I want to know if you got as much as I think you do. What do you want me to think? Anything. Just think it hard. Okay, Danny said. He considered it for a moment, then gathered his concentration and flung it out at Hallorann. He had never done anything precisely like this before, and at the last instant some instinctive part of him rose up and blunted some of the thoughts raw forcehe didnt want to hurt Mr. Hallorann. Still the thought arrowed out of him with a force he never would have believed. It went like a Nolan Ryan fastball with a little extra on it. (Gee I hope I dont hurt him) And the thought was (!!! HI, DICK!!!) Hallorann winced and jerked backward on the seat. His teeth came together with a hard click, drawing blood from his lower lip in a thin trickle. His hands flew up involuntarily from his lap to the level of his chest and then settled back again. For a moment his eyelids fluttered limply, with no conscious control, and Danny was frightened. Mr. Hallorann? Dick? Are you okay? I dont know, Hallorann said, and laughed weakly. I honest to God dont. My God, boy, youre a pistol. Im sorry, Danny said, more alarmed. Should I get my daddy? Ill run and get him. No, here I come. Im okay, Danny. You just sit right there. I feel a little scrambled, thats all. I didnt go as hard as I could, Danny confessed. I was scared to, at the last minute. Probably my good luck you did  my brains would be leakin out my ears. He saw the alarm on Dannys face and smiled. No harm done. What did it feel like to you? Like I was Nolan Ryan throwing a fastball, he replied promptly. You like baseball, do you? Hallorann was rubbing his temples gingerly. Daddy and me like the Angels, Danny said. The Red Sox in the American League East and the Angels in the West. We saw the Red Sox against Cincinnati in the World Series. I was a lot littler then. And Daddy was  Dannys face went dark and troubled. Was what, Dan? I forget, Danny said. He started to put his thumb in his mouth to suck it, but that was a baby trick. He put his hand back in his lap. Can you tell what your mom and dad are thinking, Danny? Hallorann was watching him closely. Most times, if I want to. But usually I dont try. Why not? Well  He paused a moment, troubled. It would be like peeking into the bedroom and watching while theyre doing the thing that makes babies. Do you know that thing? I have had acquaintance with it, Hallorann said gravely. They wouldnt like that. And they wouldnt like me peeking at their thinks. It would be dirty. I see. But I know how theyre feeling, Danny said. I cant help that. I know how youre feeling, too. I hurt you. Im sorry. Its just a headache. Ive had hangovers that were worse. Can you read other people, Danny? I cant read yet at all, Danny said, except a few words. But Daddys going to teach me this winter. My daddy used to teach reading and writing in a big school. Mostly writing, but he knows reading, too. I mean, can you tell what anybody is thinking? Danny thought about it. I can if its loud, he said finally. Like Mrs. Brant and the pants. Or like once, when me and Mommy were in this big store to get me some shoes, there was this big kid looking at radios, and he was thinking about taking one without buying it. Then hed think, what if I get caught? Then hed think, I really want it. Then hed think about getting caught again. He was making himself sick about it, and he was making me sick. Mommy was talking to the man who sells the shoes so I went over and said, Kid, dont take that radio. Go away. And he got really scared. He went away fast. Hallorann was grinning broadly. I bet he did. Can you do anything else, Danny? Is it only thoughts and feelings, or is there more? Cautiously Is there more for you? Sometimes, Hallorann said. Not often. Sometimes  sometimes there are dreams. Do you dream, Danny? Sometimes, Danny said, I dream when Im awake. After Tony comes. His thumb wanted to go into his mouth again. He had never told anyone but Mommy and Daddy about Tony. He made his thumbsucking hand go back into his lap. Whos Tony? And suddenly Danny had one of those flashes of understanding that frightened him most of all; it was like a sudden glimpse of some incomprehensible machine that might be safe or might be deadly dangerous. He was too young to know which. He was too young to understand. Whats wrong? he cried. Youre asking me all this because youre worried, arent you? Why are you worried about me? Why are you worried about us? Hallorann put his large dark hands on the small boys shoulders. Stop, he said. Its probably nothin. But if it is somethin  well, youve got a large thing in your head, Danny. Youll have to do a lot of growin yet before you catch up to it, I guess. You got to be brave about it. But I dont understand things! Danny burst out. I do but I dont! People  they feel things and I feel them, but I dont know what Im feeling! He looked down at his lap wretchedly. I wish I could read. Sometimes Tony shows me signs and I can hardly read any of them. Whos Tony? Hallorann asked again. Mommy and Daddy call him my invisible playmate,  Danny said, reciting the words carefully. But hes really real. At least, I think he is. Sometimes, when I try real hard to understand things, he comes. He says, Danny, I want to show you something. And its like I pass out. Only  there are dreams, like you said. He looked at Hallorann and swallowed. They used to be nice. But now  I cant remember the word for dreams that scare you and make you cry. Nightmares? Hallorann asked. Yes. Thats right. Nightmares. About this place? About the Overlook? Danny looked down at his thumbsucking hand again. Yes, he whispered. Then he spoke shrilly, looking up into Halloranns face But I cant tell my daddy, and you cant, either! He has to have this job because its the only one Uncle Al could get for him and he has to finish his play or he might start doing the Bad Thing again and I know what that is, its getting drunk, thats what it is, its when he used to always be drunk and that was a Bad Thing to do! He stopped, on the verge of tears. Shh, Hallorann said, and pulled Dannys face against the rough serge of his jacket. It smelled faintly of mothballs. Thats all right, son. And if that thumb likes your mouth, let it go where it wants. But his face was troubled. He said What you got, son, I call it shinin on, the Bible calls it having visions, and theres scientists that call it precognition. Ive read up on it, son. Ive studied on it. They all mean seeing the future. Do you understand that? Danny nodded against Halloranns coat. I remember the strongest shine I ever had that way  Im not liable to forget. It was 1955. I was still in the Army then, stationed overseas in West Germany. It was an hour before supper, and I was standin by the sink, givin one of the KPs hell for takin too much of the potato along with the peel. I says, Here, lemme show you how thats done. He held out the potato and the peeler and then the whole kitchen was gone. Bang, just like that. You say you see this guy Tony before  before you have dreams? Danny nodded. Hallorann put an arm around him. With me its smellin oranges. All that afternoon Id been smellin them and thinkin nothin of it, because they were on the menu for that nightwe had thirty crates of Valencias. Everybody in the damn kitchen was smellin oranges that night. For a minute it was like I had just passed out. And then I heard an explosion and saw flames. There were people screaming. Sirens. And I heard this hissin noise that could only be steam. Then it seemed like I got a little closer to whatever it was and I saw a railroad car off the tracks and laying on its side with Georgia and South Carolina Railroad written on it, and I knew like a flash that my brother Carl was on that train and it jumped the tracks and Carl was dead. Just like that. Then it was gone and heres this scared, stupid little KP in front of me, still holdin out that potato and the peeler. He says, Are you okay, Sarge? And I says, No. My brothers just been killed down in Georgia. And when I finally got my momma on the overseas telephone, she told me how it was. But see, boy, I already knew how it was. He shook his head slowly, as if dismissing the memory, and looked down at the wideeyed boy. But the thing you got to remember, my boy, is this Those things dont always come true. I remember just four years ago I had a job cookin at a boys camp up in Maine on Long Lake. So I am sittin by the boarding gate at Logan Airport in Boston, just waiting to get on my flight, and I start to smell oranges. For the first time in maybe five years. So I say to myself, My God, whats comin on this crazy late show now? and I got down to the bathroom and sat on one of the toilets to be private. I never did black out, but I started to get this feelin, stronger and stronger, that my plane was gonna crash. Then the feeling went away, and the smell of oranges, and I knew it was over. I went back to the Delta Airlines desk and changed my flight to one three hours later. And do you know what happened? What? Danny whispered. Nothin! Hallorann said, and laughed. He was relieved to see the boy smile a little, too. Not one single thing! That old plane landed right on time and without a single bump or bruise. So you see  sometimes those feelins dont come to anything. Oh, Danny said. Or you take the race track. I go a lot, and I usually do pretty well. I stand by the rail when they go by the starting gate, and sometimes I get a little shine about this horse or that one. Usually those feelins help me get real well. I always tell myself that someday Im gonna get three at once on three long shots and make enough on the trifecta to retire early. It aint happened yet. But theres plenty of times Ive come home from the track on shanks mare instead of in a taxicab with my wallet swollen up. Nobody shines on all the time, except maybe for God up in heaven. Yes, sir, Danny said, thinking of the time almost a year ago when Tony had showed him a new baby lying in a crib at their house in Stovington. He had been very excited about that, and had waited, knowing that it took time, but there had been no new baby. Now you listen, Hallorann said, and took both of Dannys hands in his own. Ive had some bad dreams here, and Ive had some bad feelins. Ive worked here two seasons now and maybe a dozen times Ive had  well, nightmares. And maybe half a dozen times Ive thought Ive seen things. No, I wont say what. It aint for a little boy like you. Just nasty things. Once it had something to do with those damn hedges clipped to look like animals. Another time there was a maid, Delores Vickery her name was, and she had a little shine to her, but I dont think she knew it. Mr. Ullman fired her  do you know what that is, doc? Yes, sir, Danny said candidly, my daddy got fired from his teaching job and thats why were in Colorado, I guess. Well, Ullman fired her on account of her saying shed seen something in one of the rooms where  well, where a bad thing happened. That was in Room 217, and I want you to promise me you wont go in there, Danny. Not all winter. Steer right clear. All right, Danny said. Did the ladythe maidendid she ask you to go look? Yes, she did. And there was a bad thing there. But  I dont think it was a bad thing that could hurt anyone, Danny, thats what Im tryin to say. People who shine can sometimes see things that are gonna happen, and I think sometimes they can see things that did happen. But theyre just like pictures in a book. Did you ever see a picture in a book that scared you, Danny? Yes, he said, thinking of the story of Bluebeard and the picture where Bluebeards new wife opens the door and sees all the heads. But you knew it couldnt hurt you, didnt you? Yeess  Danny said, a little dubious. Well, thats how it is in this hotel. I dont know why, but it seems that all the bad things that ever happened here, theres little pieces of those things still layin around like