sk.theshining-第44部分

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tration：　（Nothing　there　nothing　there　not　there　at　all　NOTHING　THERE　THERE　IS　NOTHING！）　Time　passed。　And　he　was　just　beginning　to　relax；　just　beginning　to　realize　that　the　door　must　be　unlocked　and　he　could　go；　when　the　years…damp；　bloated；　fish…smelling　hands　closed　softly　around　his　throat　and　he　was　turned　implacably　around　to　stare　into　that　dead　and　purple　face。
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　P　A　R　T　F　O　U　R　
　　
　　Snowbound
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　　
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　　DREAMLAND
　　
　　Knitting　made　her　sleepy。　Today　even　Bartok　would　have　made　her　sleepy；　and　it　wasn't　Bartok　on　the　little　phonograph；　it　was　Bach。　Her　hands　grew　slower　and　slower；　and　at　the　time　her　son　was　making　the　acquaintance　of　Room　217's　long…　term　resident；　Wendy　was　asleep　with　her　knitting　on　her　lap。　The　yarn　and　needles　rose　in　the　slow　time　of　her　breathing。　Her　sleep　was　deep　and　she　did　not　dream。
　　
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　　Jack　Torrance　had　fallen　asleep　too；　but　his　sleep　was　light　and　uneasy；　populated　by　dreams　that　seemed　too　vivid　to　be　mere　dreams…they　were　certainly　more　vivid　than　any　dreams　he　had　ever　had　before。
　　His　eyes　had　begun　to　get　heavy　as　he　leafed　through　packets　of　milk　bills；　a　hundred　to　a　packet；　seemingly　tens　of　thousands　all　together。　Yet　he　gave　each　one　a　cursory　glance；　afraid　that　by　not　being　thorough　he　might　miss　exactly　the　piece　of　Overlookiana　he　needed　to　make　the　mystic　connection　that　he　was　sure　must　be　here　somewhere。　He　felt　like　a　man　with　a　power　cord　in　one　hand；　groping　around　a　dark　and　unfamiliar　room　for　a　socket。　If　he　could　find　it　he　would　be　rewarded　with　a　view　of　wonders。
　　He　had　e　to　grips　with　Al　Shockley's　phone　call　and　his　request；　his　strange　experience　in　the　playground　had　helped　him　to　do　that。　That　had　been　too　damned　close　to　some　kind　of　breakdown；　and　he　was　convinced　that　it　was　his　mind　in　revolt　against　Al's　high…goddam…handed　request　that　he　chuck　his　book　project。　It　had　maybe　been　a　signal　that　his　own　sense　of　self…respect　could　only　be　pushed　so　far　before　disintegrating　entirely。　He　would　write　the　book。
　　If　it　meant　the　end　of　his　association　with　Al　Shockley；　that　would　have　to　be。
　　He　would　write　the　hotel's　biography；　write　it　straight　from　the　shoulder；　and　the　introduction　would　be　his　hallucination　that　the　topiary　animals　had　moved。
　　The　title　would　be　uninspired　but　workable：　Strange　Resort；　The　Story　of　the　Overlook　Hotel。　Straight　from　the　shoulder；　yes；　but　it　would　not　be　written　vindictively；　in　any　effort　to　get　back　at　Al　or　Stuart　Ullman　or　George　Hatfield　or　his　father　（miserable；　bullying　drunk　that　he　had　been）　or　anyone　else；　for　that　matter。　He　would　write　it　because　the　Overlook　had　enchanted　him…could　any　other　explanation　be　so　simple　or　so　true？　He　would　write　it　for　the　reason　he　felt　that　all　great　literature；　fiction　and　nonfiction；　was　written：　truth　es　out；　in　the　end　it　always　es　out。　He　would　write　it　because　he　felt　he　had　to。
　　Five　hundred　gals　whole　milk。　One　hundred　gals　skim　milk。　Pd。　Billed　to　acc't。
　　Three　hundred　pts　orange　juice。　Pd。
