sk.theshining-第63部分

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f　he　needed　help；　he　remembered　that。
　　And　now　the　boy　was　calling。
　　He　suddenly　wondered　how　he　could　have　left　that　boy　up　there　at　all；　shining　the　way　he　did。　There　was　bound　to　be　trouble；　maybe　bad　trouble。
　　He　suddenly　keyed　the　limo；　put　it　in　reverse；　and　pulled　back　onto　the　highway；　peeling　rubber。　The　waitress　with　the　rolling　hips　stood　in　the　A/W　stand's　archway；　a　tray　with　a　rootbeer　float　on　it　in　her　hands。
　　〃What　is　it　with　you；　a　fire？〃　she　shouted；　but　Hallorann　was　gone。
　　
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　　The　manager　was　a　man　named　Queems；　and　when　Hallorann　came　in　Queems　was　conversing　with　his　bookie。　He　wanted　the　four…horse　at　Rockaway。　No；　no　parlay；　no　quinella；　no　exacta；　no　goddam　futura。　Just　the　little　old　four；　six　hundred　dollars　on　the　nose。　And　the　Jets　on　Sunday。　What　did　he　mean；　the　Jets　were　playing　the　Bills？　Didn't　he　know　who　the　Jets　were　playing？　Five　hundred；　seven…point　spread。　When　Queems　hung　up；　looking　put…out；　Hallorann　understood　how　a　man　could　make　fifty　grand　a　year　running　this　little　spa　and　still　wear　suits　with　shiny　seats。　He　regarded　Hallorann　with　an　eye　that　was　still　bloodshot　from　too　many　glances　into　last　night's　bourbon　bottle。
　　〃Problems；　Dick？〃
　　〃Yes；　sir；　Mr。　Queems；　I　guess　so。　I　need　three　days　off。〃　There　was　a　package　of　Kents　in　the　breast　pocket　of　Queems's　sheer　yellow　shirt。　He　reached　one　out　of　the　pocket　without　removing　the　pack；　tweezing　it　out；　and　bit　down　morosely　on　the　patented　Micronite　filter。　He　lit　it　with　his　desktop　Cricket。
　　〃So　do　I；〃　he　said。　〃But　what's　on　your　mind？〃
　　〃I　need　three　days；〃　Hallorann　repeated。　〃It's　my　boy。〃　Queems's　eyes　dropped　to　Hallorann's　left　hand；　which　was　ringless。
　　〃I　been　divorced　since　1964；〃　Hallorann　said　patiently。
　　〃Dick；　you　know　what　the　weekend　situation　is。　We're　full。　To　the　gunnels。
　　Even　the　cheap　seats。　We're　even　filled　up　in　the　Florida　Room　on　Sunday　night。
　　So　take　my　watch；　my　wallet；　my　pension　fund。　Hell；　you　can　even　take　my　wife　if　you　can　stand　the　sharp　edges。　But　please　don't　ask　me　for　time　off。　What　is　he；　sick？〃
　　〃Yes；　sir；〃　Hallorann　said；　still　trying　to　visualize　himself　twisting　a　cheap　cloth　hat　and　rolling　his　eyeballs。　〃He　shot。〃
　　〃Shot！〃　Queems　said。　He　put　his　Kent　down　in　an　ashtray　which　bore　the　emblem　of　Ole　Miss；　of　which　he　was　a　business　admin　graduate。
　　〃Yes；　sir；〃　Hallorann　said　somberly。
　　〃Hunting　accident？〃
　　〃No；　sir；〃　Hallorann　said；　and　let　his　voice　drop　to　a　lower；　huskier　note。
　　〃Jana；　she's　been　livin　with　this　truck　driver。　A　white　man。　He　shot　my　boy。
　　He's　in　a　hospital　in　Denver；　Colorado。　Critical　condition。〃
　　〃How　in　hell　did　you　find　out？　I　thought　you　were　buying　vegetables。〃
　　〃Yes；　sir；　I　was。〃　He　had　stopped　at　the　Western　Union　office　just　before　ing　here　to　reserve　an　Avis　car　at　Stapleton　Airport。　Before　leaving　he　had　swiped　a　Western　Union　flimsy。　Now　he　took　the　folded　and　crumpled　blank　form　from　his　pocket　and　flashed　it　before　Queems's　bloodshot　eyes。　He　put　it　back　in　his　pocket　and；　allowing　his　voice　to　drop　another　notch；　said：　〃Jana　sent　it。
　　It　was　waitin　in　my　letterbox　when　I　got　back　just　now。〃
　　〃Jesus。　Jesus　Christ；〃　Queems　said。　There　was　a　peculiar　tight　expression　of　concern　on　his　face；　one　Hallorann　was　familiar　with。　It　was　as　close　to　an　expression　of　sympathy　as　a　white　man　who　thought　of　himself　as　〃good　with　the　coloreds〃　could　get　when　the　object　was　a　black　man　or　his　mythical　black　son。