fingernail clippins or the boogers that somebody nasty just wiped under a chair. I dont know why it should just be here, theres bad goingson in just about every hotel in the world, I guess, and Ive worked in a lot of them and had no trouble. Only here. But, Danny, I dont think those things can hurt anybody. He emphasized each word in the sentence with a mild shake of the boys shoulders. So if you should see something, in a hallway or a room or outside by those hedges  just look the other way, and when you look back, itll be gone. Are you diggin me? Yes, Danny said. He felt much better, soothed. He got up on his knees, kissed Halloranns cheek, and gave him a big hard hug. Hallorann hugged him back. When he released the boy he asked Your folks, they dont shine, do they? No, I dont think so. I tried them like I did you, Hallorann said. Your momma jumped the tiniest bit. I think all mothers shine a little, you know, at least until their kids grow up enough to watch out for themselves. Your dad  Hallorann paused momentarily. He had probed at the boys father and he just didnt know. It wasnt like meeting someone who had the shine, or someone who definitely did not. Poking at Dannys father had been  strange, as if Jack Torrance had somethingsomethingthat he was hiding. Or something he was holding in so deeply submerged in himself that it was impossible to get to. I dont think he shines at all, Hallorann finished. So you dont worry about them. You just take care of you. I dont think theres anything here that can hurt you. So just be cool, okay? Okay. Danny! Hey, doc! Danny looked around. Thats Mom. She wants me. I have to go. I know you do, Hallorann said. You have a good time here, Danny. Best you can, anyway. I will. Thanks, Mr. Hallorann. I feel a lot better. The smiling thought came in his mind (Dick, to my friends) (Yes, Dick, okay) Their eyes met, and Dick Hallorann winked. Danny scrambled across the seat of the car and opened the passenger side door. As he was getting out, Hallorann said, Danny? What? If there is trouble  you give a call. A big loud holler like the one you gave a few minutes ago. I might hear you even way down in Florida. And if I do, Ill come on the run. Okay, Danny said, and smiled. You take care, big boy. I will. Danny slammed the door and ran across the parking lot toward the porch, where Wendy stood holding her elbows against the chill wind. Hallorann watched, the big grin slowly fading. I dont think theres anything here that can hurt you. I dont think. But what if he was wrong? He had known that this was his last season at the Overlook ever since he had seen that thing in the bathtub of Room 217. It had been worse than any picture in any book, and from here the boy running to his mother looked so small  I dont think His eyes drifted down to the topiary animals. Abruptly he started the car and put it in gear and drove away, trying not to look back. And of course he did, and of course the porch was empty. They had gone back inside. It was as if the Overlook had swallowed them. CHAPTER TWELVE THE GRAND TOUR What were you talking about, hon? Wendy asked him as they went back inside. Oh, nothing much. For nothing much it sure was a long talk. He shrugged and Wendy saw Dannys paternity in the gesture; Jack could hardly have done it better himself. She would get no more out of Danny. She felt strong exasperation mixed with an even stronger love the love was helpless, the exasperation came from a feeling that she was deliberately being excluded. With the two of them around she sometimes felt like an outsider, a bit player who had accidentally wandered back onstage while the main action was taking place. Well, they wouldnt be able to exclude her this winter, her two exasperating males; quarters were going to be a little too close for that. She suddenly realized she was feeling jealous of the closeness between her husband and her son, and felt ashamed. That was too close to the way her own mother might have felt  too close for comfort. The lobby was now empty except for Ullman and the head desk clerk (they were at the register, cashing up), a couple of maids who had changed to warm slacks and sweaters, standing by the front door and looking out with their luggage pooled around them, and Watson, the maintenance man. He caught her looking at him and gave her a wink  a decidedly lecherous one. She looked away hurriedly. Jack was over by the window just outside the restaurant, studying the view. He looked rapt and dreamy. The cash register apparently checked out, because now Ullman ran it shut with an authoritative snap. He initialed the tape and put it in a small zipper case. Wendy silently applauded the head clerk, who looked greatly relieved. Ullman looked like the type of man who might take any shortage out of the head clerks hide  without ever spilling a drop of blood. Wendy didnt much care for Ullman or his officious, ostentatiously bustling manner. He was like every boss shed ever had, male or female. He would be saccharin sweet with the guests, a petty tyrant when he was backstage with the help. But now school was out and the head clerks pleasure was written large on his face. It was out for everyone but she and Jack and Danny, anyway. Mr. Torrance, Ullman called peremptorily. Would you come over here, please? Jack walked over, nodding to Wendy and Danny that they were to come too. The clerk, who had gone into the back, now came out again wearing an overcoat. Have a pleasant winter, Mr. Ullman. I doubt it, Ullman said distantly. May twelfth, Braddock. Not a day earlier. Not a day later. Yes, sir. Braddock walked around the desk, his face sober and dignified, as befitted his position, but when his back was entirely to Ullman, he grinned like a schoolboy. He spoke briefly to the two girls still waiting by the door for their ride, and he was followed out by a brief burst of stifled laughter. Now Wendy began to notice the silence of the place. It had fallen over the hotel like a heavy blanket muffling everything but the faint pulse of the afternoon wind outside. From where she stood she could look through the inner office, now neat to the point of sterility with its two bare desks and two sets of gray filing cabinets. Beyond that she could see Halloranns spotless kitchen, the big portholed double doors propped open by rubber wedges. I thought I would take a few extra minutes and show you through the Hotel, Ullman said, and Wendy reflected that you could always hear that capital H in Ullmans voice. You were supposed to hear it. Im sure your husband will get to know the ins and outs of the Overlook quite well, Mrs. Torrance, but you and your son will doubtless keep more to the lobby level and the first floor, where your quarters are. Doubtless, Wendy murmured demurely, and Jack shot her a private glance. Its a beautiful place, Ullman said expansively. I rather enjoy showing it off. Ill bet you do, Wendy thought. Lets go up to third and work our way down, Ullman said. He sounded positively enthused. If were keeping you Jack began. Not at all, Ullman said. The shop is shut. Tout fini, for this season, at least. And I plan to overnight in Boulderat the Boulderado, of course. Only decent hotel this side of Denver  except for the Overlook itself, of course. This way. They stepped into the elevator together. It was ornately scrolled in copper and brass, but it settled appreciably before Ullman pulled the gate across. Danny stirred a little uneasily, and Ullman smiled down at him. Danny tried to smile back without notable success. Dont you worry, little man, Ullman said. Safe as houses. So was the Titanic, Jack said, looking up at the cutglass globe in the center of the elevator ceiling. Wendy bit the inside of her cheek to keep the smile away. Ullman was not amused. He slid the inner gate across with a rattle and a bang. The Titanic made only one voyage, Mr. Torrance. This elevator has made thousands of them since it was installed in 1926. Thats reassuring, Jack said. He ruffled Dannys hair. The plane aint gonna crash, doc. Ullman threw the lever over, and for a moment there was nothing but a shuddering beneath their feet and the tortured whine of the motor below them. Wendy had a vision of the four of them being trapped between floors like flies in a bottle and found in the spring  with little bits and pieces gone  like the Donner Party  (Stop it!) The elevator began to rise, with some vibration and clashing and banging from below at first. Then the ride smoothed out. At the third floor Ullman brought them to a bumpy stop, retracted the gate, and opened the door. The elevator car was still six inches below floor level. Danny gazed at the difference in height between the thirdfloor hall and the elevator floor as if he had just sensed the universe was not as sane as he had been told. Ullman cleared his throat and raised the car a little, brought it to a stop with a jerk (still two inches low), and they all climbed out. With their weight gone the car rebounded almost to floor level, something Wendy did not find reassuring at all. Safe as houses or not, she resolved to take the stairs when she had to go up or down in this place. And under no conditions would she allow the three of them to get into the rickety thing together. What are you looking at, doc? Jack inquired humorously. See any spots there? Of course not, Ullman said, nettled. All the rugs were shampooed just two days ago. Wendy glanced down at the hall runner herself. Pretty, but definitely not anything she would choose for her own home, if the day ever came when she had one. Deep blue pile, it was entwined with what seemed to be a surrealistic jungle scene full of ropes and vines and trees filled with exotic birds. It was hard to tell just what sort of birds, because all the interweaving was done in unshaded black, giving only silhouettes. Do you like the rug? Wendy asked Danny. Yes, Mom, he said colorlessly. They walked down the hall, which was comfortably wide. The wallpaper was silk, a lighter blue to go against the rug. Electric flambeaux stood at tenfoot intervals at a height of about seven feet. Fashioned to look like London gas lamps, the bulbs were masked behind cloudy, creamhued glass that was bound with crisscrossing iron strips. I like those very much, she said. Ullman nodded, pleased. Mr. Derwent had those installed throughout the Hotel after the warnumber Two, I mean. In fact mostalthough not allof the thirdfloor decorating scheme was his idea. This is 300, the Presidential Suite. He twisted his key in the lock of the mahogany double doors and swung them wide. The sitting rooms wide western exposure made them all gasp, which had probably been Ullmans intention. He smiled. Quite a view, isnt it? It sure is, Jack said. The window ran nearly the length of the sitting room, and beyond it the sun was poised directly between two sawtoothed peaks, casting golden light across the rock faces and the sugared snow on the high tips. The clouds around and behind this picturepostcard view were also tinted gold, and a sunbeam glinted duskily down into the darkly pooled firs below the timberline. Jack and Wendy were so absorbed in the view that they didnt look down at Danny, who was staring not out the window but at the redandwhitestriped silk wallpaper to the left, where a door opened into an interior bedroom. And his gasp, which had been mingled with theirs, had nothing to do with beauty. Great splashes of dried blood, flecked with tiny bits of grayishwhite tissue, clotted the wallpaper. It made Danny feel sick. It was like a crazy picture drawn in blood, a surrealistic etching of a mans face drawn back in terror and pain, the mouth yawning and half the head pulverized (So if you should see something  just look the other way and when you look back, itll be gone. Are you diggin me?) He deliberately looked out the window, being careful to show no expression on his face, and when his mommys hand closed over his own