sk.theshining-第22部分
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an 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 scoring…no more than that young footballplaying devil Jack Torrance had ten years earlier。
He could say that he honestly didn't 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 Benson…the 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 C's and an occasional B in history or botany。 He was a fierce field contender but a lackadaisical； amused sort of student in the classrooms 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 petitive stimuli was applied （like electrodes to the temples of Frankenstein's monster； Jack thought wryly）； he could bee 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。 George's 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 inter…squad debates had fired George Hatfield's petitive soul。 He became a grimly determined debater； prepping his pro or con position fiercely。 It didn't matter if the subject was legalization of marijuana； reinstating the death penalty； or the oil…depletion allowance。 George became conversant； and he was just jingoist enough to honestly not care which side he was on…a rare and valuable trait'； even in high…level 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 e 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。
〃S…S…So I th…th…think we have to say that the fuh…fuh…facts in the c…case Mr。
D…D…D…Dorsky cites are ren…ren…rendered obsolete by the ruh…recent duh…duh… decision handed down inin…in 。 。 。 〃 The buzzer would go off and George would whirl around to stare furiously at Jack； who sat beside it。 George's 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 s…set the timer ahead。〃 Jack looked up from the papers he was putting back into his briefcase。
〃George； what are you talking about？〃
〃I d…didn't get my whole five mih…minutes。 You set it ahead。 I was wuh… watching the clock。〃
〃The clock and the timer may keep slightly different times； George； but I never touched the dial on the damned thing。 Scout's honor。〃
〃Yuh…yuh…you did！〃 The belligerent； I'm…sticking…up…for…my…rights way George was looking at him had sparked Jack's 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。 It's your stutter。 Do you have any idea what causes it？ You don't stutter in class。〃
〃I duh…duh…don't s…s…st…st…stutterl〃
〃Lower your voice。〃
〃You w…want to g…get met You duh…don't w…want me on your g…g…goddam team！〃
〃Lower your voice； I said。 Let's discuss this rationally。〃
〃F…fuh…fuck th…that！〃
〃George； if you control your stutter； I'd be glad to have you。 You're well prepped for every practice and you're good at the background stuff； which means you're rarely surprised。 But all that doesn't mean much if you can't control that…〃
〃I've neh…neh…never stuttered！〃 he cried out。 〃It's yuh…you！ I i…if suh… someone else had the d…d…deb…debate t…team； I could…〃 Jack's temper slipped another notch。
〃George； you're never going to make much of a lawyer； corporation or otherwise； if you can't control that。 Law isn't like soccer。 Two hours of practice every night won't cut it。 What are you going to do； stand up in front of a board meeting and say； ‘Nuh…nuh…now； g…gentlemen； about this t…ttort'？〃 He suddenly flushed； not with anger but with shame at his own cruelty。 This was not a man in front of him but a seventeen…year…old 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。
〃Yuh…yuh…you s…s…set it aheadl You huh…hate me b…because you nuh…nuh…nuh…know 。 。 。 you know 。 。 。 nuh…nuh…〃 With an articulate cry he had rushed out of the classroom； slamming the door hard enough to make the wire…reinforced glass rattle in its frame。 Jack had stood there； feeling； rather than hearing； the echo of George's Adidas in the empty hall。 Still in the grip of his temper and his shame at mocking George's 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 Daddy's money could not fix。
You couldn't bribe a speech center。 You couldn't 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 Danny's arm。
Dear God； I am not a son of a bitch。 Please。
That sick happiness at George's 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 George's unfortunate stutter than George himself； because George really would have made an excellent debater。 And if Jack had set the timer ahead…and of course he hadn't…it would have been because both he and the other members of the squad were embarrassed for George's 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 hadn't 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 George's 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 VW's right front tire。 The back tires were already shredded； and the bug sat on the fiats 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 that's how you want it； just e 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 wasn't sure of that。
The last thing be remembered was George holding up the knife and saying： 〃You better not e any closer…〃 And the next thing was Miss Strong； the French teacher； holding Jack's arms； crying； screaming： 〃Stop it； Jack！ Stop it！ You're 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
