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and then pulled the living meat out of it like a rubber band。
Hhhhhhaaaahhhhh； the sand…spout mocked in its dead； dry voice。 That was not a mind…voice。 No matter how much Jack wished it were only in his head； that voice was real。 His false teeth flew； Jack； when the old WILD CHILD hit him； out they went； rattledy…bang！ Yale or no Yale； when the old WILD CHILD van es and knocks your false teeth out； Jacky； you got to go。 And your mother…
Then he was running again； blindly； not looking back； his hair blown off his forehead； his eyes wide and terrified。
4
Jack walked as quickly as he could through the dim lobby of the hotel。 All the atmosphere of the place forbade running： it was as quiet as a library； and the gray light which fell through the tall mullioned windows softened and blurred the already faded carpets。 Jack broke into a trot as he passed the desk； and the stooped ashen…skinned day…clerk chose that second to emerge through an arched wooden passage。 The clerk said nothing； but his permanent scowl dragged the corners of his mouth another centimeter downward。 It was like being caught running in church。 Jack wiped his sleeve across his forehead； made himself walk the rest of the way to the elevators。 He punched the button； feeling the desk clerk's frown burning between his shoulder blades。 The only time this week that Jack had seen the desk clerk smile had been when the man had recognized his mother。 The smile had met only the minimum standards for graciousness。
'I suppose that's how old you have to be to remember Lily Cavanaugh；' she had said to Jack as soon as they were alone in their rooms。 There had been a time； and not so long ago； when being identified； recognized from any one of the fifty movies she had made during the fifties and sixties （'Queen of the Bs；' they called her； her own ment： 'Darling of the Drive…ins'）…whether by a cabdriver； waiter； or the lady selling blouses at the Wilshire Boulevard Saks…perked her mood for hours。 Now even that simple pleasure had gone dry for her。
Jack jigged before the unmoving elevator doors； hearing an impossible and familiar voice lifting to him from a whirling funnel of sand。 For a second he saw Thomas Woodbine； solid fortable Uncle Tommy Woodbine； who was supposed to have been one of his guardians…a strong wall against trouble and confusion…crumpled and dead on La Cienega Boulevard； his teeth like popcorn twenty feet away in the gutter。 He stabbed the button again。
Hurry up！
Then he saw something worse…his mother hauled into a waiting car by two impassive men。 Suddenly Jack had to urinate。 He flattened his palm against the button； and the bent gray man behind the desk uttered a phlegmy sound of disapproval。 Jack pressed the edge of his other hand into that magic place just beneath his stomach which lessened the pressure on his bladder。 Now he could hear the slow whir of the descending elevator。 He closed his eyes； squeezed his legs together。 His mother looked uncertain； lost and confused； and the men forced her into the car as easily as they would a weary collie dog。 But that was not really happening； he knew； it was a memory…part of it must have been one of the Daydreams…and it had happened not to his mother but to him。
As the mahogany doors of the elevator slid away to reveal a shadowy interior from which his own face met him in a foxed and peeling mirror； that scene from his seventh year wrapped around him once again； and he saw one man's eyes turn to yellow； felt the other's hand alter into something claw…like； hard and inhuman 。 。 。 he jumped into the elevator as if he had been jabbed with a fork。
Not possible： the Daydreams were not possible； he had not seen a man's eyes turning from blue to yellow； and his mother was fine and dandy； there was nothing to be scared of； nobody was dying； and danger was what a seagull meant to a clam。 He closed his eyes and the elevator toiled upward。
That thing in the sand had laughed at him。
Jack squeezed through the opening as soon as the doors began to part。 He trotted past the closed mouths of the other elevators； turned right into the panelled corridor and ran past the sconces and paintings toward their rooms。 Here running seemed less a sacrilege。 They had 407 and 408； consisting of two bedrooms； a small kitchen； and a living room with a view of the long smooth beach and the vastness of the ocean。 His mother had appropriated flowers from somewhere； arranged them in vases； and set her little array of framed photographs beside them。 Jack at five； Jack at eleven； Jack as an infant in the arms of his father。 His father； Philip Sawyer； at the wheel of the old DeSoto he and Morgan Sloat had driven to California in the unimaginable days when they had been so poor they had often slept in the car。