he took it, being careful not to squeeze it or give her a signal of any kind. The manager was saying something to his daddy about making sure to shutter that big window so a strong wind wouldnt blow it in. Jack was nodding. Danny looked cautiously back at the wall. The big dried bloodstain was gone. Those little graywhite flecks that had been scattered all through it, they were gone, too. Then Ullman was leading them out. Mommy asked him if he thought the mountains were pretty. Danny said he did, although he didnt really care for the mountains, one way or the other. As Ullman was closing the door behind them, Danny looked back over his shoulder. The bloodstain had returned, only now it was fresh. It was running. Ullman, looking directly at it, went on with his running commentary about the famous men who had stayed here. Danny discovered that he had bitten his lip hard enough to make it bleed, and he had never even felt it. As they walked on down the corridor, he fell a little bit behind the others and wiped the blood away with the back of his hand and thought about (blood) (Did Mr. Hallorann see blood or was it something worse?) (I dont think those things can hurt you.) There was an iron scream behind his lips, but he would not let it out. His mommy and daddy could not see such things; they never had. He would keep quiet. His mommy and daddy were loving each other, and that was a real thing. The other things were just like pictures in a book. Some pictures were scary, but they couldnt hurt you. They  couldnt  hurt you. Mr. Ullman showed them some other rooms on the third floor, leading them through corridors that twisted and turned like a maze. They were all sweets up here, Mr. Ullman said, although Danny didnt see any candy. He showed them some rooms where a lady named Marilyn Monroe once stayed when she was married to a man named Arthur Miller (Danny got a vague understanding that Marilyn and Arthur had gotten a DIVORCE not long after they were in the Overlook Hotel). Mommy? What, honey? If they were married, why did they have different names? You and Daddy have the same names. Yes, but were not famous, Danny, Jack said. Famous women keep their same names even after they get married because their names are their bread and butter. Bread and butter, Danny said, completely mystified. What Daddy means is that people used to like to go to the movies and see Marilyn Monroe, Wendy said, but they might not like to go to see Marilyn Miller. Why not? Shed still be the same lady. Wouldnt everyone know that? Yes, but She looked at Jack helplessly. Truman Capote once stayed in this room, Ullman interrupted impatiently. He opened the door. That was in my time. An awfully nice man. Continental manners. There was nothing remarkable in any of these rooms (except for the absence of sweets, which Mr. Ullman kept calling them), nothing that Danny was afraid of. In fact, there was only one other thing on the third floor that bothered Danny, and he could not have said why. It was the fire extinguisher on the wall just before they turned the corner and went back to the elevator, which stood open and waiting like a mouthful of gold teeth. It was an oldfashioned extinguisher, a flat hose folded back a dozen times upon itself, one end attached to a large red valve, the other ending in a brass nozzle. The folds of the hose were secured with a red steel slat on a hinge. In case of a fire you could knock the steel slat up and out of the way with one hard push and the hose was yours. Danny could see that much; he was good at seeing how things worked. By the time he was two and a half he had been unlocking the protective gate his father had installed at the top of the stairs in the Stovington house. He had seen how the lock worked. His daddy said it was a NACK. Some people had the NACK and some people didnt. This fire extinguisher was a little older than others he had seenthe one in the nursery school, for instancebut that was not so unusual. Nonetheless it filled him with faint unease, curled up there against the light blue wallpaper like a sleeping snake. And he was glad when it was out of sight around the corner. Of course all the windows have to be shuttered, Mr. Ullman said as they stepped back into the elevator. Once again the car sank queasily beneath their feet. But Im particularly concerned about the one in the Presidential Suite. The original bill on that window was four hundred and twenty dollars, and that was over thirty years ago. It would cost eight times that to replace today. Ill shutter it, Jack said. They went down to the second floor where there were more rooms and even more twists and turns in the corridor. The light from the windows had begun to fade appreciably now as the sun went behind the mountains. Mr. Ullman showed them one or two rooms and that was all. He walked past 217, the one Dick Hallorann had warned him about, without slowing. Danny looked at the bland numberplate on the door with uneasy fascination. Then down to the first floor. Mr. Ullman didnt show them into any rooms here until they had almost reached the thickly carpeted staircase that led down into the lobby again. Here are your quarters, he said. I think youll find them adequate. They went in. Danny was braced for whatever might be there. There was nothing. Wendy Torrance felt a strong surge of relief. The Presidential Suite, with its cold elegance, had made her feel awkward and clumsyit was all very well to visit some restored historical building with a bedroom plaque that announced Abraham Lincoln or Franklin D. Roosevelt had slept there, but another thing entirely to imagine you and your husband lying beneath acreages of linen and perhaps making love where the greatest men in the world had once lain (the most powerful, anyway, she amended). But this apartment was simpler, homier, almost inviting. She thought she could abide this place for a season with no great difficulty. Its very pleasant, she said to Ullman, and heard the gratitude in her voice. Ullman nodded. Simple but adequate. During the season, this suite quarters the cook and his wife, or the cook and his apprentice. Mr. Hallorann lived here? Danny broke in. Mr. Ullman inclined his head to Danny condescendingly. Quite so. He and Mr. Nevers. He turned back to Jack and Wendy. This is the sitting room. There were several chairs that looked comfortable but not expensive, a coffee table that had once been expensive but now had a long chip gone from the side, two bookcases (stuffed full of Readers Digest Condensed Books and Detective Book Club trilogies from the forties, Wendy saw with some amusement), and an anonymous hotel TV that looked much less elegant than the buffed wood consoles in the rooms. No kitchen, of course, Ullman said, but there is a dumbwaiter. This apartment is directly over the kitchen. He slid aside a square of paneling and disclosed a wide, square tray. He gave it a push and it disappeared, trailing rope behind it. Its a secret passage! Danny said excitedly to his mother, momentarily forgetting all fears in favor of that intoxicating shaft behind the wall. Just like in Abbott and Costello Meet the Monsters! Mr. Ullman frowned but Wendy smiled indulgently. Danny ran over to the dumbwaiter and peered down the shaft. This way, please. He opened the door on the far side of the living room. It gave on the bedroom, which was spacious and airy. There were twin beds. Wendy looked at her husband, smiled, shrugged. No problem, Jack said. Well push them together. Mr. Ullman looked over his shoulder, honestly puzzled. Beg pardon? The beds, Jack said pleasantly. We can push them together. Oh, quite, Ullman said, momentarily confused. Then his face cleared and a red flush began to creep up from the collar of his shirt. Whatever you like. He led them back into the sitting room, where a second door opened on a second bedroom, this one equipped with bunk beds.


A radiator clanked in one corner, and the rug on the floor was a hideous embroidery of western sage and cactusDanny had already fallen in love with it, Wendy saw. The walls of this smaller room were paneled in real pine. Think you can stand it in here, doc? Jack asked. Sure I can. Im going to sleep in the top bunk. Okay? If thats what you want. I like the rug, too. Mr. Ullman, why dont you have all the rugs like that? Mr. Ullman looked for a moment as if he had sunk his teeth into a lemon. Then he smiled and patted Dannys head. Those are your quarters, he said, except for the bath, which opens off the main bedroom. Its not a huge apartment, but of course youll have the rest of the hotel to spread out in. The lobby fireplace is in good working order, or so Watson tells me, and you must feel free to eat in the dining room if the spirit moves you to do so. He spoke in the tone of a man conferring a great favor. All right, Jack said. Shall we go down? Mr. Ullman asked. Fine, Wendy said. They went downstairs in the elevator, and now the lobby was wholly deserted except for Watson, who was leaning against the main doors in a rawhide jacket, a toothpick between his lips. I would have thought youd be miles from here by now, Mr. Ullman said, his voice slightly chill. Just stuck around to remind Mr. Torrance here about the boiler, Watson said, straightening up. Keep your good weather eye on her, fella, and shell be fine. Knock the press down a couple of times a day. She creeps. She creeps, Danny thought, and the words echoed down a long and silent corridor in his mind, a corridor lined with mirrors where people seldom looked. I will, his daddy said. Youll be fine, Watson said, and offered Jack his hand. Jack shook it. Watson turned to Wendy and inclined his head. Maam, he said. Im pleased, Wendy said, and thought it would sound absurd. It didnt. She had come out here from New England, where she had spent her life, and it seemed to her that in a few short sentences this man Watson, with his fluffy fringe of hair, had epitomized what the West was supposed to be all about. And never mind the lecherous wink earlier. Young master Torrance, Watson said gravely, and put out his hand. Danny, who had known all about handshaking for almost a year now, put his own hand out gingerly and felt it swallowed up. You take good care of em, Dan. Yes, sir. Watson let go of Dannys hand and straightened up fully. He looked at Ullman. Until next year, I guess, he said, and held his hand out. Ullman touched it bloodlessly. His pinky ring caught the lobbys electric lights in a baleful sort of wink. May twelfth, Watson, he said. Not a day earlier or later. Yes, sir, Watson said, and Jack could almost read the codicil in Watsons mind  you fucking little faggot. Have a good winter, Mr. Ullman. Oh, I doubt it, Ullman said remotely. Watson opened one of the two big main doors; the wind whined louder and began to flutter the collar of his jacket. You folks take care now, he said. It was Danny who answered. Yes, sir, we will. Watson, whose notsodistant ancestor had owned this place, slipped humbly through the door. It closed behind him, muffling the wind. Together they watched him clop down the porchs broad front steps in his battered black cowboy boots. Brittle yellow aspen leaves tumbled around his heels as he crossed the lot to his International Harvester pickup and climbed in. Blue smoke jetted from the rusted exhaust pipe as he started it up. The spell of silence held among them as he backed, then pulled out of the parking lot. His truck disappeared over the brow of the hill and then reappeared, smaller, on the main road, heading west. For a moment Danny felt more lonely than he ever had in his life. CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE FRONT PORCH The Torrance family stood together on the long front porch of the Overlook Hotel as if posing for a family portrait, Danny in the middle, zippered into last years fall jacket which was now too small and starting to come out at the elbow, Wendy behind him with one