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(
When
he
went
back
into
his
study
and
saw
Danny
standing
there
,
wearing
nothing
but
his
training
pants
and
a
grin
,
a
slow
,
red
cloud
of
rage
had
eclipsed
Jack
’
s
reason
.
It
had
seemed
slow
subjectively
,
inside
his
head
,
but
it
must
have
all
happened
in
less
than
a
minute
.
It
only
seemed
slow
the
way
some
dreams
seem
slow
.
The
bad
ones
.
Every
door
and
drawer
in
his
study
seemed
to
have
been
ransacked
in
the
time
he
had
been
gone
.
Closet
,
cupboards
,
the
sliding
bookcase
.
Every
desk
drawer
yanked
out
to
the
stop
.
His
manuscript
,
the
threeact
play
he
had
been
slowly
developing
from
a
novelette
he
had
written
seven
years
ago
as
an
under
-
graduate
,
was
scattered
all
over
the
floor
.
He
had
been
drinking
a
beer
and
doing
the
Act
II
corrections
when
Wendy
said
the
phone
was
for
him
,
and
Danny
had
poured
the
can
of
beer
all
over
the
pages
.
Probably
to
see
it
foam
.
See
it
foam
,
see
it
foam
,
the
words
played
over
and
over
in
his
mind
like
a
single
sick
chord
on
an
out
-
of
-
tune
piano
,
completing
the
circuit
of
his
rage
.
He
stepped
deliberately
toward
his
threeyear
-
old
son
,
who
was
looking
up
at
him
with
that
pleased
grin
,
his
pleasure
at
the
job
of
work
so
successfully
and
recently
completed
in
Daddy
’
s
study
;
Danny
began
to
say
something
and
that
was
when
he
had
grabbed
Danny
’
s
hand
and
bent
it
to
make
him
drop
the
typewriter
eraser
and
the
mechanical
pencil
he
was
clenching
in
it
.
Danny
had
cried
out
a
little
…
no
…
no
…
tell
the
truth
…
he
screamed
.
It
was
all
hard
to
remember
through
the
fog
of
anger
,
the
sick
single
thump
of
that
one
Spike
Jones
chord
.
Wendy
somewhere
,
asking
what
was
wrong
.
Her
voice
faint
,
damped
by
the
inner
mist
.
This
was
between
the
two
of
them
.
He
had
whirled
Danny
around
to
spank
him
,
his
big
adult
fingers
digging
into
the
scant
meat
of
the
boy
’
s
forearm
,
meeting
around
it
in
a
closed
fist
,
and
the
snap
of
the
breaking
bone
had
not
been
loud
,
not
loud
but
it
had
been
very
loud
,
HUGE
,
but
not
loud
.
Just
enough
of
a
sound
to
slit
through
the
red
fog
like
an
arrow
-
but
instead
of
letting
in
sunlight
,
that
sound
let
in
the
dark
clouds
of
shame
and
remorse
,
the
terror
,
the
agonizing
convulsion
of
the
spirit
.
A
clean
sound
with
the
past
on
one
side
of
it
and
all
the
future
on
the
other
,
a
sound
like
a
breaking
pencil
lead
or
a
small
piece
of
kindling
when
you
brought
it
down
over
your
knee
.
A
moment
of
utter
silence
on
the
other
side
,
in
respect
to
the
beginning
future
maybe
,
all
the
rest
of
his
life
.
Seeing
Danny
’
s
face
drain
of
color
until
it
was
like
cheese
,
seeing
his
eyes
,
always
large
,
grow
larger
still
,
and
glassy
,
Jack
sure
the
boy
was
going
to
faint
dead
away
into
the
puddle
of
beer
and
papers
;
his
own
voice
,
weak
and
drunk
,
slurry
,
trying
to
take
it
all
back
,
to
find
a
way
around
that
not
too
loud
sound
of
bone
cracking
and
into
the
past
-
is
there
a
status
quo
in
the
house
?
