sk.theshining-第24节

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　it　into　the　gutter。　There　had　been　two　dozen　fights　in　grammar　school；　even　more　of　them　in　high　school；　warranting　two　suspensions　and　uncounted　detentions　in　spite　of　his　good　grades。　Football　had　provided　a　partial　safety　valve；　although　he　remembered　perfectly　well　that　he　had　spent　almost　every　minute　of　every　game　in　a　state　of　high　piss…off；　taking　every　opposing　block　and　tackle　personally。　He　had　been　a　fine　player；　making　All…Conference　in　his　junior　and　senior　years；　and　he　knew　perfectly　well　that　he　had　his　own　bad　temper　to　thank　。　。　。　or　to　blame。　He　had　not　enjoyed　football。　Every　game　was　a　grudge　match。
　　And　yet；　through　it　all；　he　hadn't　felt　like　a　son　of　a　bitch。　He　hadn't　felt　mean。　He　had　always　regarded　himself　as　Jack　Torrance；　a　really　nice　guy　who　was　just　going　to　have　to　learn　how　to　cope　with　his　temper　someday　before　it　got　him　in　trouble。　The　same　way　he　was　going　to　have　to　learn　how　to　cope　with　his　drinking。　But　he　had　been　an　emotional　alcoholic　just　as　surely　as　he　had　been　a　physical　one…the　two　of　them　were　no　doubt　tied　together　somewhere　deep　inside　him；　where　you'd　just　as　soon　not　look。　But　it　didn't　much　matter　to　him　if　the　root　causes　were　interrelated　or　separate；　sociological　or　psychological　or　physiological。　He　had　had　to　deal　with　the　results：　the　spankings；　the　beatings　from　his　old　man；　the　suspensions；　with　trying　to　explain　the　school　clothes　torn　in　playground　brawls；　and　later　the　hangovers；　the　slowly　dissolving　glue　of　his　marriage；　the　single　bicycle　wheel　with　its　bent　spokes　pointing　into　the　sky；　Danny's　broken　arm。　And　George　Hatfield；　of　course。
　　He　felt　that　he　had　unwittingly　stuck　his　hand　into　The　Great　Wasps'　Nest　of　Life。　As　an　image　it　stank。　As　a　cameo　of　reality；　he　felt　it　was　serviceable。
　　He　had　stuck　his　hand　through　some　rotted　flashing　in　high　summer　and　that　hand　and　his　whole　arm　had　been　consumed　in　holy；　righteous　fire；　destroying　conscious　thought；　making　the　concept　of　civilized　behavior　obsolete。　Could　you　be　expected　to　behave　as　a　thinking　human　being　when　your　hand　was　being　impaled　on　red…hot　darning　needles？　Could　you　be　expected　to　live　in　the　love　of　your　nearest　and　dearest　when　the　brown；　furious　cloud　rose　out　of　the　hole　in　the　fabric　of　things　（the　fabric　you　thought　was　so　innocent）　and　arrowed　straight　at　you？　Could　you　be　held　responsible　for　your　own　actions　as　you　ran　crazily　about　on　the　sloping　roof　seventy　feet　above　the　ground；　not　knowing　where　you　were　going；　not　remembering　that　your　panicky；　stumbling　feet　could　lead　you　crashing　and　blundering　right　over　the　rain　gutter　and　down　to　your　death　on　the　concrete　seventy　feet　below？　Jack　didn't　think　you　could。　When　you　unwittingly　stuck　your　hand　into　the　wasps'　nest；　you　hadn't　made　a　covenant　with　the　devil　to　give　up　your　civilized　self　with　its　trappings　of　love　and　respect　and　honor。
　　It　just　happened　to　you。　Passively；　with　no　say；　you　ceased　to　be　a　creature　of　the　mind　and　became　a　creature　of　the　nerve　endings；　from　college…educated　man　to　wailing　ape　in　five　easy　seconds。