hand on his shoulder, and Jack to his left, his own hand resting lightly on his sons head. Mr. Ullman was a step below them, buttoned into an expensivelooking brown mohair overcoat. The sun was entirely behind the mountains now, edging them with gold fire, making the shadows around things look long and purple. The only three vehicles left in the parking lots were the hotel truck, Ullmans Lincoln Continental, and the battered Torrance VW. Youve got your keys, then, Ullman said to Jack, and you understand fully about the furnace and the boiler? Jack nodded, feeling some real sympathy for Ullman. Everything was done for the season, the ball of string was neatly wrapped up until next May 12not a day earlier or laterand Ullman, who was responsible for all of it and who referred to the hotel in the unmistakable tones of infatuation, could not help looking for loose ends. I think everything is well in hand, Jack said. Good. Ill be in touch. But he still lingered for a moment, as if waiting for the wind to take a hand and perhaps gust him down to his car. He sighed. All right. Have a good winter, Mr. Torrance, Mrs. Torrance. You too, Danny. Thank you, sir, Danny said. I hope you do, too. I doubt it, Ullman repeated, and he sounded sad. The place in Florida is a dump, if the outandout truth is to be spoken. Busywork. The Overlook is my real job. Take good care of it for me, Mr. Torrance. I think it will be here when you get back next spring, Jack said, and a thought flashed through Dannys mind (but will we?) and was gone. Of course. Of course it will. Ullman looked out toward the playground where the hedge animals were clattering in the wind. Then he nodded once more in a businesslike way. Goodbye, then. He walked quickly and prissily across to his cara ridiculously big one for such a little manand tucked himself into it. The Lincolns motor purred into life and the taillights flashed as he pulled out of his parking stall. As the car moved away, Jack could read the small sign at the head of the stall RESERVED FOR MR. ULLMAN, MGR. Right, Jack said softly. They watched until the car was out of sight, headed down the eastern slope. When it was gone, the three of them looked at each other for a silent, almost frightened moment. They were alone. Aspen leaves whirled and skittered in aimless packs across the lawn that was now neatly mowed and tended for no guests eyes. There was no one to see the autumn leaves steal across the grass but the three of them. It gave Jack a curious shrinking feeling, as if his life force had dwindled to a mere spark while the hotel and the grounds had suddenly doubled in size and become sinister, dwarfing them with sullen, inanimate power. Then Wendy said Look at you, doc. Your nose is running like a fire hose. Lets get inside. And they did, closing the door firmly behind them against the restless whine of the wind. PART THREE THE WASPS NEST CHAPTER FOURTEEN UP ON THE ROOF Oh you goddam fucking son of a bitch! Jack Torrance cried these words out in both surprise and agony as he slapped his right hand against his blue chambray workshirt, dislodging the big, slowmoving wasp that had stung him. Then he was scrambling up the roof as fast as he could, looking back over his shoulder to see if the wasps brothers and sisters were rising from the nest he had uncovered to do battle. If they were, it could be bad; the nest was between him and his ladder, and the trap door leading down into the attic was locked from the inside. The drop was seventy feet from the roof to the cement patio between the hotel and the lawn. The clear air above the nest was still and undisturbed. Jack whistled disgustedly between his teeth, sat straddling the peak of the roof, and examined his right index finger. It was swelling already, and he supposed he would have to try and creep past that nest to his ladder so he could go down and put some ice on it. It was October 20. Wendy and Danny had gone down to Sidewinder in the hotel truck (an elderly, rattling Dodge that was still more trustworthy than the VW, which was now wheezing gravely and seemed terminal) to get three gallons of milk and do some Christmas shopping. It was early to shop, but there was no telling when the snow would come to stay. There had already been flurries, and in some places the road down from the Overlook was slick with patch ice. So far the fall had been almost preternaturally beautiful. In the three weeks they had been here, golden day had followed golden day. Crisp thirtydegree mornings gave way to afternoon temperatures in the low sixties, the perfect temperature for climbing around on the Overlooks gently sloping western roof and doing the shingling. Jack had admitted freely to Wendy that he could have finished the job four days ago, but he felt no real urge to hurry. The view from up here was spectacular, even putting the vista from the Presidential Suite in the shade. More important, the work itself was soothing. On the roof he felt himself healing from the troubled wounds of the last three years. On the roof he felt at peace. Those three years began to seem like a turbulent nightmare. The shingles had been badly rotted, some of them blown entirely away by last winters storms. He had ripped them all up, yelling Bombs away! as he dropped them over the side, not wanting Danny to get hit in case he had wandered over. He had been pulling out bad flashing when the wasp had gotten him. The ironic part was that he warned himself each time he climbed onto the roof to keep an eye out for nests; he had gotten that bug bomb just in case. But this morning the stillness and peace had been so complete that his watchfulness had lapsed. He had been back in the world of the play he was slowly creating, roughing out whatever scene he would be working on that evening in his head. The play was going very well, and although Wendy had said little, he knew she was pleased. He had been roadblocked on the crucial scene between Denker, the sadistic headmaster, and Gary Benson, his young hero, during the last unhappy six months at Stovington, months when the craving for a drink had been so bad that he could barely concentrate on his inclass lectures, let alone his extracurricular literary ambitions. But in the last twelve evenings, as he actually sat down in front of the officemodel Underwood he had borrowed from the main office downstairs, the roadblock had disappeared under his fingers as magically as cotton candy dissolves on the lips. He had come up almost effortlessly with the insights into Denkers character that had always been lacking, and he had rewritten most of the second act accordingly, making it revolve around the new scene. And the progress of the third act, which he had been turning over in his mind when the wasp put an end to cogitation, was coming clearer all the time. He thought he could rough it out in two weeks, and have a clean copy of the whole damned play by New Years. He had an agent in New York, a tough redheaded woman named Phyllis Sandler who smoked Herbert Tareytons, drank Jim Beam from a paper cup, and thought the literary sun rose and set on Sean OCasey. She had marketed three of Jacks short stories, including the Esquire piece. He had written her about the play, which was called The Little School, describing the basic conflict between Denker, a gifted student who had failed into becoming the brutal and brutalizing headmaster of a turnofthecentury New England prep school, and Gary Benson, the student he sees as a younger version of himself. Phyllis had written back expressing interest and admonishing him to read OCasey before sitting down to it. She had written again earlier that year asking where the hell was the play? He had written back wryly that The Little School had been indefinitelyand perhaps infinitelydelayed between hand and page in that interesting intellectual Gobi known as the writers block. Now it looked as if she might actually get the play. Whether or not it was any good or if it would ever see actual production was another matter. And he didnt seem to care a great deal about those things. He felt in a way that the play itself, the whole thing, was the roadblock, a colossal symbol of the bad years at Stovington Prep, the marriage he had almost totaled like a nutty kid behind the wheel of an old jalopy, the monstrous assault on his son, the incident in the parking lot with George Hatfield, an incident he could no longer view as just another sudden and destructive flare of temper. He now thought that part of his drinking problem had stemmed from an unconscious desire to be free of Stovington and the security he felt was stifling whatever creative urge he had. He had stopped drinking, but the need to be free had been just as great. Hence George Hatfield. Now all that remained of those days was the play on the desk in his and Wendys bedroom, and when it was done and sent off to Phylliss holeinthewall New York agency, he could turn to other things. Not a novel, he was not ready to stumble into the swamp of another threeyear undertaking, but surely more short stories. Perhaps a book of them. Moving warily, he scrambled back down the slope of the roof on his hands and knees past the line of demarcation where the fresh green Bird shingles gave way to the section of roof he had just finished clearing. He came to the edge on the left of the wasps nest he had uncovered and moved gingerly toward it, ready to backtrack and bolt down his ladder to the ground if things looked too hot. He leaned over the section of pulledout flashing and looked in. The nest was in there, tucked into the space between the old flashing and the final roof undercoating of threebyfives. It was a damn big one. The grayish paper ball looked to Jack as if it might be nearly two feet through the center. Its shape was not perfect because the space between the flashing and the boards was too narrow, but he thought the little buggers had still done a pretty respectable job. The surface of the nest was acrawl with the lumbering, slowmoving insects. They were the big mean ones, not yellow jackets, which are smaller and calmer, but wall wasps. They had been rendered sludgy and stupid by the fall temperatures, but Jack, who knew about wasps from his childhood, counted himself lucky that he had been stung only once. And, he thought, if Ullman had hired the job done in the height of summer, the workman who tore up that particular section of the flashing would have gotten one hell of a surprise. Yes indeedy. When a dozen wall wasps land on you all at once and start stinging your face and hands and arms, stinging your legs right through your pants, it would be entirely possible to forget you were seventy feet up. You might just charge right off the edge of the roof while you were trying to get away from them. All from those little things, the biggest of them only half the length of a pencil stub. He had read someplacein a Sunday supplement piece or a backofthebook newsmagazine articlethat 7 percent of all automobile fatalities go unexplained. No mechanical failure, no excessive speed, no booze, no bad weather. Simply onecar crashes on deserted sections of road, one dead occupant, the driver, unable to explain what had happened to him. The article had included an interview with a state trooper who theorized that many of these socalled foo crashes resulted from insects in the car. Wasps, a bee, possibly even a spider or moth. The driver gets panicky, tries to swat it or unroll a window to let it out. Possibly the insect stings him. Maybe the driver just loses control. Either way its bang! all over. And the insect, usually completely unharmed, would buzz merrily out of the smoking wreck, looking for greener pastures. The trooper had been in favor of having pathologists look for insect venom while autopsying such victims, Jack recalled. Now, looking down into the nest, it seemed to him that it could serve as both a workable symbol for what he