The Shining 原版小说-第51章

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　　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。　
　　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　bee　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　ˉ　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　e　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。　e　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　e　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　e。　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　
e。　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；　unprehending　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。　
　　The　stone　read　Mark　Anthony　Torrance；　Loving　Father。　To　that　Jack　would　have　
added　one　line：　He　Knew　How　to　Play　Elevator。　
　　There　had　been　a　great　lot　of　insurance　money。　There　are　people　who　collect　
insurance　as　pulsively　as　others　collect　coins　and　stamps；　and　Mark　Torrance　
had　been　that　type。　The　insurance　money　came　in　at　the　same　time　the　monthly　
policy　payments　and　liquor　bills　stopped。　For　five　years　they　had　been　rich。　
Nearly　rich　。。。　
　　In　his　shallow；　uneasy　sleep　his　face　rose　before　him　as　if　in　a　glass；　his　
face　but　not　his　face；　the　wide　eyes　and　innocent　bowed　mouth　of　a　boy　sitting　
in　the　ball　with　his　trucks；　waiting　for　his　daddy；　waiting　for　the　white　ghost…　
god；　waiting　for　the　elevator　to　rise　up　with　dizzying；　exhilarating　speed　
through　the　salt…and…sawdust　mist　of　exhaled　taverns；　waiting　perhaps　for　it　to　
go　crashing　down；　spilling　old　clocksprings　out　of　his　ears　while　his　daddy　
roared　with　laughter；　and