Three hundred pts orange juice。 Pd。
He slipped down further in his chair； still holding a clutch of the receipts；
but his eyes no longer looking at what was printed there。 They had e
unfocused。 His lids were slow and heavy。 His mind had slipped from the Overlook
to his father； who had been a male nurse at the Berlin munity Hospital。 Big
man。 A fat man who had towered to six feet two inches； he had been taller than
Jack even when Jack got his full growth of six feet even — not that the old man
had still been around then。 〃Runt of the litter；〃 he would say； and then cuff
Jack lovingly and laugh。 There had been two other brothers； both taller than
their father； and Becky； who at five…ten had only been two inches shorter than
Jack and taller than he for most of their childhood。
His relationship with his father had been like the unfurling of some flower of
beautiful potential； which； when wholly opened； turned out to be blighted
inside。 Until he had been seven he had loved the tall； big…bellied man
uncritically and strongly in spite of the spankings； the black…and…blues； the
occasional black eye。
He could remember velvet summer nights； the house quiet； oldest brother Brett
out with his girl； middle brother Mike studying something； Becky and their
mother in the living room； watching something on the balky old TV； and he would
sit in the hall dressed in a pajama singlet and nothing else； ostensibly playing
with his trucks； actually waiting for the moment when the silence would be
broken by the door swinging open with a large bang； the bellow of his father's
wele when he saw Jacky was waiting； his own happy squeal in answer as this
big man came down the hall； his pink scalp glowing beneath his crewcut in the
glow of the hall light。 In that light he always looked like some soft and
flapping oversized ghost in his hospital whites； the shirt always untucked （and
sometimes bloody）； the pants cuffs drooping down over the black shoes。
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 i