he headed north. Not to mention getting his few possessions out of the room on Burney Street without his landlady’s notice.
The moonwas rising over the river. The blanket was spread out behind him. Soon he would lie down on it, pull it around him in a cocoon, and sleep. He was just high enough to be happy. The takeoff and the climb-out had been rough, but now all that low-altitude turbulence was behind him. He supposed he wasn’t leading what straight America would call an exemplary life, but for the time being, all was fine. Hehad a bottle of Old Sun (purchased at a liquor store a prudent distance from Golden’s Discount) and half a hero sandwich for breakfast tomorrow. The future was cloudy, but tonight the moon was bright. All was as it should be.
( Canny )
Suddenly the kid was with him. Tommy. Right here with him. Reaching for the blow. Bruises on his arm. Blue eyes.
( Canny )
He saw this with an excruciating claritythat had nothing to do with the shining. And more. Deenie lying on her back, snoring. The red imitation leather wallet. The wad of food stamps with U.S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE printed on them. The money. The seventy dollars. Which he had taken.
Think about the moon. Think about how serene it looks rising over the water .
For awhile he did, but then he saw Deenie on her back, the red imitationleather wallet, the wad of food stamps, the pitiful crumple of cash (much of it now gone). Most clearly of all he saw the kid reaching for the blow with a hand that looked like a starfish. Blue eyes. Bruised arm.
Canny, he said.
Mama, he said.
Dan had learned the trick of measuring out his drinks; that way the booze lasted longer, the high was mellower, and the next day’s headache lighter andmore manageable. Sometimes, though, the measuring thing went wrong. Shit happened. Like at the Milky Way. That had been more or less an accident, but tonight, finishing the bottle in four long swallows, was on purpose. Your mind was a blackboard. Booze was the eraser.
He lay down and pulled the stolen blanket around him. He waited for unconsciousness, and it came, but Tommy came first. AtlantaBraves shirt. Sagging diaper. Blue eyes, bruised arm, starfish hand.
Canny. Mama .
I will never speak of this, he told himself. Not to anyone .
As the moon rose over Wilmington, North Carolina, Dan Torrance lapsed into unconsciousness. There were dreams of the Overlook, but he would not remember them upon waking. What he remembered upon waking were the blue eyes, the bruised arm, the reachinghand.
He managed to get his possessions and went north, first to upstate New York, then to Massachusetts. Two years passed. Sometimes he helped people, mostly old people. He had a way of doing that. On too many drunk nights, the kid would be the last thing he thought of and the first thing that came to mind on the hungover mornings-after. It was the kid he always thought of when he told himselfhe was going to quit the drinking. Maybe next week; next month for sure. The kid. The eyes. The arm. The reaching starfish hand.
Canny.
Mama.
PART ONE
ABRA
CHAPTER ONE
WELCOME TO TEENYTOWN
1
After Wilmington, the daily drinking stopped.
He’d go a week, sometimes two, without anything stronger than diet soda. He’d wake up without a hangover, which was good. He’d wake up thirsty and miserable— wanting —which wasn’t. Then there would come a night. Or a weekend. Sometimes it was a Budweiser ad on TV that set him off—fresh-faced young people with narya beergut among them, having cold ones after a vigorous volleyball game. Sometimes it was seeing a couple of nice-looking women having after-work drinks outside some pleasant little café, the kind of place with a French name and lots of hanging plants. The drinks were almost always the kind that came with little umbrellas. Sometimes it was a song on the radio. Once it was Styx, singing “Mr. Roboto.”When he was dry, he was completely dry. When he drank, he got drunk. If he woke up
The moonwas rising over the river. The blanket was spread out behind him. Soon he would lie down on it, pull it around him in a cocoon, and sleep. He was just high enough to be happy. The takeoff and the climb-out had been rough, but now all that low-altitude turbulence was behind him. He supposed he wasn’t leading what straight America would call an exemplary life, but for the time being, all was fine. Hehad a bottle of Old Sun (purchased at a liquor store a prudent distance from Golden’s Discount) and half a hero sandwich for breakfast tomorrow. The future was cloudy, but tonight the moon was bright. All was as it should be.
( Canny )
Suddenly the kid was with him. Tommy. Right here with him. Reaching for the blow. Bruises on his arm. Blue eyes.
( Canny )
He saw this with an excruciating claritythat had nothing to do with the shining. And more. Deenie lying on her back, snoring. The red imitation leather wallet. The wad of food stamps with U.S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE printed on them. The money. The seventy dollars. Which he had taken.
Think about the moon. Think about how serene it looks rising over the water .
For awhile he did, but then he saw Deenie on her back, the red imitationleather wallet, the wad of food stamps, the pitiful crumple of cash (much of it now gone). Most clearly of all he saw the kid reaching for the blow with a hand that looked like a starfish. Blue eyes. Bruised arm.
Canny, he said.
Mama, he said.
Dan had learned the trick of measuring out his drinks; that way the booze lasted longer, the high was mellower, and the next day’s headache lighter andmore manageable. Sometimes, though, the measuring thing went wrong. Shit happened. Like at the Milky Way. That had been more or less an accident, but tonight, finishing the bottle in four long swallows, was on purpose. Your mind was a blackboard. Booze was the eraser.
He lay down and pulled the stolen blanket around him. He waited for unconsciousness, and it came, but Tommy came first. AtlantaBraves shirt. Sagging diaper. Blue eyes, bruised arm, starfish hand.
Canny. Mama .
I will never speak of this, he told himself. Not to anyone .
As the moon rose over Wilmington, North Carolina, Dan Torrance lapsed into unconsciousness. There were dreams of the Overlook, but he would not remember them upon waking. What he remembered upon waking were the blue eyes, the bruised arm, the reachinghand.
He managed to get his possessions and went north, first to upstate New York, then to Massachusetts. Two years passed. Sometimes he helped people, mostly old people. He had a way of doing that. On too many drunk nights, the kid would be the last thing he thought of and the first thing that came to mind on the hungover mornings-after. It was the kid he always thought of when he told himselfhe was going to quit the drinking. Maybe next week; next month for sure. The kid. The eyes. The arm. The reaching starfish hand.
Canny.
Mama.
PART ONE
ABRA
CHAPTER ONE
WELCOME TO TEENYTOWN
1
After Wilmington, the daily drinking stopped.
He’d go a week, sometimes two, without anything stronger than diet soda. He’d wake up without a hangover, which was good. He’d wake up thirsty and miserable— wanting —which wasn’t. Then there would come a night. Or a weekend. Sometimes it was a Budweiser ad on TV that set him off—fresh-faced young people with narya beergut among them, having cold ones after a vigorous volleyball game. Sometimes it was seeing a couple of nice-looking women having after-work drinks outside some pleasant little café, the kind of place with a French name and lots of hanging plants. The drinks were almost always the kind that came with little umbrellas. Sometimes it was a song on the radio. Once it was Styx, singing “Mr. Roboto.”When he was dry, he was completely dry. When he drank, he got drunk. If he woke up
Similar Books