had been through (and what he had dragged his hostages to fortune through) and an omen for a better future. How else could you explain the things that had happened to him? For he still felt that the whole range of unhappy Stovington experiences had to be looked at with Jack Torrance in the passive mode. He had not done things; things had been done to him. He had known plenty of people on the Stovington faculty, two of them right in the English Department, who were hard drinkers. Zack Tunney was in the habit of picking up a full keg of beer on Saturday afternoon, plonking it in a backyard snowbank overnight, and then killing damn near all of it on Sunday watching football games and old movies. Yet through the week Zack was as sober as a judgea weak cocktail with lunch was an occasion. He and Al Shockley had been alcoholics. They had sought each other out like two castoffs who were still social enough to prefer drowning together to doing it alone. The sea had been whole grain instead of salt, that was all. Looking down at the wasps, as they slowly went about their instinctual business before winter closed down to kill all but their hibernating queen, he would go further. He was still an alcoholic, always would be, perhaps had been since Sophomore Class Night in high school when he had taken his first drink. It had nothing to do with willpower, or the morality of drinking, or the weakness or strength of his own character. There was a broken switch somewhere inside, or a circuit breaker that didnt work, and he had been propelled down the chute willynilly, slowly at first, then accelerating as Stovington applied its pressures on him. A big greased slide and at the bottom had been a shattered, ownerless bicycle and a son with a broken arm. Jack Torrance in the passive mode. And his temper, same thing. All his life he had been trying unsuccessfully to control it. He could remember himself at seven, spanked by a neighbor lady for playing with matches. He had gone out and hurled a rock at a passing car. His father had seen that, and he had descended on little Jacky, roaring. He had reddened Jacks behind  and then blacked his eye. And when his father had gone into the house, muttering, to see what was on television, Jack had come upon a stray dog and had kicked it into the gutter. There had been two dozen fights in grammar school, even more of them in high school, warranting two suspensions and uncounted detentions in spite of his good grades. Football had provided a partial safety valve, although he remembered perfectly well that he had spent almost every minute of every game in a state of high pissoff, taking every opposing block and tackle personally. He had been a fine player, making AllConference in his junior and senior years, and he knew perfectly well that he had his own bad temper to thank  or to blame. He had not enjoyed football. Every game was a grudge match. And yet, through it all, he hadnt felt like a son of a bitch. He hadnt felt mean. He had always regarded himself as Jack Torrance, a really nice guy who was just going to have to learn how to cope with his temper someday before it got him in trouble. The same way he was going to have to learn how to cope with his drinking. But he had been an emotional alcoholic just as surely as he had been a physical onethe two of them were no doubt tied together somewhere deep inside him, where youd just as soon not look. But it didnt much matter to him if the root causes were interrelated or separate, sociological or psychological or physiological. He had had to deal with the results the spankings, the beatings from his old man, the suspensions, with trying to explain the school clothes torn in playground brawls, and later the hangovers, the slowly dissolving glue of his marriage, the single bicycle wheel with its bent spokes pointing into the sky, Dannys broken arm. And George Hatfield, of course. He felt that he had unwittingly stuck his hand into The Great Wasps Nest of Life. As an image it stank. As a cameo of reality, he felt it was serviceable. He had stuck his hand through some rotted flashing in high summer and that hand and his whole arm had been consumed in holy, righteous fire, destroying conscious thought, making the concept of civilized behavior obsolete. Could you be expected to behave as a thinking human being when your hand was being impaled on redhot darning needles? Could you be expected to live in the love of your nearest and dearest when the brown, furious cloud rose out of the hole in the fabric of things (the fabric you thought was so innocent) and arrowed straight at you? Could you be held responsible for your own actions as you ran crazily about on the sloping roof seventy feet above the ground, not knowing where you were going, not remembering that your panicky, stumbling feet could lead you crashing and blundering right over the rain gutter and down to your death on the concrete seventy feet below? Jack didnt think you could. When you unwittingly stuck your hand into the wasps nest, you hadnt made a covenant with the devil to give up your civilized self with its trappings of love and respect and honor. It just happened to you. Passively, with no say, you ceased to be a creature of the mind and became a creature of the nerve endings; from collegeeducated man to wailing ape in five easy seconds. He thought about George Hatfield. Tall and shaggily blond, George had been an almost insolently beautiful boy. In his tight faded jeans and Stovington sweatshirt with the sleeves carelessly pushed up to the elbows to disclose his tanned forearms, he had reminded Jack of a young Robert Redford, and he doubted that George had much trouble scoringno more than that young footballplaying devil Jack Torrance had it ten years earlier. He could say that he honestly didnt feel jealous of George, or envy him his good looks; in fact, he had almost unconsciously begun to visualize George as the physical incarnation of his play hero, Gary Bensonthe perfect foil for the dark, slumped, and aging Denker, who grew to hate Gary so much. But he, Jack Torrance, had never felt that way about George. If he had, he would have known it. He was quite sure of that. George had floated through his classes at Stovington. A soccer and baseball star, his academic program had been fairly undemanding and he had been content with Cs and an occasional B in history or botany. He was a fierce field contender but a lackadaisical, amused sort of student in the classroom. Jack was familiar with the type, more from his own days as a high school and college student than from his teaching experience, which was at second hand. George Hatfield was a jock. He could be a calm, undemanding figure in the classroom, but when the right set of competitive stimuli was applied (like electrodes to the temples of Frankensteins monster, Jack thought wryly), he could become a juggernaut. In January, George had tried out with two dozen others for the debate team. He had been quite frank with Jack. His father was a corporation lawyer, and he wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. George, who felt no burning call to do anything else, was willing. His grades were not top end, but this was, after all, only prep school and it was still early times. If should be came to must be, his father could pull some strings. Georges own athletic ability would open still other doors. But Brian Hatfield thought his son should get on the debate team. It was good practice, and it was something that law school admissions boards always looked for. So George went out for debate, and in late March Jack cut him from the team. The late winter intersquad debates had fired George Hatfields competitive soul. He became a grimly determined debater, prepping his pro or con position fiercely. It didnt matter if the subject was legalization of marijuana, reinstating the death penalty, or the oildepletion allowance. George became conversant, and he was just jingoist enough to honestly not care which side he was ona rare and valuable trait even in highlevel debaters, Jack knew. The souls of a true carpetbagger and a true debater were not far removed from each other; they were both passionately interested in the main chance. So far, so good. But George Hatfield stuttered. This was not a handicap that had even shown up in the classroom, where George was always cool and collected (whether he had done his homework or not), and certainly not on the Stovington playing fields, where talk was not a virtue and they sometimes even threw you out of the game for too much discussion. When George got tightly wound up in a debate, the stutter would come out. The more eager he became, the worse it was. And when he felt he had an opponent dead in his sights, an intellectual sort of buck fever seemed to take place between his speech centers and his mouth and he would freeze solid while the clock ran out. It was painful to watch. SSSo I thththink we have to say that the fuhfuhfacts in the ccase Mr. DDDDorsky cities are renrenrendered obsolete by the ruhrecent duhduhdecision handed down ininin  The buzzer would go off and George would whirl around to stare furiously at Jack, who sat beside it. Georges face at those moments would be flushed, his notes crumpled spasmodically in one hand. Jack had held on to George long after he had cut most of the obvious flat tires, hoping George would work out. He remembered one late afternoon about a week before he had reluctantly dropped the ax. George had stayed after the others had filed out, and then had confronted Jack angrily. You sset the timer ahead. Jack looked up from the papers he was putting back into his briefcase. George, what are you talking about? I ddidnt get my whole five mihminutes. You set it ahead. I was wuhwatching the clock. The clock and the timer may keep slightly different times, George, but I never touched the dial on the damned thing. Scouts honor. Yuhyuhyou did! The belligerent, Imstickingupformyrights way George was looking at him had sparked Jacks own temper. He had been off the sauce for two months, two months too long, and he was ragged. He made one last effort to hold himself in. I assure you I did not, George. Its your stutter. Do you have any idea what causes it? You dont stutter in class. I duhduhdont ssstststutter! Lower your voice. You wwant to gget me! You duhdont wwant me on your gggoddam team! Lower your voice, I said. Lets discuss this rationally. Ffuhfuck ththat! George, if you can control your stutter, Id be glad to have you. Youre well prepped for every practice and youre good at the background stuff, which means youre rarely surprised. But all that doesnt mean much if you cant control that Ive nehnehnever stuttered! he cried out. Its yuhyou! Iiif suhsomeone else had the dddebdebate tteam, I could Jacks temper slipped another notch. George, youre never going to make much of a lawyer, corporation or otherwise, if you cant control that. Law isnt like soccer. Two hours of practice every night wont cut it. What are you going to do, stand up in front of a board meeting and say, Nuhnuhnow, ggentlemen, about this tttort? He suddenly flushed, not with anger but with shame at his own cruelty. This was not a man in front of him but a seventeenyearold boy who was facing the first major defeat of his life, and maybe asking in the only way he could for Jack to help him find a way to cope with it. George gave him a final, furious glance, his lips twisting and bucking as the words bottled up behind them struggled to find their way out. Yuhyuhyou ssset it ahead! You huhhate me bbecause you nuhnuhnuhknow  you know  nuhnuh With an inarticulate cry he had rushed out of the classroom, slamming the door hard enough to make the wirereinforced glass rattle in its frame. Jack had stood there, feeling, rather than hearing, the echo of Georges Adidas in the empty hall. Still in the grip of his temper and his shame at mocking Georges stutter, his first