　　He　thought　about　George　Hatfield。
　　Tall　and　shaggily　blond；　George　had　been　an　almost　insolently　beautiful　boy。
　　In　his　tight　faded　jeans　and　Stovington　sweatshirt　with　the　sleeves　carelessly　pushed　up　to　the　elbows　to　disclose　his　tanned　forearms；　he　had　reminded　Jack　of　a　young　Robert　Redford；　and　he　doubted　that　George　had　much　trouble　scoring…no　more　than　that　young　footballplaying　devil　Jack　Torrance　had　ten　years　earlier。
　　He　could　say　that　he　honestly　didn't　feel　jealous　of　George；　or　envy　him　his　good　looks；　in　fact；　he　had　almost　unconsciously　begun　to　visualize　George　as　the　physical　incarnation　of　his　play　hero；　Gary　Benson…the　perfect　foil　for　the　dark；　slumped；　and　aging　Denker；　who　grew　to　hate　Gary　so　much。　But　he；　Jack　Torrance；　had　never　felt　that　way　about　George。　If　he　had；　he　would　have　known　it。　He　was　quite　sure　of　that。
　　George　had　floated　through　his　classes　at　Stovington。　A　soccer　and　baseball　star；　his　academic　program　had　been　fairly　undemanding　and　he　had　been　content　with　C's　and　an　occasional　B　in　history　or　botany。　He　was　a　fierce　field　contender　but　a　lackadaisical；　amused　sort　of　student　in　the　classrooms　Jack　was　familiar　with　the　type；　more　from　his　own　days　as　a　high　school　and　college　student　than　from　his　teaching　experience；　which　was　at　second　hand。　George　Hatfield　was　a　jock。　He　could　be　a　calm；　undemanding　figure　in　the　classroom；　but　when　the　right　set　of　petitive　stimuli　was　applied　（like　electrodes　to　the　temples　of　Frankenstein's　monster；　Jack　thought　wryly）；　he　could　bee　a　juggernaut。
　　In　January；　George　had　tried　out　with　two　dozen　others　for　the　debate　team。　He　had　been　quite　frank　with　Jack。　His　father　was　a　corporation　lawyer；　and　he　wanted　his　son　to　follow　in　his　footsteps。　George；　who　felt　no　burning　call　to　do　anything　else；　was　willing。　His　grades　were　not　top　end；　but　this　was；　after　all；　only　prep　school　and　it　was　still　early　times。　If　should　be　came　to　must　be；　his　father　could　pull　some　strings。　George's　own　athletic　ability　would　open　still　other　doors。　But　Brian　Hatfield　thought　his　son　should　get　on　the　debate　team。　It　was　good　practice；　and　it　was　something　that　law…school　admissions　boards　always　looked　for。　So　George　went　out　for　debate；　and　in　late　March　Jack　cut　him　from　the　team。
　　The　late　winter　inter…squad　debates　had　fired　George　Hatfield's　petitive　soul。　He　became　a　grimly　determined　debater；　prepping　his　pro　or　con　position　fiercely。　It　didn't　matter　if　the　subject　was　legalization　of　marijuana；　reinstating　the　death　penalty；　or　the　oil…depletion　allowance。　George　became　conversant；　and　he　was　just　jingoist　enough　to　honestly　not　care　which　side　he　was　on…a　rare　and　valuable　trait'；　even　in　high…level　debaters；　Jack　knew。　The　souls　of　a　true　carpetbagger　and　a　true　debater　were　not　far　removed　from　each　other；　they　were　both　passionately　interested　in　the　main　chance。　So　far；　so　good。
　　But　George　Hatfield　stuttered。
