sk.theshining-第81节

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　　A　wave　of　despair　struck　through　her　at　the　thought　and　she　had　to　stop　halfway　down　the　stairs　and　hold　the　railing；　afraid　her　knees　would　buckle。
　　（Admit　it。　It　isn't　just　Jack；　he's　just　the　one　solid　thing　in　all　of　this　you　can　hang　the　other　things　on；　the　things　you　can't　believe　and　yet　are　being　forced　to　believe；　that　thing　about　the　hedges；　the　party　favor　in　the　elevator；　the　mask）　She　tried　to　stop　the　thought　but　it　was　too　late。
　　（and　the　voices。）　Because　from　time　to　time　it　had　not　seemed　that　there　was　a　solitary　crazy　man　below　them；　shouting　at　and　holding　conversations　with　the　phantoms　in　his　own　crumbling　mind。　From　time　to　time；　like　a　radio　signal　fading　in　and　out；　she　had　heard…or　thought　she　had…other　voices；　and　music；　and　laughter。　At　one　moment　she　would　hear　Jack　holding　a　conversation　with　someone　named　Grady　（the　name　was　vaguely　familiar　to　her　but　she　made　no　actual　connection）；　making　statements　and　asking　questions　into　silence；　yet　speaking　loudly；　as　if　to　make　himself　heard　over　a　steady　background　racket。　And　then；　eerily；　other　sounds　would　be　there；　seeming　to　slip　into　places…a　dance　band；　people　clapping；　a　man　with　an　amused　yet　authoritative　voice　who　seemed　to　be　trying　to　persuade　somebody　to　make　a　speech。　For　a　period　of　thirty　seconds　to　a　minute　she　would　hear　this；　long　enough　to　grow　faint　with　terror；　and　then　it　would　be　gone　again　and　she　would　only　hear　Jack；　talking　in　that　manding　yet　slightly　slurred　way　she　remembered　as　his　drunk…speak　voice。　But　there　was　nothing　in　the　hotel　to　drink　except　cooking　sherry。　Wasn't　that　right？　Yes；　but　if　she　could　imagine　that　the　hotel　was　full　of　voices　and　music；　couldn't　Jack　imagine　that　he　was　drunk？
　　She　didn't　like　that　thought。　Not　at　all。
　　Wendy　reached　the　lobby　and　looked　around。　The　velvet　rope　that　had　cordoned　off　the　ballroom　had　been　taken　down；　the　steel　post　it　had　been　clipped　to　had　been　knocked　over；　as　if　someone　had　carelessly　bumped　it　going　by。　Mellow　white　light　fell　through　the　open　door　onto　the　lobby　rug　from　the　ballroom's　high；　narrow　windows。　Heart　thumping；　she　went　to　the　open　ballroom　doors　and　looked　in。　It　was　empty　and　silent；　the　only　sound　that　curious　subaural　echo　that　seems　to　linger　in　all　large　rooms；　from　the　largest　cathedral　to　the　smallest　hometown　bingo　parlor。
　　She　went　back　to　the　registration　desk　and　stood　undecided　for　a　moment；　listening　to　the　wind　howl　outside。　It　was　the　worst　storm　so　far；　and　it　was　still　building　up　force。　Somewhere　on　the　west　side　a　shutter　latch　had　broken　and　the　shutter　banged　back　and　forth　with　a　steady　flat　cracking　sound；　like　a　shooting　gallery　with　only　one　customer。