thought had been a sick sort of exultation For the first time in his life George Hatfield had wanted something he could not have. For the first time there was something wrong that all of Daddys money could not fix. You couldnt bribe a speech center. You couldnt offer a tongue an extra fifty a week and a bonus at Christmas if it would agree to stop flapping like a record needle in a defective groove. Then the exultation was simply buried in shame, and he felt the way he had after he had broken Dannys arm. Dear God, I am not a son of a bitch. Please. That sick happiness at Georges retreat was more typical of Denker in the play than of Jack Torrance the playwright. You hate me because you know  Because he knew what? What could he possibly know about George Hatfield that would make him hate him? That his whole future lay ahead of him? That he looked a little bit like Robert Redford and all conversation among the girls stopped when he did a double gainer from the pool diving board? That he played soccer and baseball with a natural, unlearned grace? Ridiculous. Absolutely absurd. He envied George Hatfield nothing. If the truth was known, he felt worse about Georges unfortunate stutter than George himself, because George really would have made an excellent debater. And if Jack had set the timer aheadand of course he hadntit would have been because both he and the other members of the squad were embarrassed for Georges struggle, they had agonized over it the way you agonize when the Class Night speaker forgets some of his lines. If he had set the timer ahead, it would have been just to  to put George out of his misery. But he hadnt set the timer ahead. He was quite sure of it. A week later he had cut him, and that time he had kept his temper. The shouts and the threats had all been on Georges side. A week after that he had gone out to the parking lot halfway through practice to get a pile of sourcebooks that he had left in the trunk of the VW and there had been George, down on one knee with his long blond hair swinging in his face, a hunting knife in one hand. He was sawing through the VWs right front tire. The back tires were already shredded, and the bug sat on the flats like a small, tired dog. Jack had seen red, and remembered very little of the encounter that followed. He remembered a thick growl that seemed to issue from his own throat All right, George. If thats how you want it, just come here and take your medicine. He remembered George looking up, startled and fearful. He had said Mr. Torrance as if to explain how all this was just a mistake, the tires had been flat when he got there and he was just cleaning dirt out of the front treads with the tip of this gutting knife he just happened to have with him and Jack had waded in, his fists held up in front of him, and it seemed that he had been grinning. But he wasnt sure of that. The last thing he remembered was George holding up the knife and saying You better not come any closer And the next thing was Miss Strong, the French teacher, holding Jacks arms, crying, screaming Stop it, Jack! Stop it! Youre going to kill him! He had blinked around stupidly. There was the hunting knife, glittering harmlessly on the parking lot asphalt four yards away. There was his Volkswagen, his poor old battered bug, veteran of many wild midnight drunken rides, sitting on three flat shoes. There was a new dent in the right front fender, he saw, and there was something in the middle of the dent that was either red paint or blood. For a moment he had been confused, his thoughts (jesus christ al we hit him after all) of that other night. Then his eyes had shifted to George, George lying dazed and blinking on the asphalt. His debate group had come out and they were huddled together by the door, staring at George. There was blood on his face from a scalp laceration that looked minor, but there was also blood running out of one of Georges ears and that probably meant a concussion.


When George tried to get up, Jack shook free of Miss Strong and went to him. George cringed. Jack put his hands on Georges chest and pushed him back down. Lie still, he said. Dont try to move. He turned to Miss Strong, who was staring at them both with horror. Please go call the school doctor, Miss Strong, he told her. She turned and fled toward the office. He looked at his debate class then, looked them right in the eye because he was in charge again, fully himself, and when he was himself there wasnt a nicer guy in the whole state of Vermont. Surely they knew that. You can go home now, he told them quietly. Well meet again tomorrow. But by the end of that week six of his debaters had dropped out, two of them the class of the act, but of course it didnt matter much because he had been informed by then that he would be dropping out himself. Yet somehow he had stayed off the bottle, and he supposed that was something. And he had not hated George Hatfield. He was sure of that. He had not acted but had been acted upon. You hate me because you know  But he had known nothing. Nothing. He would swear that before the Throne of Almighty God, just as he would swear that he had set the timer ahead no more than a minute. And not out of hate but out of pity. Two wasps were crawling sluggishly about on the roof beside the hole in the flashing. He watched them until they spread their aerodynamically unsound but strangely efficient wings and lumbered off into the October sunshine, perchance to sting someone else. God had seen fit to give them stingers and Jack supposed they had to use them on somebody. How long had he been sitting here, looking at that hole with its unpleasant surprise down inside, raking over old coals? He looked at his watch. Almost half an hour. He let himself down to the edge of the roof, dropped one leg over, and felt around until his foot found the top rung of the ladder just below the overhang. He would go down to the equipment shed where he had stored the bug bomb on a high shelf out of Dannys reach. He would get it, come back up, and then they would be the ones surprised. You could be stung, but you could also sting back. He believed that sincerely. Two hours from now the nest would be just so much chewed paper and Danny could have it in his room if he wanted toJack had had one in his room when he was just a kid, it had always smelled faintly of woodsmoke and gasoline. He could have it right by the head of his bed. It wouldnt hurt him. Im getting better. The sound of his own voice, confident in the silent afternoon, reassured him even though he hadnt meant to speak aloud. He was getting better. It was possible to graduate from passive to active, to take the thing that had once driven you nearly to madness as a neutral prize of no more than occasional academic interest. And if there was a place where the thing could be done, this was surely it. He went down the ladder to get the bug bomb. They would pay. They would pay for stinging him. CHAPTER FIFTEEN DOWN IN THE FRONT YARD Jack had found a huge whitepainted wicker chair in the back of the equipment shed two weeks ago, and had dragged it around to the porch over Wendys objections that it was really the ugliest thing she had ever seen in her whole life. He was sitting in it now, amusing himself with a copy of E. L. Doctorows Welcome to Hard Times, when his wife and son rattled up the driveway in the hotel truck. Wendy parked it in the turnaround, raced the engine sportily, and then turned it off. The trucks single taillight died. The engine rumbled grumpily with postignition and finally stopped. Jack got out of his chair and ambled down to meet them. Hi, Dad! Danny called, and raced up the hill. He had a box in one hand. Look what Mommy bought me! Jack picked his son up, swung him around twice, and kissed him heartily on the mouth. Jack Torrance, the Eugene ONeill of his generation, the American Shakespeare! Wendy said, smiling. Fancy meeting you here, so far up in the mountains. The common ruck became too much for me, dear lady, he said, and slipped his arms around her. They kissed. How was your trip? Very good. Danny complains that I keep jerking him but I didnt stall the truck once and  oh, Jack, you finished it! She was looking at the roof, and Danny followed her gaze. A faint frown touched his face as he looked at the wide swatch of fresh shingles atop the Overlooks west wing, a lighter green than the rest of the roof. Then he looked down at the box in his hand and his face cleared again. At night the pictures Tony had showed him came back to haunt in all their original clarity, but in sunny daylight they were easier to disregard. Look, Daddy, look! Jack took the box from his son. It was a model car, one of the Big Daddy Roth caricatures that Danny had expressed an admiration for in the past. This one was the Violent Violet Volkswagen, and the picture on the box showed a huge purple VW with long 59 Cadillac Coupe de Ville taillights burning up a dirt track. The VW had a sunroof, and poking up through it, clawed hands on the wheel down below, was a gigantic warty monster with popping bloodshot eyes, a maniacal grin, and a gigantic English racing cap turned around backward. Wendy was smiling at him, and Jack winked at her. Thats what I like about you, doc, Jack said, handing the box back. Your taste runs to the quiet, the sober, the introspective. You are definitely the child of my loins. Mommy said youd help me put it together as soon as I could read all of the first Dick and Jane. That ought to be by the end of the week, Jack said. What else have you got in that finelooking truck, maam? Uhuh. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back. No peeking. Some of that stuff is for you. Danny and I will take it in. You can get the milk. Its on the floor of the cab. Thats all I am to you, Jack cried, clapping a hand to his forehead. Just a dray horse, a common beast of the field. Dray here, dray there, dray everywhere. Just dray that milk right into the kitchen, mister. Its too much! he cried, and threw himself on the ground while Danny stood over him and giggled. Get up, you ox, Wendy said, and prodded him with the toe of her sneaker. See? he said to Danny. She called me an ox. Youre a witness. Witness, witness! Danny concurred gleefully, and broadjumped his prone father. Jack sat up. That reminds me, chumly. Ive got something for you, too. On the porch by my ashtray. What is it? Forgot. Go and see. Jack got up and the two of them stood together, watching Danny charge up the lawn and then take the steps to the porch two by two. He put an arm around Wendys waist. You happy, babe? She looked up at him solemnly. This is the happiest Ive been since we were married. Is that the truth? Gods honest. He squeezed her tightly. I love you. She squeezed him back, touched. Those had never been cheap words with John Torrance; she could count the number of times he had said them to her, both before and after marriage, on both her hands. I love you too. Mommy! Mommy! Danny was on the porch now, shrill and excited. Come and see! Wow! Its neat! What is it? Wendy asked him as they walked up from the parking lot, hand in hand. Forgot, Jack said. Oh, youll get yours, she said, and elbowed him. See if you dont. I was hoping Id get it tonight, he remarked, and she laughed. A moment later he asked, Is Danny happy, do you think? You ought to know. Youre the one who has a long talk with him every night before bed. Thats usually about what he wants to be when he grows up or if Santa Claus is really real. Thats getting to be a big thing with him. I think his old buddy Scott let some pennies drop on that one. No, he hasnt said much of anything about the Overlook to me. Me either, she said. They were climbing the porch steps now. But hes very quiet a lot of the time. And I think hes lost weight, Jack, I really do. Hes just getting tall. Dannys back was to them. He was examining something on the table by Jacks chair, but Wendy couldnt