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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　fathers　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　brothers　bloody　shirt　at　rallies　that　were　increasingly　well

attended；　but　it　was　not　Bretts　face　that　hung　before　his　eyes　when　he　spoke　　it

was　the　face　of　his　mother；　a　dazed；　unprehending　face；　his　mother　saying：

〃Whos　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　Jackys　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　Dannys　face；　so　much　like　his　own　had　been；　his　eyes　had

been　light　blue　while　Dannys　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）

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