　　He　slipped　down　further　in　his　chair；　still　holding　a　clutch　of　the　receipts；　but　his　eyes　no　longer　looking　at　what　was　printed　there。　They　had　e　unfocused。　His　lids　were　slow　and　heavy。　His　mind　had　slipped　from　the　Overlook　to　his　father；　who　had　been　a　male　nurse　at　the　Berlin　munity　Hospital。　Big　man。　A　fat　man　who　had　towered　to　six　feet　two　inches；　he　had　been　taller　than　Jack　even　when　Jack　got　his　full　growth　of　six　feet　even…not　that　the　old　man　had　still　been　around　then。　〃Runt　of　the　litter；〃　he　would　say；　and　then　cuff　Jack　lovingly　and　laugh。　There　had　been　two　other　brothers；　both　taller　than　their　father；　and　Becky；　who　at　five…ten　had　only　been　two　inches　shorter　than　Jack　and　taller　than　he　for　most　of　their　childhood。
　　His　relationship　with　his　father　had　been　like　the　unfurling　of　some　flower　of　beautiful　potential；　which；　when　wholly　opened；　turned　out　to　be　blighted　inside。　Until　he　had　been　seven　he　had　loved　the　tall；　big…bellied　man　uncritically　and　strongly　in　spite　of　the　spankings；　the　black…and…blues；　the　occasional　black　eye。
　　He　could　remember　velvet　summer　nights；　the　house　quiet；　oldest　brother　Brett　out　with　his　girl；　middle　brother　Mike　studying　something；　Becky　and　their　mother　in　the　living　room；　watching　something　on　the　balky　old　TV；　and　he　would　sit　in　the　hall　dressed　in　a　pajama　singlet　and　nothing　else；　ostensibly　playing　with　his　trucks；　actually　waiting　for　the　moment　when　the　silence　would　be　broken　by　the　door　swinging　open　with　a　large　bang；　the　bellow　of　his　father's　wele　when　he　saw　Jacky　was　waiting；　his　own　happy　squeal　in　answer　as　this　big　man　came　down　the　hall；　his　pink　scalp　glowing　beneath　his　crewcut　in　the　glow　of　the　hall　light。　In　that　light　he　always　looked　like　some　soft　and　flapping　oversized　ghost　in　his　hospital　whites；　the　shirt　always　untucked　（and　sometimes　bloody）；　the　pants　cuffs　drooping　down　over　the　black　shoes。
　　His　father　would　sweep　him　into　his　arms　and　Jacky　would　be　propelled　deliriously　upward；　so　fast　it　seemed　he　could　feel　air　pressure　settling　against　his　skull　like　a　cap　made　out　of　lead；　up　and　up；　both　of　them　crying
　　〃Elevator！　Elevator！〃；　and　there　had　been　nights　when　his　father　in　his　drunkenness　had　not　stopped　the　upward　lift　of　his　slabmuscled　arms　soon　enough　and　Jacky　had　gone　right　over　his　father's　flattopped　head　like　a　human　projectile　to　crash…land　on　the　hall　floor　behind　his　dad。　But　on　other　nights　his　father　would　only　sweep　him　into　a　giggling　ecstasy；　through　the　zone　of　air　where　beer　hung　around　his　father's　face　like　a　mist　of　raindrops；　to　be　twisted　and　turned　and　shaken　like　a　laughing　rag；　and　finally　to　be　set　down　on　his　feet；　hiccupping　with　reaction。
　　The　receipts　slipped　from　his　relaxing　hand　and　seesawed　down　through　the　air　to　land　lazily　on　the　floor；　his　eyelids；　which　had　settled　shut　with　his　father's　image　tattooed　on　their　backs　like　stereopticon　images；　opened　a　little　bit　and　then　slipped　back　down　again。　He　twitched　a　little。　Consciousness；　like　the　receipts；　like　autumn　aspen　leaves；　seesawed　lazily　downward。
　　That　had　been　the　first　phase　of　his　relationship　with　his　father；　and　as　it　was　drawing　to　its　end　he　had　bee　aware　that　Becky　and　his　brothers；　all　of　them　older；　hated　the　father　and　that　their　mother；　a　nondescript　woman　who　rarely　spoke　above　a　mutter；　only　suffered　him　because　her　Catholic　upbringing　said　that　she　must。　In　those　days　it　had　not　seemed　strange　to　Jack　that　the　father　won　all　his　arguments　with　his　children　by　use　of　his　fists；　and　it　had　not　seemed　strange　that　his　own　love　should　go　hand…in…hand　with　his　fear：　fear　of　the　elevator　game　which　might　end　in　a　splintering　crash　on　any　given　night；　fear　that　his　father's　bearish　good　humor　on　his　day　off　might　suddenly　change　to　boarish　bellowing　and　the　smack　of　his　〃good　right　hand〃；　and　sometimes；　he　remembered；　he　had　even　been　afraid　that　his　father's　shadow　might　fall　over　him　while　he　was　at　play。　It　was　near　the　end　of　this　phase　that　he　began　to　notice　that　Brett　never　brought　his　dates　home；　or　Mike　and　Becky　their　chums。
