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 it
（transformed into Danny's face； so much like his own had been； his eyes had
been light blue while Danny's were cloudy gray； but the lips still made a bow
and the plexion was fair； Danny in his study； wearing training pants； all his
papers soggy and the fine misty smell of beer rising 。。。 a dreadful batter all
in ferment； rising on the wings of yeast； the breath of taverns 。。。 snap of
bone 。。。 his own voice； mewling drunkenly Danny； you okay doc？ 。。。 Oh God oh
God your poor sweet arm 。。。 and that face transformed into）
（momma's dazed face rising up from below the table； punched and bleeding； and
momma was saying）
（〃 — from your father。 I repeat； an enormously important announcement from your
father。 Please stay tuned or tune immediately to the Happy Jack frequency。
Repeat； tune immediately to the Happy Hour frequency。 I repeat — 〃）
A slow dissolve。 Disembodied voices echoing up to him as if along an endless；
cloudy hallway。
（Things keep getting in the way； dear Tommy 。。。）
（Medoc； are you here？ I've been sleepwalking again； my dear。 It's the inhuman
monsters that I fear 。。。）
（〃Excuse me； Mr。 Ullman； but isn't this the。。。〃）
。。。 office； with its file cabinets； Ullman's big desk； a blank reservations
book for next year already in place never misses a trick； that Ullman — all the
keys hanging neatly on their hooks
（except for one； which one； which key； passkey…passkey； passkey； who's got the
passkey？ if we went upstairs perhaps we'd see）
and the big two…way radio on its shelf。
He snapped it on。 CB transmissions ing in short； crackly bursts。 He
switched the band and dialed across bursts of music； news； a preacher haranguing
a softly moaning congregation； a weather report。 And another voice which he
dialed back to。 It was his father's voice。
〃 — kill him。 You have to kill him； Jacky； and her； too。 Because a real artist
must suffer。 Because each man kills the thing he loves。 Because they'll always
be conspiring against you； trying to hold you back and drag you down。 Right this
minute that boy of yours is in where he shouldn't be。 Trespassing。 That's what
he's doing。 He's a goddam little pup。 Cane him for it； Jacky； cane him within an
inch of his life。 Have a drink Jacky my boy； and we'll play the elevator game。
Then I'll go with you while you give him his medicine。 I know you can do it； of
course you can。 You must kill him。 You have to kill him； Jacky； and her； too。
Because a real artist must suffer。 Because each man — 〃
His father's voice； going up higher and higher； being something maddening；
not human at all； something squealing and petulant and maddening； the voice of
the Ghost…God； the Pig…God； ing dead at him out of the radio and
〃No！〃 he screamed back。 〃You're dead； you're in your grave； you're not in me
at all！〃 Because he had cut all the father out of him and it was not right that
he should e back creeping through this hotel two thousand miles from the New
England town where his father had lived and died。
He raised the ra