sk.theshining-第28部分

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ruelty。　This　was　not　a　man　in　front　of　him　but　a　seventeen…year…old　boy　who　was　facing　the　first　major　defeat　of　his　life；　and　maybe　asking　in　the　only　way　he　could　for　Jack　to　help　him　find　a　way　to　cope　with　it。
　　George　gave　him　a　final；　furious　glance；　his　lips　twisting　and　bucking　as　the　words　bottled　up　behind　them　struggled　to　find　their　way　out。
　　〃Yuh…yuh…you　s…s…set　it　aheadl　You　huh…hate　me　b…because　you　nuh…nuh…nuh…know　。　。　。　you　know　。　。　。　nuh…nuh…〃　With　an　articulate　cry　he　had　rushed　out　of　the　classroom；　slamming　the　door　hard　enough　to　make　the　wire…reinforced　glass　rattle　in　its　frame。　Jack　had　stood　there；　feeling；　rather　than　hearing；　the　echo　of　George's　Adidas　in　the　empty　hall。　Still　in　the　grip　of　his　temper　and　his　shame　at　mocking　George's　stutter；　his　first　thought　had　been　a　sick　sort　of　exultation：　For　the　first　time　in　his　life　George　Hatfield　had　wanted　something　he　could　not　have。　For　the　first　time　there　was　something　wrong　that　all　of　Daddy's　money　could　not　fix。
　　You　couldn't　bribe　a　speech　center。　You　couldn't　offer　a　tongue　an　extra　fifty　a　week　and　a　bonus　at　Christmas　if　it　would　agree　to　stop　flapping　like　a　record　needle　in　a　defective　groove。　Then　the　exultation　was　simply　buried　in　shame；　and　he　felt　the　way　he　had　after　he　had　broken　Danny's　arm。
　　Dear　God；　I　am　not　a　son　of　a　bitch。　Please。
　　That　sick　happiness　at　George's　retreat　was　more　typical　of　Denker　in　the　play　than　of　Jack　Torrance　the　playwright。
　　You　hate　me　because　you　know　。　。　。
　　Because　he　knew　what？
　　What　could　he　possibly　know　about　George　Hatfield　that　would　make　him　hate　him？　That　his　whole　future　lay　ahead　of　him？　That　he　looked　a　little　bit　like　Robert　Redford　and　all　conversation　among　the　girls　stopped　when　he　did　a　double　gainer　from　the　pool　diving　board？　That　he　played　soccer　and　baseball　with　a　natural；　unlearned　grace？
　　Ridiculous。　Absolutely　absurd。　He　envied　George　Hatfield　nothing。　If　the　truth　was　known；　he　felt　worse　about　George's　unfortunate　stutter　than　George　himself；　because　George　really　would　have　made　an　excellent　debater。　And　if　Jack　had　set　the　timer　ahead…and　of　course　he　hadn't…it　would　have　been　because　both　he　and　the　other　members　of　the　squad　were　embarrassed　for　George's　struggle；　they　had　agonized　over　it　the　way　you　agonize　when　the　Class　Night　speaker　forgets　some　of　his　lines。　If　he　had　set　the　timer　ahead；　it　would　have　been　just　to　。　。　。　to　put　George　out　of　his　misery。
　　But　he　hadn't　set　the　timer　ahead。　He　was　quite　sure　of　it。
　　A　week　later　he　had　cut　him；　and　that　time　he　had　kept　his　temper。　The　shouts　and　the　threats　had　all　been　on　George's　side。　A　week　after　that　he　had　gone　out　to　the　parking　lot　halfway　through　practice　to　get　a　pile　of　sourcebooks　that　he　had　left　in　the　trunk　of　the　VW　and　there　had　been　George；　down　on　one　knee　with　his　long　blond　hair　swinging　in　his　face；　a　hunting　knife　in　one　hand。　He　was　sawing　through　the　VW's　right　front　tire。　The　back　tires　were　already　shredded；　and　the　bug　sat　on　the　fiats　like　a　small；　tired　dog。
　　Jack　had　seen　red；　and　remembered　very　little　of　the　encounter　that　followed。
　　He　remembered　a　thick　growl　that　seemed　to　issue　from　his　own　throat：　〃All　right；　George。　If　that's　how　you　want　it；　just　e　here　and　take　your　medicine。〃　He　remembered　George　looking　up；　startled　and　fearful。　He　had　said：　〃Mr。
　　Torrance…〃　as　if　to　explain　how　all　this　was　just　a　mistake；　the　tires　had　been　flat　when　he　got　there　and　he　was　just　cleaning　dirt　out　of　the　front　treads　with　the　tip　of　this　gutting　knife　he　just　happened　to　have　with　him　and…　Jack　had　waded　in；　his　fists　held　up　in　front　of　him；　and　it　seemed　that　he　had　been　grinning。　But　he　wasn't　sure　of　that。