　　〃Yeah；　okay；　you　get　going；〃　Queems　said。　〃Baedecker　can　take　over　for　three　days；　I　guess。　The　potboy　can　help　out。〃　Hallorann　nodded；　letting　his　face　get　longer　still；　but　the　thought　of　the　potboy　helping　out　Baedecker　made　him　grin　inside。　Even　on　a　good　day　Hallorann　doubted　if　the　potboy　could　hit　the　urinal　on　the　first　squirt。
　　〃I　want　to　rebate　back　this　week's　pay；〃　Hallorann　said。　〃The　whole　thing。　I　know　what　a　bind　this　puttin　you　in；　Mr。　Queems；　sir。〃　Queems's　expression　got　tighter　still　it　looked　as　if　he　might　have　a　fishbone　caught　in　his　throat。　〃We　can　talk　about　that　later。　You　go　on　and　pack。　I'll　talk　to　Baedecker。　Want　me　to　make　you　a　plane　reservation？〃
　　〃No；　sir；　I'll　do　it。〃
　　〃All　right。〃　Queems　stood　up；　leaned　sincerely　forward；　and　inhaled　a　raft　of　ascending　smoke　from　his　Kent。　He　coughed　heartily；　his　thin　white　face　turning　red。　Hallorann　struggled　hard　to　keep　his　somber　expression。　〃I　hope　everything　turns　out；　Dick。　Call　when　you　get　word。〃
　　〃I'll　do　that。〃　They　shook　hands　over　the　desk。
　　Hallorann　made　himself　get　down　to　the　ground　floor　and　across　to　the　hired　help's　pound　before　bursting　into　rich；　bead…shaking　laughter。　He　was　still　grinning　and　mopping　his　streaming　eyes　with　his　handkerchief　when　the　smell　of　oranges　came；　thick　and　gagging；　and　the　bolt　followed　it；　striking　him　in　the　head；　sending　him　back　against　the　pink　stucco　wall　in　a　drunken　stagger。
　　
　　（！！！　PLEASE　E　DICK　PLEASE　E　E　QUICK　！！！）
　　
　　He　recovered　a　little　at　a　time　and　at　last　felt　capable　of　climbing　the　outside　stairs　to　his　apartment。　He　kept　the　latchkey　under　the　rush…plaited　doormat；　and　when　he　reached　down　to　get　it；　something　fell　out　of　his　inner　pocket　and　fell　to　the　second…floor　decking　with　a　flat　thump。　His　mind　was　still　so　much　on　the　voice　that　had　shivered　through　his　head　that　for　a　moment　he　could　only　look　at　the　blue　envelope　blankly；　not　knowing　what　it　was。
　　Then　he　turned　it　over　and　the　word　WILL　stared　up　at　him　in　the　black　spidery　letters。
　　（Oh　my　God　is　it　like　that？）　He　didn't　know。　But　it　could　be。　All　week　long　the　thought　of　his　own　ending　had　been　on　his　mind　like　a　。　。　。　well；　like　a　（Go　on；　say　it）　like　a　premonition；。
　　Death？　For　a　moment　his　whole　life　seemed　to　flash　before　him；　not　in　a　historical　sense；　no　topography　of　the　ups　and　downs　that　Mrs。　Hallorann's　third　son；　Dick；　had　lived　through；　but　his　life　as　it　was　now。　Martin　Luther　King　had　told　them　not　long　before　the　bullet　took　him　down　to　his　martyr's　grave　that　he　had　been　to　the　mountain。　Dick　could　not　claim　that。　No　mountain；　but　he　had　reached　a　sunny　plateau　after　years　of　struggle。　He　had　good　friends。　He　had　all　the　references　he　would　ever　need　to　get　a　job　anywhere。　When　he　wanted　fuck；　why；　he　could　find　a　friendly　one　with　no　questions　asked　and　no　big　shitty　struggle　about　what　it　all　meant。　He　had　e　to　terms　with　his　blackness…happy　terms。　He　was　up　past　sixty　and　thank　God；　he　was　cruising。
　　Was　he　going　to　chance　the　end　of　that…the　end　of　him…for　three　white　people　he　didn't　even　know？
　　But　that　was　a　lie；　wasn't　it？
　　He　knew　the　boy。　They　had　shared　each　other　the　way　good　friends　can't　even　after　forty　years　of　it。　He　knew　the　boy　and　the　boy　knew　him；　because　they　each　had　a　kind　of　searchlight　in　their　heads；　something　they　hadn't　asked　for；　something　that　had　just　been　given。
