…in…hand with his fear： fear of the elevator game which might end in a splintering crash on any given night； fear that his father's bearish good humor on his day off might suddenly change to boarish bellowing and the smack of his 〃good right hand〃； and sometimes； he remembered； he had even been afraid that his father's shadow might fall over him while he was at play。 It was near the end of this phase that he began to notice that Brett never brought his dates home； or Mike and Becky their chums。
Love began to curdle at nine； when his father put his mother into the hospital with his cane。 He had begun to carry the cane a year earlier； when a car accident had left him lame。 After that he was never without it； long and black and thick and gold…headed。 Now； dozing； Jack's body twitched in a remembered cringe at the sound it made in the air； a murderous swish； and its heavy crack against the wall 。 。 。 or against flesh。 He had beaten their mother for no good reason at all； suddenly and without warning。 They had been at the supper table。
The cane had been standing by his chair。 It was a Sunday night； the end of a three…day weekend for Daddy； a weekend which he had boozed away in his usual inimitable style。 Roast chicken。 Peas。 Mashed potatoes。 Daddy at the head of the table； his plate heaped high； snoozing or nearly snoozing。 His mother passing plates。 And suddenly Daddy had been wide awake； his eyes set deeply into their fat eyesockets； glittering with a kind of stupid； evil petulance。 They flickered from one member of the family to the next； and the vein in the center of his forehead was standing out prominently； always a bad sign。 One of his large freckled hands had dropped to the gold knob of his cane； caressing it。 He said something about coffee…to this day Jack was sure it had been 〃coffee〃 that his father said。 Momma had opened her mouth to answer and then the cane was whickering through the air； smashing against her face。 Blood spurted from her nose。 Becky screamed。 Momma's spectacles dropped into her gravy。 The cane had been drawn back； had e down again； this time on top of her head； splitting the scalp。 Momma had dropped to the floor。 He had been out of his chair and around to where she lay dazed on the carpet； brandishing the cane； moving with a fat man's grotesque speed and agility； little eyes flashing； jowls quivering as he spoke to her just as he had always spoken to his children during such outbursts。 〃Now。 Now by Christ。 I guess you'll take your medicine now。 Goddam puppy。 Whelp。 e on and take your medicine。〃 The cane had gone up and down on her seven more times before Brett and Mike got hold of him； dragged him away； wrestled the cane out of his hand。 Jack （little Jacky now he was little Jacky now dozing and mumbling on a cobwebby camp chair while the furnace roared into hollow life behind him） knew exactly how many blows it had been because each soft whump against his mother's body had been engraved on his memory like the irrational swipe of a chisel on stone。 Seven whumps。 No more； no less。 He and Becky crying； unbelieving； looking at their mother's spectacles lying in her mashed potatoes； one cracked lens smeared with gravy。 Brett shouting at Daddy from the back hall； telling him he'd kill him if he moved。 And Daddy saying over and over： 〃Damn little puppy。 Damn little whelp。 Give me my cane； you damn little pup。 Give it to me。〃 Brett brandishing it hysterically； saying yes； yes； I'll give it to you； just you move a little bit and I'll give you all you want and two extra。 I'll give you plenty。 Momma getting slowly to her feet； dazed； her face already puffed and swelling like an old tire with too much air in it； bleeding in four or five different places； and she had said a terrible thing； perhaps the only thing Momma had ever said which Jacky could recall word for word： 〃Who's got the newspaper？ Your daddy wants the funnies。 Is it raining yet？〃 And then she sank to her knees again； her hair hanging in her puffed and bleeding face。 Mike calling the doctor； babbling into the phone。 Could he e right away？ It was their mother。 No； he couldn't say what the trouble was； not over the phone； not over a party line he couldn't。 Just e。 The doctor came and took Momma away to the hospital where Daddy had worked all of his adult life。 Daddy； sobered up some （or perhaps only with the stupid cunning of any hardpressed animal）； told the doctor she had fallen downstairs。 There was blood on the tablecloth because he had tried to wipe her dear face with it。 Had her glasses flown all the way thro