　　This　was　not　a　handicap　that　had　even　shown　up　in　the　classroom；　where　George　was　always　cool　and　collected　（whether　he　had　done　his　homework　or　not）；　and　certainly　not　on　the　Stovington　playing　fields；　where　talk　was　not　a　virtue　and　they　sometimes　even　threw　you　out　of　the　game　for　too　much　discussion。
　　When　George　got　tightly　wound　up　in　a　debate；　the　stutter　would　e　out。　The　more　eager　he　became；　the　worse　it　was。　And　when　he　felt　he　had　an　opponent　dead　in　his　sights；　an　intellectual　sort　of　buck　fever　seemed　to　take　place　between　his　speech　centers　and　his　mouth　and　he　would　freeze　solid　while　the　clock　ran　out。　It　was　painful　to　watch。
　　〃S…S…So　I　th…th…think　we　have　to　say　that　the　fuh…fuh…facts　in　the　c…case　Mr。
　　D…D…D…Dorsky　cites　are　ren…ren…rendered　obsolete　by　the　ruh…recent　duh…duh…　decision　handed　down　inin…in　。　。　。　〃　The　buzzer　would　go　off　and　George　would　whirl　around　to　stare　furiously　at　Jack；　who　sat　beside　it。　George's　face　at　those　moments　would　be　flushed；　his　notes　crumpled　spasmodically　in　one　hand。
　　Jack　had　held　on　to　George　long　after　he　had　cut　most　of　the　obvious　flat　tires；　hoping　George　would　work　out。　He　remembered　one　late　afternoon　about　a　week　before　he　had　reluctantly　dropped　the　ax。　George　had　stayed　after　the　others　had　filed　out；　and　then　had　confronted　Jack　angrily。
　　〃You　s…set　the　timer　ahead。〃　Jack　looked　up　from　the　papers　he　was　putting　back　into　his　briefcase。
　　〃George；　what　are　you　talking　about？〃
　　〃I　d…didn't　get　my　whole　five　mih…minutes。　You　set　it　ahead。　I　was　wuh…　watching　the　clock。〃
　　〃The　clock　and　the　timer　may　keep　slightly　different　times；　George；　but　I　never　touched　the　dial　on　the　damned　thing。　Scout's　honor。〃
　　〃Yuh…yuh…you　did！〃　The　belligerent；　I'm…sticking…up…for…my…rights　way　George　was　looking　at　him　had　sparked　Jack's　own　temper。　He　had　been　off　the　sauce　for　two　months；　two　months　too　long；　and　he　was　ragged。　He　made　one　last　effort　to　hold　himself　in。　〃I　assure　you　I　did　not；　George。　It's　your　stutter。　Do　you　have　any　idea　what　causes　it？　You　don't　stutter　in　class。〃
　　〃I　duh…duh…don't　s…s…st…st…stutterl〃
　　〃Lower　your　voice。〃
　　〃You　w…want　to　g…get　met　You　duh…don't　w…want　me　on　your　g…g…goddam　team！〃
　　〃Lower　your　voice；　I　said。　Let's　discuss　this　rationally。〃
　　〃F…fuh…fuck　th…that！〃
　　〃George；　if　you　control　your　stutter；　I'd　be　glad　to　have　you。　You're　well　prepped　for　every　practice　and　you're　good　at　the　background　stuff；　which　means　you're　rarely　surprised。　But　all　that　doesn't　mean　much　if　you　can't　control　that…〃
　　〃I've　neh…neh…never　stuttered！〃　he　cried　out。　〃It's　yuh…you！　I　i…if　suh…　someone　else　had　the　d…d…deb…debate　t…team；　I　could…〃　Jack's　temper　slipped　another　notch。
　　〃George；　you're　never　going　to　make　much　of　a　lawyer；　corporation　or　otherwise；　if　you　can't　control　that。　Law　isn't　like　soccer。　Two　hours　of　practice　every　night　won't　cut　it。　What　are　you　going　to　do；　stand　up　in　front　of　a　board　meeting　and　say；　‘Nuh…nuh…now；　g…gentlemen；　about　this　t…ttort'？〃　He　suddenly　flushed；　not　with　anger　but　with　shame　at　his　own　cruelty。　This　was　not　a　man　in　front　of　him　but　a　seventeen…year…old　boy　who　was　facing　the　first　maj