　　Love　began　to　curdle　at　nine；　when　his　father　put　his　mother　into　the　hospital　with　his　cane。　He　had　begun　to　carry　the　cane　a　year　earlier；　when　a　car　accident　had　left　him　lame。　After　that　he　was　never　without　it；　long　and　black　and　thick　and　gold…headed。　Now；　dozing；　Jack's　body　twitched　in　a　remembered　cringe　at　the　sound　it　made　in　the　air；　a　murderous　swish；　and　its　heavy　crack　against　the　wall　。　。　。　or　against　flesh。　He　had　beaten　their　mother　for　no　good　reason　at　all；　suddenly　and　without　warning。　They　had　been　at　the　supper　table。
　　The　cane　had　been　standing　by　his　chair。　It　was　a　Sunday　night；　the　end　of　a　three…day　weekend　for　Daddy；　a　weekend　which　he　had　boozed　away　in　his　usual　inimitable　style。　Roast　chicken。　Peas。　Mashed　potatoes。　Daddy　at　the　head　of　the　table；　his　plate　heaped　high；　snoozing　or　nearly　snoozing。　His　mother　passing　plates。　And　suddenly　Daddy　had　been　wide　awake；　his　eyes　set　deeply　into　their　fat　eyesockets；　glittering　with　a　kind　of　stupid；　evil　petulance。　They　flickered　from　one　member　of　the　family　to　the　next；　and　the　vein　in　the　center　of　his　forehead　was　standing　out　prominently；　always　a　bad　sign。　One　of　his　large　freckled　hands　had　dropped　to　the　gold　knob　of　his　cane；　caressing　it。　He　said　something　about　coffee…to　this　day　Jack　was　sure　it　had　been　〃coffee〃　that　his　father　said。　Momma　had　opened　her　mouth　to　answer　and　then　the　cane　was　whickering　through　the　air；　smashing　against　her　face。　Blood　spurted　from　her　nose。　Becky　screamed。　Momma's　spectacles　dropped　into　her　gravy。　The　cane　had　been　drawn　back；　had　e　down　again；　this　time　on　top　of　her　head；　splitting　the　scalp。　Momma　had　dropped　to　the　floor。　He　had　been　out　of　his　chair　and　around　to　where　she　lay　dazed　on　the　carpet；　brandishing　the　cane；　moving　with　a　fat　man's　grotesque　speed　and　agility；　little　eyes　flashing；　jowls　quivering　as　he　spoke　to　her　just　as　he　had　always　spoken　to　his　children　during　such　outbursts。　〃Now。　Now　by　Christ。　I　guess　you'll　take　your　medicine　now。　Goddam　puppy。　Whelp。　e　on　and　take　your　medicine。〃　The　cane　had　gone　up　and　down　on　her　seven　more　times　before　Brett　and　Mike　got　hold　of　him；　dragged　him　away；　wrestled　the　cane　out　of　his　hand。　Jack　（little　Jacky　now　he　was　little　Jacky　now　dozing　and　mumbling　on　a　cobwebby　camp　chair　while　the　furnace　roared　into　hollow　life　behind　him）　knew　exactly　how　many　blows　it　had　been　because　each　soft　whump　against　his　mother's　body　had　been　engraved　on　his　memory　like　the　irrational　swipe　of　a　chisel　on　stone。　Seven　whumps。　No　more；　no　less。　He　and　Becky　crying；　unbelieving；　looking　at　their　mother's　spectacles　lying　in　her　mashed　potatoes；　one　cracked　lens　smeared　with　gravy。　Brett　shouting　at　Daddy　from　the　back　hall；　telling　him　he'd　kill　him　if　he　moved。　And　Daddy　saying　over　and　over：　〃Damn　little　puppy。　Damn　little　whelp。　Give　me　my　cane；　you　damn　little　pup。　Give　it　to　me。〃　Brett　brandishing　it　hysterically；　saying　yes；　yes；　I'll　give　it　to　you；　just　you　move　a　little　bit　and　I'll　give　you　all　you　want　and　two　extra。