　　（Jack；　you　really　should　take　care　of　that。　Before　something　gets　in。）　What　would　she　do　if　he　came　at　her　right　now；　she　wondered。　If　he　should　pop　up　from　behind　the　dark；　varnished　registration　desk　with　its　pile　of　triplicate　forms　and　its　little　silver…plated　bell；　like　some　murderous　jack…in…the…box；　pun　intended；　a　grinning　jack…in…the…box　with　a　cleaver　in　one　hand　and　no　sense　at　all　left　behind　his　eyes。　Would　she　stand　frozen　with　terror；　or　was　there　enough　of　the　primal　mother　in　her　to　fight　him　for　her　son　until　one　of　them　was　dead？　She　didn't　know。　The　very　thought　made　her　sickmade　her　feel　that　her　whole　life　had　been　a　long　and　easy　dream　to　lull　her　helplessly　into　this　waking　nightmare。　She　was　soft。　When　trouble　came；　she　slept。　Her　past　was　unremarkable。　She　had　never　been　tried　in　fire。　Now　the　trial　was　upon　her；　not　fire　but　ice；　and　she　would　not　be　allowed　to　sleep　through　this。　Her　son　was　waiting　for　her　upstairs。
　　Clutching　the　haft　of　the　knife　tighter；　she　peered　over　the　desk。
　　Nothing　there。
　　Her　relieved　breath　escaped　her　in　a　long；　hitching　sigh。
　　She　put　the　gate　up　and　went　through；　pausing　to　glance　into　the　inner　office　before　going　in　herself。　She　fumbled　through　the　next　door　for　the　bank　of　kitchen　light　switches；　coldly　expecting　a　hand　to　close　over　hers　at　any　second。　Then　the　fluorescents　were　ing　on　with　minuscule　ticking　and　humming　sounds　and　she　could　see　Mr。　Hallorann's　kitchen…her　kitchen　now；　for　better　or　worse…pale　green　tiles；　gleaming　Formica；　spotless　porcelain；　glowing　chrome　edgings。　She　had　promised　him　she　would　keep　his　kitchen　clean；　and　she　had。　She　felt　as　if　it　was　one　of　Danny's　safe　places。　Dick　Hallorann's　presence　seemed　to　enfold　and　fort　her。　Danny　had　called　for　Mr。　Hallorann；　and　upstairs；　sitting　next　to　Danny　in　fear　as　her　husband　ranted　and　raved　below；　that　had　seemed　like　the　faintest　of　all　hopes。　But　standing　here；　in　Mr。　Hallorann's　place；　it　seemed　almost　possible。　Perhaps　he　was　on　his　way　now；　intent　on　getting　to　them　regardless　of　the　storm。　Perhaps　it　was　so。
　　She　went　across　to　the　pantry；　shot　the　bolt　back；　and　stepped　inside。　She　got　a　can　of　tomato　soup　and　closed　the　pantry　door　again；　and　bolted　it。　The　door　was　tight　against　the　floor。　If　you　kept　it　bolted；　you　didn't　have　to　worry　about　rat　or　mouse　droppings　in　the　rice　or　flour　or　sugar。
　　She　opened　the　can　and　dropped　the　slightly　jellied　contents　into　a　saucepan…　plop。　She　went　to　the　refrigerator　and　got　milk　and　eggs　for　the　omelet。　Then　to　the　walk…in　freezer　for　cheese。　All　of　these　actions；　so　mon　and　so　much　a　part　of　her　life　before　the　Overlook　had　been　a　part　of　her　life；　helped　to　calm　her。
　　She　melted　butter　in　the　frying　pan；　diluted　the　soup　with　milk；　and　then　poured　the　beaten　eggs　into　the　pan。
　　A　sudden　feeling　that　someone　was　standing　behind　her；　reaching　for　her　throat。
　　She　wheeled　around；　clutching　the　knife。　No　one　there。
　　（！　Get　ahold　of　yourself；　girl！）　She　grated　a　bowl　of　cheese　from　the　block；　added　it　to　the　omelet；　flipped　it；　and　turned　the　gas　ring　down　to　a　bare　blue　flame。　The　soup　was　hot。　She　put　the　pot　on　a　large　tray　with　silverware；　two　bowls；　two　plates；　the　salt　and　pepper　shakers。　When　the　omelet　had　puffed　slightly；　Wendy　slid　it　off　onto　one　of　the　plates　and　covered　it。
