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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
,
thirty
-
degree
mornings
gave
way
to
afternoon
temperatures
in
the
low
sixties
,
the
perfect
temperature
for
climbing
around
on
the
Overlook
’
s
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
winter
’
s
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
in
-
class
lectures
,
let
alone
his
extracurricular
literary
ambitions
.
But
in
the
last
twelve
evenings
,
as
he
actually
sat
down
in
front
of
the
office
-
model
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
Denker
’
s
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
Year
’
s
.
He
had
an
agent
in
New
York
,
a
tough
red
-
headed
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
O
’
Casey
.
She
had
marketed
three
of
Jack
’
s
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
turn
-
of
-
the
-
century
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
O
’
Casey
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
indefinitely
-
and
perhaps
infinitely
-
delayed
between
hand
and
page
"
in
that
interesting
intellectual
Gobi
known
as
the
writer
’
s
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
didn
’
t
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
.
