The Shining

by his hand, and she would have to admit to herself that she had been wrong.
Weeks passed and the unspoken word retreated further from the back of her lips. Jack sensed its retirement but knew it would never retire completely. Things began to get a little easier. Then George Hatfield. He had lost his temper again, this time stone sober.
“Sir, your party still doesn’t-”
“Hello?” Al’s voice, out of breath.
“Go ahead,” the operator said dourly.
“Al, this is Jack Torrance.”
“Jacky-boy!” Genuine pleasure. “How are you?”
“Good. I just called to say thanks. I got the job. It’s perfect. If I can’t finish that goddam play snowed in all winter, I’ll never finish it.”
“You’ll finish.”
“How are things?” Jack asked hesitantly.
“Dry,” Al responded. “You?”
“As a bone.”
“Miss it much?”
“Every day.”
Al laughed. “I know that scene. But I don’t know how you stayed dry after that Hatfield thing, Jack. That was above and beyond.”
“I really bitched things up for myself,” he said evenly.
“Oh, hell. I’ll have the Board around by spring. Effinger’s already saying they might have been too hasty. And if that play comes to something-”
“Yes. Listen, my boy’s out in the car, Al. He looks like he might be getting restless-”
“Sure. Understand. You have a good winter up there, Jack. Glad to help.”
“Thanks again, Al.” He hung up, closed his eyes in the hot booth, and again saw the crashing bike, the bobbing flashlight. There had been a squib in the paper the next day, no more than a space-filler really, but the owner had not been named. Why it had been out there in the night would always be a mystery to them, and perhaps that was as it should be.
He went back out to the car and gave Danny his slightly melted Baby Ruth.
“Daddy?”
“What, doc?”
Danny hesitated, looking at his father’s abstracted face.
“When I was waiting for you to come back from that hotel, I had a bad dream. Do you remember? When I fell asleep?”
“Um-hm.”
But it was no good. Daddy’s mind was someplace else, not with him. Thinking about the Bad Thing again.
(I dreamed that you hurt me, Daddy)
“What was the dream, doc?”
“Nothing,” Danny said as they pulled out into the parking lot. He put the maps back into the glove compartment.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Jack gave his son a faint, troubled glance; and then his mind turned to his play.

Love was over, and her man was sleeping beside her.
Her man.
She smiled a little in the darkness, his seed still trickling with slow warmth from between her slightly parted thighs, and her smile was both rueful and pleased, because the phrase her man summoned up a hundred feelings. Each feeling examined alone was a bewilderment. Together, in this darkness floating to sleep, they were like a distant blues tune heard in an almost deserted night club, melancholy but pleasing.
Lovin’ you baby, is just like rollin’ off a log,
But if I can’t be your woman, I sure ain’t goin’ to be your dog.
Had that been Billie Holiday? Or someone more prosaic like Peggy Lee? Didn’t matter. It was low and torchy, and in the silence of her head it played mellowly, as if issuing from one of those old-fashioned jukeboxes, a Wurlitzer, perhaps, half an hour before closing.
Now, moving away from her consciousness, she wondered how many beds she had slept in with this man beside her. They had met in college and had first made love in his apartment… that had been less than three months after her mother drove her from the house, told her never to come back, that if she wanted to go somewhere she could go to her father since she had been responsible for the divorce. That bad been in 1970. So long ago? A semester later they had moved in together, had found jobs for the summer, and had kept the apartment when their senior year began. She remembered that bed the most clearly, a big double that sagged in the middle. When they made love, the rusty box spring had counted the beats. That fall she had finally managed to break from her mother. Jack had helped her. She wants to keep beating you, Jack had said. The more times you phone her, the more times you crawl back begging forgiveness, the more she can beat you with your father. It’s good for her, Wendy, because she can go on making believe it was your fault. But it’s not good for you. They had talked it over again and again in that bed, that year.
(Jack sitting up with the covers pooled around his waist, a cigarette burning between his fingers, looking her in the eye-he had a half-humorous, halfscowling way of doing