-
saying
:
Danny
,
are
you
all
right
?
Danny
’
s
answering
shriek
,
then
Wendy
’
s
shocked
gasp
as
she
came
around
them
and
saw
the
peculiar
angle
Danny
’
s
forearm
had
to
his
elbow
;
no
arm
was
meant
to
hang
quite
that
way
in
a
world
of
normal
families
.
Her
own
scream
as
she
swept
him
into
her
arms
,
and
a
nonsense
babble
:
Oh
God
Danny
oh
dear
God
oh
sweet
God
your
poor
sweet
arm
;
and
Jack
was
standing
there
,
stunned
and
stupid
,
trying
to
understand
how
a
thing
like
this
could
have
happened
.
He
was
standing
there
and
his
eyes
met
the
eyes
of
his
wife
and
he
saw
that
Wendy
hated
him
.
It
did
not
occur
to
him
what
the
hate
might
mean
in
practical
terms
;
it
was
only
later
that
he
realized
she
might
have
left
him
that
night
,
gone
to
a
motel
,
gotten
a
divorce
lawyer
in
the
morning
;
or
called
the
police
.
He
saw
only
that
his
wife
hated
him
and
he
felt
staggered
by
it
,
all
alone
.
He
felt
awful
.
This
was
what
oncoming
death
felt
like
.
Then
she
fled
for
the
telephone
and
dialed
the
hospital
with
their
screaming
boy
wedged
in
the
crook
of
her
arm
and
Jack
did
not
go
after
her
,
he
only
stood
in
the
ruins
of
his
office
,
smelling
beer
and
thinking
-
)
You
lost
your
temper
.
He
rubbed
his
hand
harshly
across
his
lips
and
followed
Watson
into
the
boiler
room
.
It
was
humid
in
here
,
but
it
was
more
than
the
humidity
that
brought
the
sick
and
slimy
sweat
onto
his
brow
and
stomach
and
legs
.
The
remembering
did
that
,
it
was
a
total
thing
that
made
that
night
two
years
ago
seem
like
two
hours
ago
.
There
was
no
lag
.
It
brought
the
shame
and
revulsion
back
,
the
sense
of
having
no
worth
at
all
,
and
that
feeling
always
made
him
want
to
have
a
drink
,
and
the
wanting
of
a
drink
brought
still
blacker
despair
-
would
he
ever
have
an
hour
,
not
a
week
or
even
a
day
,
mind
you
,
but
just
one
waking
hour
when
the
craving
for
a
drink
wouldn
’
t
surprise
him
like
this
?
"
The
boiler
,
"
Watson
announced
.
He
pulled
a
red
and
blue
bandanna
from
his
back
pocket
,
blew
his
nose
with
a
decisive
honk
,
and
thrust
it
back
out
of
sight
after
a
short
peek
into
it
to
see
if
he
had
gotten
anything
interesting
.
The
boiler
stood
on
four
cement
blocks
,
a
long
and
cylindrical
metal
tank
,
copper
-
jacketed
and
often
patched
.
It
squatted
beneath
a
confusion
of
pipes
and
ducts
which
zigzagged
upward
into
the
high
,
cobweb
-
festooned
basement
ceiling
.
To
Jack
’
s
right
,
two
large
heating
pipes
came
through
the
wall
from
the
furnace
in
the
adjoining
room
.
"
Pressure
gauge
is
here
.
"
Watson
tapped
it
.
"
Pounds
per
square
inch
,
psi
.
I
guess
you
’
d
know
that
.
I
got
her
up
to
a
hundred
now
,
and
the
rooms
get
a
little
chilly
at
night
.
Few
guests
complain
,
what
the
fuck
.
They
’
re
crazy
to
come
up
here
in
September
anyway
.
Besides
,
this
is
an
old
baby
.
Got
more
patches
on
her
than
a
pair
of
welfare
overalls
.
"
Out
came
the
bandanna
.
A
honk
.
A
peek
.
Back
it
went
.
