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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
become
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
come
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
.
Come
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
.
I
’
ll
give
you
plenty
.
Momma
getting
slowly
to
her
feet
,
dazed
,
her
face
already
puffed
and
swelling
like
an
old
tire
with
too
much
air
in
it
,
bleeding
in
four
or
five
different
places
,
and
she
had
said
a
terrible
thing
,
perhaps
the
only
thing
Momma
had
ever
said
which
Jacky
could
recall
word
for
word
:
"
Who
’
s
got
the
newspaper
?
Your
daddy
wants
the
funnies
.
Is
it
raining
yet
?
"
And
then
she
sank
to
her
knees
again
,
her
hair
hanging
in
her
puffed
and
bleeding
face
.
Mike
calling
the
doctor
,
babbling
into
the
phone
.
Could
he
come
right
away
?
It
was
their
mother
.
No
,
he
couldn
’
t
say
what
the
trouble
was
,
not
over
the
phone
,
not
over
a
party
line
he
couldn
’
t
.
Just
come
.
The
doctor
came
and
took
Momma
away
to
the
hospital
where
Daddy
had
worked
all
of
his
adult
life
.
Daddy
,
sobered
up
some
(
or
perhaps
only
with
the
stupid
cunning
of
any
hardpressed
animal
)
,
told
the
doctor
she
had
fallen
downstairs
.
There
was
blood
on
the
tablecloth
because
he
had
tried
to
wipe
her
dear
face
with
it
.
Had
her
glasses
flown
all
the
way
through
the
living
room
and
into
the
dining
room
to
land
in
her
mashed
potatoes
and
gravy
?
the
doctor
asked
with
a
kind
of
horrid
,
grinning
sarcasm
.
Is
that
what
happened
,
Mark
?
I
have
heard
of
folks
who
can
get
a
radio
station
on
their
gold
fillings
and
I
have
seen
a
man
get
shot
between
the
eyes
and
live
to
tell
about
it
,
but
that
is
a
new
one
on
me
.
Daddy
had
merely
shook
his
head
and
said
he
didn
’
t
know
;
they
must
have
fallen
off
her
face
when
he
brought
her
through
the
dining
room
.
The
four
children
had
been
stunned
to
silence
by
the
calm
stupendousness
of
the
lie
.
Four
days
later
Brett
quit
his
job
in
the
mill
and
joined
the
Army
.
Jack
had
always
felt
it
was
not
just
the
sudden
and
irrational
beating
his
father
had
administered
at
the
dinner
table
but
the
fact
that
,
in
the
hospital
,
their
mother
had
corroborated
their
father
’
s
story
while
holding
the
hand
of
the
parish
priest
.
Revolted
,
Brett
had
left
them
to
whatever
might
come
.
He
had
been
killed
in
Dong
Ho
province
in
1965
,
the
year
when
Jack
Torrance
,
undergraduate
,
had
joined
the
active
college
agitation
to
end
the
war
.
He
had
waved
his
brother
’
s
bloody
shirt
at
rallies
that
were
increasingly
well
attended
,
but
it
was
not
Brett
’
s
face
that
hung
before
his
eyes
when
he
spoke
-
it
was
the
face
of
his
mother
,
a
dazed
,
uncomprehending
face
,
his
mother
saying
:
"
Who
’
s
got
the
newspaper
?
"
Mike
escaped
three
years
later
when
Jack
was
twelve
-
he
went
to
UNH
on
a
hefty
Merit
Scholarship
.
A
year
after
that
their
father
died
of
a
sudden
,
massive
stroke
which
occurred
while
he
was
prepping
a
patient
for
surgery
.
He
had
collapsed
in
his
flapping
and
untucked
hospital
whites
,
dead
possibly
even
before
he
hit
the
industrial
black
-
and
-
red
hospital
tiles
,
and
three
days
later
the
man
who
had
dominated
Jacky
’
s
life
,
the
irrational
white
ghost
-
god
,
was
under
ground
.
