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breaking pencil lead or a small piece of kindling when you brought it down over
your knee。 A moment of utter silence on the other side; in respect to the
beginning future maybe; all the rest of his life。 Seeing Dannys face drain of
color until it was like cheese; seeing his eyes; always large; grow larger
still; and glassy; Jack sure the boy was going to faint dead away into the
puddle of beer and papers; his own voice; weak and drunk; slurry; trying to take
it all back; to find a way around that not too loud sound of bone cracking and
into the past — is there a status quo in the house? — saying: Danny; are you all
right? Dannys answering shriek; then Wendys shocked gasp as she came around
them and saw the peculiar angle Dannys forearm had to his elbow; no arm was
meant to hang quite that way in a world of normal families。 Her own scream as
she swept him into her arms; and a nonsense babble: Oh God Danny oh dear God oh
sweet God your poor sweet arm; and Jack was standing there; stunned and stupid;
trying to understand how a thing like this could have happened。 He was standing
there and his eyes met the eyes of his wife and he saw that Wendy hated him。 It
did not occur to him what the hate might mean in practical terms; it was only
later that he realized she might have left him that night; gone to a motel;
gotten a divorce lawyer in the morning; or called the police。 He saw only that
his wife hated him and he felt staggered by it; all alone。 He felt awful。 This
was what oning death felt like。 Then she fled for the telephone and dialed
the hospital with their screaming boy wedged in the crook of her arm and Jack
did not go after her; he only stood in the ruins of his office; smelling beer
and thinking — )
You lost your temper。
He rubbed his hand harshly across his lips and followed Watson into the boiler
room。 It was humid in here; but it was more than the humidity that brought the
sick and slimy sweat onto his brow and stomach and legs。 The remembering did
that; it was a total thing that made that night two years ago seem like two
hours ago。 There was no lag。 It brought the shame and revulsion back; the sense
of having no worth at all; and that feeling always made him want to have a
drink; and the wanting of a drink brought still blacker despair — would he ever
have an hour; not a week or even a day; mind you; but just one waking hour when
the craving for a drink wouldnt surprise him like this?
〃The boiler;〃 Watson announced。 He pulled a red and blue bandanna from his
back pocket; blew his nose with a decisive honk; and thrust it back out of sight
after a short peek into it to see if he had gotten anything interesting。
The boiler stood on four cement blocks; a long and cylindrical metal tank;
copper…jacketed and often patched。 It squatted beneath a confusion of pipes and
ducts which zigzagged upward into the high; cobweb…festooned basement ceiling。
To Jacks right; two large heating pipes came through the wall from the furnace
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