see what it was. Hes not eating as well, either. He used to be the original steam shovel. Remember last year? They taper off, he said vaguely. I think I read that in Spock. Hell be using two forks again by the time hes seven. They had stopped on the top step. Hes pushing awfully hard on those readers, too, she said. I know he wants to learn how, to please us  to please you, she added reluctantly. To please himself most of all, Jack said. I havent been pushing him on that at all. In fact, I do wish he wouldnt go quite so hard. Would you think I was foolish if I made an appointment for him to have a physical? Theres a G.P. in Sidewinder, a young man from what the checker in the market said Youre a little nervous about the snow coming, arent you? She shrugged. I suppose. If you think its foolish I dont. In fact, you can make appointments for all three of us. Well get our clean bills of health and then we can sleep easy at night. Ill make the appointments this afternoon, she said. Mom! Look, Mommy! He came running to her with a large gray thing in his hands, and for one comichorrible moment Wendy thought it was a brain. She saw what it really was and recoiled instinctively. Jack put an arm around her. Its all right. The tenants who didnt fly away have been shaken out. I used the bug bomb. She looked at the large wasps nest her son was holding but would not touch it. Are you sure its safe? Positive. I had one in my room when I was a kid. My dad gave it to me. Want to put it in your room, Danny? Yeah! Right now! He turned around and raced through the double doors. They could hear his muffled, running feet on the main stairs. There were wasps up there, she said. Did you get stung? Wheres my purple heart? he asked, and displayed his finger. The swelling had already begun to go down, but she ooohed over it satisfyingly and gave it a small, gentle kiss. Did you pull the stinger out? Wasps dont leave them in. Thats bees. They have barbed stingers. Wasp stingers are smooth. Thats what makes them so dangerous. They can sting again and again. Jack, are you sure thats safe for him to have? I followed the directions on the bomb. The stuff is guaranteed to kill every single bug in two hours time and then dissipate with no residue. I hate them, she said. What  wasps? Anything that stings, she said. Her hands went to her elbows and cupped them, her arms crossed over her breasts. I do too, he said, and hugged her. CHAPTER SIXTEEN DANNY Down the hall, in the bedroom, Wendy could hear the typewriter Jack had carried up from downstairs burst into life for thirty seconds, fall silent for a minute or two, and then rattle briefly again. It was like listening to machinegun fire from an isolated pillbox. The sound was music to her ears; Jack had not been writing so steadily since the second year of their marriage, when he wrote the story that Esquire had purchased. He said he thought the play would be done by the end of the year, for better or worse, and he would be moving on to something new. He said he didnt care if The Little School stirred any excitement when Phyllis showed it around, didnt care if it sank without a trace, and Wendy believed that, too. The actual act of his writing made her immensely hopeful, not because she expected great things from the play but because her husband seemed to be slowly closing a huge door on a roomful of monsters. He had had his shoulder to that door for a long time now, but at last it was swinging shut. Every key typed closed it a little more. Look, Dick, look. Danny was hunched over the first of the five battered primers Jack had dug up by culling mercilessly through Boulders myriad secondhand bookshops. They would take Danny right up to the secondgrade reading level, a program she had told Jack she thought was much too ambitious. Their son was intelligent, they knew that, but it would be a mistake to push him too far too fast. Jack had agreed. There would be no pushing involved. But if the kid caught on fast, they would be prepared. And now she wondered if Jack hadnt been right about that, too. Danny, prepared by four years of Sesame Street and three years of Electric Company, seemed to be catching on with almost scary speed. It bothered her. He hunched over the innocuous little books, his crystal radio and balsa glider on the shelf above him, as though his life depended on learning to read. His small face was more tense and paler than she liked in the close and cozy glow of the goosenecked lamp they had put in his room. He was taking it very seriously, both the reading and the workbook pages his father made up for him every afternoon. Picture of an apple and a peach. The word apple written beneath in Jacks large, neatly made printing. Circle the right picture, the one that went with the word. And their son would stare from the word to the pictures, his lips moving, sounding out, actually sweating it out. And with his doublesized red pencil curled into his pudgy right fist, he could now write about three dozen words on his own. His finger traced slowly under the words in the reader. Above them was a picture Wendy halfremembered from her own grammar school days, nineteen years before. A laughing boy with brown curly hair. A girl in a short dress, her hair in blond ringlets, one hand holding a jump rope. A prancing dog running after a large red rubber ball. The firstgrade trinity. Dick, Jane, and Jip. See Jip run, Danny read slowly. Run, Jip, run. Run, run, run. He paused, dropping his finger down a line. See the  He bent closer, his nose almost touching the page now. See the  Not so close, doc, Wendy said quietly. Youll hurt your eyes. Its Dont tell me! he said, sitting up with a jerk. His voice was alarmed. Dont tell me, Mommy, I can get it! All right, honey, she said. But its not a big thing. Really its not. Unheeding, Danny bent forward again. On his face was an expression that might be more commonly seen hovering over a graduate record exam in a college gym somewhere. She liked it less and less. See the  buh. Aw. El. El. See the buhawelel? See the buhawl. Ball! Suddenly triumphant. Fierce. The fierceness in his voice scared her. See the ball! Thats right, she said. Honey, I think thats enough for tonight. A couple more pages, Mommy? Please? No, doc. She closed the redbound book firmly. Its bedtime. Please? Dont tease me about it, Danny. Mommys tired. Okay. But he looked longingly at the primer. Go kiss your father and then wash up. Dont forget to brush. Yeah. He slouched out, a small boy in pajama bottoms with feet and a large flannel top with a football on the front and NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS written on the back. Jacks typewriter stopped, and she heard Dannys hearty smack. Night, Daddy. Good night, doc. Howd you do? Okay, I guess. Mommy made me stop. Mommy was right. Its past eightthirty. Going to the bathroom? Yeah. Good. Theres potatoes growing out of your ears. And onions and carrots and chives and Dannys giggle, fading, then cut off by the firm click of the bathroom door. He was private about his bathroom functions, while both she and Jack were pretty much catchascatchcan. Another signand they were multiplying all the timethat there was another human being in the place, not just a carbon copy of one of them or a combination of both. It made her a little sad. Someday her child would be a stranger to her, and she would be strange to him  but not as strange as her own mother had become to her. Please dont let it be that way, God. Let him grow up and still love his mother. Jacks typewriter began its irregular bursts again. Still sitting in the chair beside Dannys reading table, she let her eyes wander around her sons room. The gliders wing had been neatly mended. His desk was piled high with picture books, coloring books, old SpiderMan comic books with the covers half torn off, Crayolas, and an untidy pile of Lincoln Logs. The VW model was neatly placed above these lesser things, its shrinkwrap still undisturbed. He and his father would be putting it together tomorrow night or the night after if Danny went on at this rate, and never mind the end of the week. His pictures of Pooh and Eeyore and Christopher Robin were tacked neatly to the wall, soon enough to be replaced with pinups and photographs of dopesmoking rock singers, she supposed. Innocence to experience. Human nature, baby. Grab it and growl. Still it made her sad. Next year he would be in school and she would lose at least half of him, maybe more, to his friends. She and Jack had tried to have another one for a while when things had seemed to be going well at Stovington, but she was on the pill again now. Things were too uncertain. God knew where they would be in nine months. Her eyes fell on the wasps nest. It held the ultimate high place in Dannys room, resting on a large plastic plate on the table by his bed. She didnt like it, even if it was empty. She wondered vaguely if it might have germs, thought to ask Jack, then decided he would laugh at her. But she would ask the doctor tomorrow, if she could catch him with Jack out of the room. She didnt like the idea of that thing, constructed from the chewings and saliva of so many alien creatures, lying within a foot of her sleeping sons head. The water in the bathroom was still running, and she got up and went into the big bedroom to make sure everything was okay. Jack didnt look up; he was lost in the world he was making, staring at the typewriter, a filter cigarette clamped in his teeth. She knocked lightly on the closed bathroom door. You okay, doc? You awake? No answer. Danny? No answer. She tried the door. It was locked. Danny? She was worried now. The lack of any sound beneath the steadily running water made her uneasy. Danny? Open the door, honey. No answer. Danny! Jesus Christ, Wendy, I cant think if youre going to pound on the door all night. Dannys locked himself in the bathroom and he doesnt answer me! Jack came around the desk, looking put out. He knocked on the door once, hard. Open up, Danny. No games. No answer. Jack knocked harder. Stop fooling, doc. Bedtimes bedtime. Spanking if you dont open up. Hes losing his temper, she thought, and was more afraid. He had not touched Danny in anger since that evening two years ago, but at this moment he sounded angry enough to do it. Danny, honey she began. No answer. Only running water. Danny, if you make me break this lock I can guarantee you youll spend the night sleeping on your belly, Jack warned. Nothing. Break it, she said, and suddenly it was hard to talk. Quick. He raised one foot and brought it down hard against the door to the right of the knob. The lock was a poor thing; it gave immediately and the door shuddered open, banging the tiled bathroom wall and rebounding halfway. Danny! she screamed. The water was running full force in the basin. Beside it, a tube of Crest with the cap off. Danny was sitting on the rim of the bathtub across the room, his toothbrush clasped limply in his left hand, a thin foam of toothpaste around his mouth. He was staring, trancelike, into the mirror on the front of the medicine cabinet above the washbasin. The expression on his face was one of drugged horror, and her first thought was that he was having some sort of epileptic seizure, that he might have swallowed his tongue. Danny! Danny didnt answer. Guttural sounds came from his throat. Then she was pushed aside so hard that she crashed into the towel rack, and Jack was kneeling in front of the boy. Danny, he said. Danny, Danny! He snapped his fingers in front of Dannys blank eyes. Ahsure, Danny said. Tournament play. Stroke. Nurrrrr  Danny Roque! Danny said, his voice suddenly deep, almost manlike. Roque. Stroke. The roque mallet  has two sides. Gaaaaaa Oh Jack my God whats wrong with him? Jack grabbed the boys elbows and shook him hard. Dannys head rolled limply backward and then snapped forward like a balloon on a stick. Roque. Stroke. Redrum. Jack shook him