　　The　last　thing　be　remembered　was　George　holding　up　the　knife　and　saying：　〃You　better　not　e　any　closer…〃　And　the　next　thing　was　Miss　Strong；　the　French　teacher；　holding　Jack's　arms；　crying；　screaming：　〃Stop　it；　Jack！　Stop　it！　You're　going　to　kill　him！〃　He　had　blinked　around　stupidly。　There　was　the　hunting　knife；　glittering　harmlessly　on　the　parking　lot　asphalt　four　yards　away。　There　was　his　Volkswagen；　his　poor　old　battered　bug；　veteran　of　many　wild　midnight　drunken　rides；　sitting　on　three　fiat　shoes。　There　was　a　new　dent　in　the　right　front　fender；　he　saw；　and　there　was　something　in　the　middle　of　the　dent　that　was　either　red　paint　or　blood。　For　a　moment　he　had　been　confused；　his　thoughts　（jesus　christ　al　we　hit　him　after　all）　of　that　other　night。　Then　his　eyes　had　shifted　to　George；　George　lying　dazed　and　blinking　on　the　asphalt。　His　debate　group　had　e　out　and　they　were　huddled　together　by　the　door；　staring　at　George。　There　was　blood　on　his　face　from　a　scalp　laceration　that　looked　minor；　but　there　was　also　blood　running　out　of　one　of　George's　ears　and　that　probably　meant　a　concussion。　When　George　tried　to　get　up；　Jack　shook　free　of　Miss　Strong　and　went　to　him。　George　cringed。
　　Jack　put　his　hands　on　George's　chest　and　pushed　him　back　down。　〃Lie　still；〃　he　said。　〃Don't　try　to　move。〃　He　turned　to　Miss　Strong；　who　was　staring　at　them　both　with　horror。
　　〃Please　go　call　the　school　doctor；　Miss　Strong；〃　be　told　her。　She　turned　and　fled　toward　the　office。　He　looked　at　his　debate　class　then；　looked　them　right　in　the　eye　because　he　was　in　charge　again；　fully　himself；　and　when　he　was　himself　there　wasn't　a　nicer　guy　in　the　whole　state　of　Vermont。　Surely　they　knew　that。
　　〃You　can　go　home　now；〃　he　told　them　quietly。　〃We'll　meet　again　tomorrow。〃　But　by　the　end　of　that　week　six　of　his　debaters　had　dropped　out；　two　of　them　the　class　of　the　act；　but　of　course　it　didn't　matter　much　because　he　had　been　informed　by　then　that　he　would　be　dropping　out　himself。
　　Yet　somehow　he　had　stayed　off　the　bottle；　and　he　supposed　that　was　something。
　　And　he　had　not　hated　George　Hatfield。　He　was　sure　of　that。　He　had　not　acted　but　had　been　acted　upon。
　　You　hate　me　because　you　know　。　。　。
　　But　he　had　known　nothing。　Nothing。　He　would　swear　that　before　the　Throne　of　Almighty　God；　just　as　he　would　swear　that　he　had　set　the　timer　ahead　no　more　than　a　minute。　And　not　out　of　hate　but　out　of　pity。
　　Two　wasps　were　crawling　sluggishly　about　on　the　roof　beside　the　hole　in　the　flashing。
　　He　watched　them　until　they　spread　their　aerodynamically　unsound　but　strangely　efficient　wings　and　lumbered　off　into　the　October　sunshine；　perchance　to　sting　someone　else。　God　had　seen　fit　to　give　them　stingers　and　lack　supposed　they　had　to　use　them　on　somebody。
　　How　long　had　he　been　sitting　there；　looking　at　that　hole　with　its　unpleasant　surprise　down　inside；　raking　over　old　coals？　He　looked　at　his　watch。　Almost　half　an　hour。
　　He　let　himself　down　to　the　edge　of　the　roof；　dropped　one　leg　over；　and　felt　around　until　his　foot　found　the　top　rung　of　the　ladder　just　below　the　overhang。
　　He　would　go　down　to　the　equipment　shed　where　he　had　stored　the　bug　bomb　on　a　high　shelf　out　of　Danny's　reach。　He　would　get　it；　e　back　up；　and　then　they　would　be　the　ones　surprised。　You　could　be　stung；　but　you　could　also　sting　back。
　　He　believed　that　sincerely。　Two　hours　from　now　the　nest　would　be　just　so　much　chewed　paper　and　Danny　could　have　it　in　his　room　if　he　wanted　to…Jack　had　had　one　in　his　room　when　he　was　just　a　kid；　it　had　always　smelled　faintly　of　woodsmoke　and　gasoline。　He　could　have　it　right　by　the　head　of　his　bed。　It　wouldn't　hurt　him。
　　〃I'm　getting　better。〃　The　sound　of　his　own　voice；　confident　in　the　silent　afternoon；　reassured　him　even　though　he　hadn't　meant　to　speak　aloud。　He　was　getting　better。　It　was　possible　to　graduate　from　passive　to　active；　to　take　the　thing　that　had　once　driven　you　nearly　to　madness　as　a　neutral　prize　of　no　more　than　occasional　academic　interest。　And　if　there　was　a　place　where　the　thing　could　be　done；　this　was　surely　it。
　　He　went　down　the　ladder　to　get　the　bug　bomb。　They　would　pay。　They　would　pay　for　stinging　him。
　　　
　　　》
　　DOWN　IN　THE　FRONT　YARD
　　
　　Jack　had　found　a　huge　white…painted　wicker　chair　in　the　back　of　the　equipment　shed　two　weeks　ago；　and　had　dragged　it　around　to　the　porch　over　Wendy's　objections　that　it　was　really　the　ugliest　thing　she　had　ever　seen　in　her　whole　life。　He　was　sitting　in　it