The Shining

would like to come back and try again.
Panting, Danny ran downstairs.

The Sidewinder Public Library was a small, retiring building one block down from the town’s business area. It was a modest, vine-covered building, and the wide concrete walk up to the door was lined with the corpses of last summer’s flowers. On the lawn was a large bronze statue of a Civil War general Jack had never heard of, although he had been something of a Civil War buff in his teenage years.
The newspaper files were kept downstairs. They consisted of the Sidewinder Gazette that had gone bust in 1963, the Estes Park daily, and the Boulder Camera. No Denver papers at all.
Sighing, Jack settled for the Camera.
When the files reached 1965, the actual newspapers were replaced by spools of microfilm (“A federal grant,” the librarian told him brightly. “We hope to do 1958 to ’64 when the next check comes through, but they’re so slow, aren’t they? You will be careful, won’t you? I just know you will. Call if you need me.”). The only reading machine bad a lens that had somehow gotten warped, and by the time Wendy put her hand on his shoulder some forty-five minutes after he had switched from the actual papers, he had a juicy thumper of a headache.
“Danny’s in the park,” she said, “but I don’t want him outside too long. How much longer do you think you’ll be?”
“Ten minutes,” he said. Actually he had traced down the last of the Overlook’s fascinating history-the years between the gangland shooting and the takeover by Stuart Ullman amp; Co. But he felt the same reticence about telling Wendy.
“What are you up to, anyway?” she asked. She ruffed his hair as she said it, but her voice was only half-teasing.
“Looking up some old Overlook history,” he said.
“Any particular reason?”
“No,
(and why the hell are you so interested anyway?)
just curiosity.”
“Find anything interesting?”
“Not much,” he said, having to strive to keep his voice pleasant now. She was prying, just the way she had always pried and poked at him when they had been at Stovington and Danny was still a crib-infant. Where are you going, Jack? When will you be back? How much money do you have with you? Are you going to take the car? Is Al going to be with you? Will one of you stay sober? On and on. She had, pardon the expression, driven him to drink. Maybe that hadn’t been the only reason, but by Christ let’s tell the truth here and admit it was one of them. Nag and nag and nag until you wanted to clout her one just to shut her up and stop the
(Where? When? How? Are you? Will you?)
endless flow of questions. It could give you a real
(headache? hangover?)
headache. The reader. The damned reader with its distorted print. That was why he had such a cunt of a headache.
“Jack, are you all right? You look pale-”
He snapped his head away from her fingers. “I am fine!”
She recoiled from his hot eyes and tried on a smile that was a size too small. “Well… if you are… I’ll just go and wait in the park with Danny…” She was starting away now, her smile dissolving into a bewildered expression of hurt.
He called to her: “Wendy?”
She looked back from the foot of the stairs. “What, Jack?”
He got up and went over to her. “I’m sorry, babe. I guess I’m really not all right. That machine… the lens is distorted. I’ve got a really bad headache. Got any aspirin?”
“Sure.” She pawed in her purse and came up with a tin of Anacin. “You keep them.”
He took the tin. “No Excedrin?” He saw the small recoil on her face and understood. It had been a bitter sort of joke between them at first, before the drinking had gotten too bad for jokes. He had claimed that Excedrin was the only nonprescription drug ever invented that could stop a hangover dead in its tracks. Absolutely the only one. He had begun to think of his morning-after thumpers as Excedrin Headache Number Vat 69.
“No Excedrin,” she said. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” he said, “these’ll do just fine.” But of course they wouldn’t, and she should have known it, too. At times she could be the stupidest bitch…
“Want some water?” she asked brightly.
(No I just want you to GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!).
“I’ll get some at the drinking fountain when I go up. Thanks.”
“Okay.” She started up the stairs, good legs moving gracefully under a short tan wool skirt. “We’ll be in the park.”
“Right.” He slipped the tin of Anacin absently into his pocket, went back to the reader, and turned it off. When he was sure she was gone, he went upstairs himself. God, but it was a lousy headache. If you were going