again, and Dannys eyes suddenly cleared. His toothbrush fell out of his hand and onto the tiled floor with a small click. What? he asked, looking around. He saw his father kneeling before him, Wendy standing by the wall. What? Danny asked again, with rising alarm. Wwwuhwhats wrrr Dont stutter! Jack suddenly screamed into his face. Danny cried out in shock, his body going tense, trying to draw away from his father, and then he collapsed into tears. Stricken, Jack pulled him close. Oh, honey, Im sorry. Im sorry, doc. Please. Dont cry. Im sorry. Everythings okay. The water ran ceaselessly in the basin, and Wendy felt that she had suddenly stepped into some grinding nightmare where time ran backward, backward to the time when her drunken husband had broken her sons arm and had then mewled over him in almost the exact same words. (Oh honey. Im sorry. Im sorry, doc. Please. So sorry.) She ran to them both, pried Danny out of Jacks arms somehow (she saw the look of angry reproach on his face but filed it away for later consideration), and lifted him up. She walked him back into the small bedroom, Dannys arms clasped around her neck, Jack trailing them. She sat down on Dannys bed and rocked him back and forth, soothing him with nonsensical words repeated over and over. She looked up at Jack and there was only worry in his eyes now. He raised questioning eyebrows at her. She shook her head faintly. Danny, she said. Danny, Danny, Danny. S okay, doc. S fine. At last Danny was quiet, only faintly trembling in her arms. Yet it was Jack he spoke to first, Jack who was now sitting beside them on the bed, and she felt the old faint pang (Its him first and its always been him first) of jealousy. Jack had shouted at him, she had comforted him, yet it was to his father that Danny said, Im sorry if I was bad. Nothing to be sorry for, doc. Jack ruffled his hair. What the hell happened in there? Danny shook his head slowly, dazedly. I  I dont know. Why did you tell me to stop stuttering, Daddy? I dont stutter. Of course not, Jack said heartily, but Wendy felt a cold finger touch her heart. Jack suddenly looked scared, as if hed seen something that might just have been a ghost. Something about the timer  Danny muttered. What? Jack was leaning forward, and Danny flinched in her arms. Jack, youre scaring him! she said, and her voice was high, accusatory. It suddenly came to her that they were all scared. But of what? I dont know, I dont know, Danny was saying to his father. What  what did I say, Daddy? Nothing, Jack muttered. He took his handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his mouth with it. Wendy had a moment of that sickening timeisrunningbackward feeling again. It was a gesture she remembered well from his drinking days. Why did you lock the door, Danny? she asked gently. Why did you do that? Tony, he said. Tony told me to. They exchanged a glance over the top of his head. Did Tony say why, son? Jack asked quietly. I was brushing my teeth and I was thinking about my reading, Danny said. Thinking real hard. And  and I saw Tony way down in the mirror. He said he had to show me again. You mean he was behind you? Wendy asked. No, he was in the mirror. Danny was very emphatic on this point. Way down deep. And then I went through the mirror. The next thing I remember Daddy was shaking me and I thought I was being bad again. Jack winced as if struck. No, doc, he said quietly. Tony told you to lock the door? Wendy asked, brushing his hair. Yes. And what did he want to show you? Danny tensed in her arms; it was as if the muscles in his body had turned into something like piano wire. I dont remember, he said, distraught. I dont remember. Dont ask me. I  I dont remember nothing! Shh, Wendy said, alarmed. She began to rock him again. Its all right if you dont remember, hon. Sure it is. At last Danny began to relax again. Do you want me to stay a little while? Read you a story? No. Just the night light. He looked shyly at his father. Would you stay, Daddy? For a minute? Sure, doc. Wendy sighed. Ill be in the living room, Jack. Okay. She got up and watched as Danny slid under the covers. He seemed very small. Are you sure youre okay, Danny? Im okay. Just plug in Snoopy, Mom. Sure. She plugged in the night light, which showed Snoopy lying fast asleep on top of his doghouse. He had never wanted a night light until they moved into the Overlook, and then he had specifically requested one. She turned off the lamp and the overhead and looked back at them, the small white circle of Dannys face, and Jacks above it. She hesitated a moment (and then I went through the mirror) and then left them quietly. You sleepy? Jack asked, brushing Dannys hair off his forehead. Yeah. Want a drink of water? No  There was silence for five minutes. Danny was still beneath his hand. Thinking the boy had dropped off, he was about to get up and leave quietly when Danny said from the brink of sleep Roque. Jack turned back, all zero at the bone. Danny? Youd never hurt Mommy, would you, Daddy? No. Or me? No. Silence again, spinning out. Daddy? What? Tony came and told me about roque. Did he, doc? What did he say? I dont remember much. Except he said it was in innings. Like baseball. Isnt that funny? Yes. Jacks heart was thudding dully in his chest. How could the boy possibly know a thing like that? Roque was played by innings, not like baseball but like cricket. Daddy ? He was almost asleep now. What? Whats redrum? Red drum? Sounds like something an Indian might take on the warpath. Silence. Hey, doc? But Danny was asleep, breathing in long, slow strokes. Jack sat looking down at him for a moment, and a rush of love pushed through him like tidal water. Why had he yelled at the boy like that? It was perfectly normal for him to stutter a little. He had been coming out of a daze or some weird kind of trance, and stuttering was perfectly normal under those circumstances. Perfectly. And he hadnt said timer at all. It had been something else, nonsense, gibberish. How had he known roque was played in innings? Had someone told him? Ullman? Hallorann? He looked down at his hands. They were made into tight, clenched fists of tension (god how i need a drink) and the nails were digging into his palms like tiny brands. Slowly he forced them to open. I love you, Danny, he whispered. God knows I do. He left the room. He had lost his temper again, only a little, but enough to make him feel sick and afraid. A drink would blunt that feeling, oh yes. It would blunt that (Something about the timer) and everything else. There was no mistake about those words at all. None. Each had come out clear as a bell. He paused in the hallway, looking back, and automatically wiped his lips with his handkerchief. Their shapes were only dark silhouettes in the glow of the night light. Wendy, wearing only panties, went to his bed and tucked him in again; he had kicked the covers back. Jack stood in the doorway, watching as she put her inner wrist against his forehead. Is he feverish? No. She kissed his cheek. Thank God you made that appointment, he said as she came back to the doorway. You think that guy knows his stuff? The checker said he was very good. Thats all I know. If theres something wrong, Im going to send you and him to your mothers, Wendy. No. I know, he said, putting an arm around her, how you feel. You dont know how I feel at all about her. Wendy, theres no place else I can send you. You know that. If you came Without this job were done, he said simply. You know that. Her silhouette nodded slowly. She knew it. When I had that interview with Ullman, I thought he was just blowing off his bazoo. Now Im not so sure. Maybe I really shouldnt have tried this with you two along. Forty miles from nowhere. I love you, she said. And Danny loves you even more, if thats possible. He would have been heartbroken, Jack. He will be, if you send us away. Dont make it sound that way. If the doctor says theres something wrong, Ill look for a job in Sidewinder, she said. If I cant get one in Sidewinder, Danny and I will go to Boulder. I cant go to my mother, Jack. Not on those terms. Dont ask me. I  I just cant. I guess I know that. Cheer up. Maybe its nothing. Maybe. The appointments at two? Yes. Lets leave the bedroom door open, Wendy. I want to. But I think hell sleep through now. But he didnt. Boom  boom  boomboomBOOMBOOM He fled the heavy, crashing, echoing sounds through twisting, mazelike corridors, his bare feet whispering over a deeppile jungle of blue and black. Each time he heard the roque mallet smash into the wall somewhere behind him he wanted to scream aloud. But he mustnt. He mustnt. A scream would give him away and then (then REDRUM) (Come out here and take your medicine, you fucking crybaby!) Oh and he could hear the owner of that voice coming, coming for him, charging up the hall like a tiger in an alien blueblack jungle. A maneater. (Come out here, you little son of a bitch!) If he could get to the stairs going down, if he could get off this third floor, he might be all right. Even the elevator. If he could remember what had been forgotten. But it was dark and in his terror he had lost his orientation. He had turned down one corridor and then another, his heart leaping into his mouth like a hot lump of ice, fearing that each turn would bring him face to face with the human tiger in these halls. The booming was right behind him now, the awful hoarse shouting. The whistle the head of the mallet made cutting through the air (roque  stroke  roque  stroke  REDRUM) before it crashed into the wall. The soft whisper of feet on the jungle carpet. Panic squirting in his mouth like bitter juice. (You will remember what was forgotten  but would he? What was it?) He fled around another corner and saw with creeping, utter horror that he was in a culdesac. Locked doors frowned down at him from three sides. The west wing. He was in the west wing and outside he could hear the storm whooping and screaming, seeming to choke on its own dark throat filled with snow. He backed up against the wall, weeping with terror now, his heart racing like the heart of a rabbit caught in a snare. When his back was against the light blue silk wallpaper with the embossed pattern of wavy lines, his legs gave way and he collapsed to the carpet, hands splayed on the jungle of woven vines and creepers, the breath whistling in and out of his throat. Louder. Louder. There was a tiger in the hall, and now the tiger was just around the corner, still crying out in that shrill and petulant and lunatic rage, the roque mallet slamming, because this tiger walked on two legs and it was He woke with a sudden indrawn gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wide and staring into the darkness, hands crossed in front of his face. Something on one hand. Crawling. Wasps. Three of them. They stung him then, seeming to needle all at once, and that was when all the images broke apart and fell on him in a dark flood and he began to shriek into the dark, the wasps clinging to his left hand, stinging again and again. The lights went on and Daddy was standing there in his shorts, his eyes glaring. Mommy behind him, sleepy and scared. Get them off me! Danny screamed. Oh my God, Jack said. He saw. Jack, whats wrong with him? Whats wrong? He didnt answer her. He ran to the bed, scooped up Dannys pillow, and slapped Dannys thrashing left hand with it. Again. Again. Wendy saw lumbering, insectile forms rise into the air, droning. Get a magazine! he yelled over his shoulder. Kill them! Wasps? she said, and for a moment she was inside herself, almost detached in her realization. That her mind crosspatched, and knowledge was connected to emotion. Wasps, oh Jesus, Jack, you said Shut the fuck up and kill them! he roared. Will you do what I say! One of them had landed on Dannys reading desk. She took a coloring book off his worktable and slammed it down on the wasp. It left a viscous brown smear.