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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
come
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
comes
out
,
in
the
end
it
always
comes
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
come
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
Community
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
welcome
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
.