When Jack threw open 408； the door to the living room； he called out； 'Mom？ Mom？'
The flowers met him； the photographs smiled； there was no answer。 'Mom！' The door swung shut behind him。 Jack felt his stomach go cold。 He rushed through the living room to the large bedroom on the right。 'Mom！' Another vase of tall bright flowers。 The empty bed looked starched and ironed； so stiff a quarter would bounce off the quilt。 On the bedside table stood an assortment of brown bottles containing vitamins and other pills。 Jack backed out。 His mother's window showed black waves rolling and rolling toward him。
Two men getting out of a nondescript car； themselves nondescript； reaching for her 。 。 。
'Mom！' he shouted。
'I hear you； Jack；' came his mother's voice through the bathroom door。 'What on earth 。 。 。 ？'
'Oh；' he said； and felt all his muscles relax。 'Oh； sorry。 I just didn't know where you were。'
'Taking a bath；' she said。 'Getting ready for dinner。 Is that still allowed？' Jack realized that he no longer had to go to the bathroom。 He dropped into one of the overstuffed chairs and closed his eyes in relief。 She was still okay…
Still okay for now； a dark voice whispered； and in his mind he saw that sand funnel open again； whirling。
5
Seven or eight miles up the coast road； just outside Hampton Township； they found a restaurant called The Lobster Chateau。 Jack had given a very sketchy account of his day…already he was backing away from the terror he had experienced on the beach； letting it diminish in his memory。 A waiter in a red jacket printed with the yellow image of a lobster across the back showed them to a table beside a long streaky window。
'Would Madam care for a drink？' The waiter had a stony…cold off…season New England face； and looking at it； suspecting the resentment of his Ralph Lauren sport coat and his mother's carelessly worn Halston afternoon dress behind those watery blue eyes； Jack felt a more familiar terror needle him…simple homesickness。 Mom； if you're not really sick； what the hell are we doing here？ The place is empty！ It's creepy！ Jesus！
'Bring me an elementary martini；' she said。 The waiter raised his eyebrows。 'Madam？'
'Ice in a glass；' she said。 'Olive on ice。 Tanqueray gin over olive。 Then…are you getting this？'
Mom； for God's sake； can't you see his eyes？ You think you're being charming…he thinks you're making fun of him！ Can't you see his eyes？
No。 She couldn't。 And that failure of empathy； when she had always been so sharp about how other people were feeling； was another stone against his heart。 She was withdrawing 。 。 。 in all ways。
'Yes； madam。'
'Then；' she said； 'you take a bottle of vermouth…any brand…and hold it against the glass。 Then you put the vermouth back on the shelf and bring the glass to me。 'Kay？'
'Yes； madam。' Watery…cold New England eyes； staring at his mother with no love at all。 We're alone here； Jack thought； really realizing it for the first time。 Jeez； are we。 'Young sir？'
'I'd like a Coke；' Jack said miserably。
The waiter left。 Lily rummaged in her purse； came up with a package of Herbert Tarrytoons （so she had called them since he had been a baby； as in 'Bring me my Tarrytoons from over there on the shelf； Jacky；' and so he still thought of them） and lit one。 She coughed out smoke in three harsh bursts。
It was another stone against his heart。 Two years ago； his mother had given up smoking entirely。 Jack had waited for her to backslide with that queer fatalism which is the flip side of childish credulity and innocence。 His mother had always smoked； she would soon smoke again。 But she had not 。 。 。 not until three months ago； in New York。 Carltons。 Walking around the living room in the apartment on Central Park West； puffing like a choo…choo； or squatting in front of the record cabinet； pawing through her old rock records or her dead husband's old jazz records。
'You smoking again； Mom？' he'd asked her。
'Yeah； I'm smoking cabbage leaves；' she'd said。
'I wish you wouldn't。'
'Why don't you turn on the TV？' she'd responded with uncharacteristic sharpness； turning toward him； her lips pressed tightly together。 'Maybe you can find Jimmy Swaggart or Reverend Ike。 Get down there in the hallelujah corner with the amen sisters。'
'Sorry；' he'd muttered。
Well…it was only Carltons。 Cabbage leaves。 But here were the He