　　（Now　back　the　way　you　came。　Turn　off　the　kitchen　lights。　Go　through　the　inner　office。　Through　the　desk　gate；　collect　two　hundred　dollars。）　She　stopped　on　the　lobby　side　of　the　registration　desk　and　set　the　tray　down　beside　the　silver　bell。　Unreality　would　stretch　only　so　far；　this　was　like　some　surreal　game　of　hideand…seek。
　　She　stood　in　the　shadowy　lobby；　frowning　in　thought。
　　（Don't　push　the　facts　away　this　time；　girl。　There　are　certain　realities；　as　lunatic　as　this　situation　may　seem。　One　of　them　is　that　you　may　be　the　only　responsible　person　left　in　this　grotesque　pile。　You　have　a　five…going…on…six　son　to　look　out　for。　And　your　husband；　whatever　has　happened　to　him　and　no　matter　how　dangerous　he　may　be　。　。　。　maybe　he's　part　of　your　responsibility；　too。　And　even　if　he　isn't　consider　this：　Today　is　December　second。　You　could　be　stuck　up　here　another　four　months　if　a　ranger　doesn't　happen　by。　Even　if　they　do　start　to　wonder　why　they　haven't　heard　from　us　on　the　CB；　no　one　is　going　to　e　today　。
　　。　。　or　tomorrow　。　。　。　maybe　not　for　weeks。　Are　you　going　to　spend　a　month　sneaking　down　to　get　meals　with　a　knife　in　your　pocket　and　jumping　at　every　shadow？　Do　you　really　think　you　can　avoid　Jack　for　a　month？　Do　you　think　you　can　keep　Jack　out　of　the　upstairs　quarters　if　he　wants　to　get　in？　He　has　the　passkey　and　one　hard　kick　would　snap　the　bolt。）　Leaving　the　tray　on　the　desk；　she　walked　slowly　down　to　the　dining　room　and　looked　in。　It　was　deserted。　There　was　one　table　with　the　chairs　set　up　around　it；　the　table　they　had　tried　eating　at　until　the　dining　room's　emptiness　began　to　freak　them　out。
　　〃Jack？〃　she　called　hesitantly。
　　At　that　moment　the　wind　rose　in　a　gust；　driving　snow　against　the　shutters；　but　it　seemed　to　her　that　there　had　been　something。　A　muffled　sort　of　groan。
　　〃Jack？〃　No　returning　sound　this　time；　but　her　eyes　fell　on　something　beneath　the　batwing　doors　of　the　Colorado　Lounge；　something　that　gleamed　faintly　in　the　subdued　light。　Jack's　cigarette　lighter。
　　Plucking　up　her　courage；　she　crossed　to　the　batwings　and　pushed　them　open。　The　smell　of　gin　was　so　strong　that　her　breath　snagged　in　her　throat。　It　wasn't　even　right　to　call　it　a　smell；　it　was　a　positive　reek。　But　the　shelves　were　empty。
　　Where　in　God's　name　had　he　found　it？　A　bottle　hidden　at　the　back　of　one　of　the　cupboards？　Where？
　　There　was　another　groan；　low　and　fuzzy；　but　perfectly　audible　this　time。　Wendy　walked　slowly　to　the　bar。
　　〃Jack？〃　No　answer。
　　She　looked　over　the　bar　and　there　he　was；　sprawled　out　on　the　floor　in　a　stupor。　Drunk　as　a　lord；　by　the　smell。　He　must　have　tried　to　go　right　over　the　top　and　lost　his　balance。　A　wonder　he　hadn't　broken　his　neck。　An　old　proverb　recurred　to　her：　God　looks　after　drunks　and　little　children。　Amen。
　　Yet　she　was　not　angry　with　him；　looking　down　at　him　she　thought　be　looked　like　a　horribly　overtired　little　boy　who　bad　tried　to　do　too　much　and　had　fallen　asleep　in　the　middle　of　the　living　room　floor。　He　had　stopped　drinking　and　it　was　not　Jack　who　had　made　the　decision　to　start　again；　there　had　been　no　liquor　for　him　to　start　with　。　。　。　so　where　had　it　e　from？
　　Resting　at　every　five　or　six