The Shining

chattering up the street, farting blue smoke behind it. Danny was off the curb in a second, waving, jiving from one foot to the other, yelling: “Daddy! Hey, Dad! Hi! Hi!”
His daddy swung the VW into the curb, killed the engine, and opened the door. Danny ran toward him and then froze, his eyes widening. His heart crawled up into the middle of his throat and froze solid. Beside his daddy, in the other front seat, was a short-handled mallet, its head clotted with blood and hair.
Then it was just a bag of groceries.
“Danny… you okay, doc?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.” He went to his daddy and buried his face in Daddy’s sheepskin-lined denim jacket and hugged him tight tight tight. Jack hugged him back, slightly bewildered.
“Hey, you don’t want to sit in the sun like that, doc. You’re drippin sweat.”
“I guess I fell asleep a little. I love you, Daddy. I been waiting.”
“I love you too, Dan. I brought home some stuff. Think you’re big enough to carry it upstairs?”
“Sure am!”
“Doc Torrance, the world’s stroneest man,” Jack said, and ruffled his hair. “Whose hobby is falling asleep on street corners.”
Then they were walking up to the door and Mommy had come down to the porch to meet them and he stood on the second step and watched them kiss. They were glad to see each other. Love came out of them the way love had come out of the boy and girl walking up the street and holding hands. Danny was glad.
The bag of groceries-just a bag of groceries-crackled in his arms. Everything was all right. Daddy was home. Mommy was loving him. There were no bad things. And not everything Tony showed him always happened.
But fear had settled around his heart, deep and dreadful, around his heart and around that indecipherable word he had seen in his spirit’s mirror.

Jack parked the VW in front of the Rexall in the Table Mesa shopping center and let the engine die. He wondered again if he shouldn’t go ahead and get the fuel pump replaced, and told himself again that they couldn’t afford it. If the little car could keep running until November, it could retire with full honors anyway. By November the snow up there in the mountains would be higher than the beetle’s roof… maybe higher than three beetles stacked on top of each other.
“Want you to stay in the car, doe. I’ll bring you a candy bar.”
“Why can’t I come in?”
“I have to make a phone call. It’s private stuff.”
“Is that why you didn’t make it at home?”
“Check.”
Wendy had insisted on a phone in spite of their unraveling finances. She had argued that with a small child-especially a boy like Danny, who sometimes suffered from fainting spells-they couldn’t afford not to have one. So Jack had forked over the thirty-dollar installation fee, bad enough, and a ninety-dollar security deposit, which really hurt. And so far the phone had been mute except for two wrong numbers.
“Can I have a Baby Ruth, Daddy?”
“Yes. You sit still and don’t play with the gearshift, right?”
“Right. I’ll look at the maps.”
“You do that.”
As Jack got out, Danny opened the bug’s glovebox and took out the five battered gas station maps: Colorado, Nebraska, Utah, Wyoming, New Mexico. He loved road maps, loved to trace where the roads went with his finger. As far as he was concerned, new maps were the best part of moving West.
Jack went to the drugstore counter, got Danny’s candy bar, and newspaper, and a copy of the October Writer’s Digest. He gave the girl a five and asked for his change in quarters. With the silver in his hand he walked over to the telephone booth by the keymaking machine and slipped inside. From here he could see Danny in the bug through three sets of glass. The boy’s head was bent studiously over his maps. Jack felt a wave of nearly desperate love for the boy. The emotion showed on his face as a stony grimness.
He supposed he could have made his obligatory thank-you call to Al from home; he certainly wasn’t going to say anything Wendy would object to. It was his pride that said no. These days he almost always listened to what his pride told him to do, because along with his wife and son, six hundred dollars in a checking account, and one weary 1968 Volkswagen, his pride was all that was left. The only thing that was his. Even the checking account was joint. A year ago he had been teaching English in one of the finest prep schools in New England. There had been friends-although not exactly the same ones he’d had before going on the wagon-some laughs, fellow faculty members who admired his deft touch in the classroom and his private dedication to writing. Things had been very good six months