　　（Naw；　you　got　a　flashlight；　he　the　one　with　the　searchlight。）　And　sometimes　that　light；　that　shine；　seemed　like　a　pretty　nice　thing。　You　could　pick　the　horses；　or　like　the　boy　had　said；　you　could　tell　your　daddy　where　his　trunk　was　when　it　turned　up　missing。　But　that　was　only　dressing；　the　sauce　on　the　salad；　and　down　below　there　was　as　much　bitter　vetch　in　that　salad　as　there　was　cool　cucumber。　You　could　taste　pain　and　death　and　tears。　And　now　the　boy　was　stuck　in　that　place；　and　he　would　go。　For　the　boy。　Because；　speaking　to　the　boy；　they　had　only　been　different　colors　when　they　used　their　mouths。　So　he　would　go。　He　would　do　what　he　could；　because　if　he　didn't；　the　boy　was　going　to　die　right　inside　his　head。
　　But　because　he　was　human　he　could　not　help　a　bitter　wish　that　the　cup　had　never　been　passed　his　way。
　　
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　　（She　had　started　to　get　out　and　e　after　him。）　He　had　been　dumping　a　change　of　clothes　into　an　overnight　bag　when　the　thought　came　to　him；　freezing　him　with　the　power　of　the　memory　as　it　always　did　when　he　thought　of　it。　He　tried　to　think　of　it　as　seldom　as　possible。
　　The　maid；　Delores　Vickery　her　name　was；　had　been　hysterical。　Had　said　some　things　to　the　other　chambermaids；　and　worse　still；　to　some　of　the　guests。　When　the　word　got　back　to　Ullman；　as　the　silly　quiff　should　have　known　it　would　do；　he　had　fired　her　out　of　hand。　She　had　e　to　Hallorann　in　tears；　not　about　being　fired；　but　about　the　thing　she　had　seen　in　that　second…floor　room。　She　had　gone　into　217　to　change　the　towels；　she　said；　and　there　had　been　that　Mrs。
　　Massey；　lying　dead　in　the　tub。　That；　of　course；　was　impossible。　Mrs。　Massey　had　been　discreetly　taken　away　the　day　before　and　was　even　then　winging　her　way　back　to　New　York…in　the　shipping　hold　instead　of　the　first　class　she'd　been　accustomed　to。
　　Hallorann　hadn't　liked　Delores　much；　but　he　had　gone　up　to　look　that　evening。
　　The　maid　was　an　olive…plected　girl　of　twenty…three　who　waited　table　near　the　end　of　the　season　when　things　slowed　down。　She　had　a　small　shining；　Hallorann　judged；　really　not　more　than　a　twinkle；　a　mousy…looking　man　and　his　escort；　wearing　a　faded　cloth　coat；　would　e　in　for　dinner　and　Delores　would　trade　one　of　her　tables　for　theirs。　The　mousy　little　man　would　leave　a　picture　of　Alexander　Hamilton　under　his　plate；　bad　enough　for　the　girl　who　had　made　the　trade；　but　worse；　Delores　would　crow　over　it。　She　was　lazy；　a　goof…off　in　an　operation　run　by　a　man　who　allowed　no　goof…offs。　She　would　sit　in　a　linen　closet；　reading　a　confession　magazine　and　smoking；　but　whenever　Ullman　went　on　one　of　his　unscheduled　prowls　（and　woe　to　the　girl　he　caught　resting　her　feet）　he　found　her　working　industriously；　her　magazine　hidden　under　the　sheets　on　a　high　shelf；　her　ashtray　tucked　safely　into　her　uniform　pocket。　Yeah；　Hallorann　thought；　she'd　been　a　goof…off　and　a　sloven　and　the　other　girls　had　resented　her；　but　Delores　had　had　that　little　twinkle。　It　had　always　greased　the　skids　for　her。　But　what　she　had　seen　in　217　had　scared　her　badly　enough　so　she　was　more　than　glad　to　pick　up　the　walking　papers　Ullman　had　issued　her　and　go。
　　Why　had　she　e　to　him？　A　shine　knows　a　shine；　Hallorann　thought；　grinning　at　the　pun。
　　So　he　had　gone　up　that　night　and　bad　let　himself　into　the　room；　which　was　to