Сияние

Watson

           Ithadseemedslowsubjectively,insidehishead,butitmusthaveallhappenedinlessthanaminute.Itonlyseemedslowthewaysomedreamsseemslow.Thebadones.Everydooranddrawerinhisstudyseemedtohavebeenransackedinthetimehehadbeengone.Closet,cupboards,theslidingbookcase.Everydeskdraweryankedouttothestop.Hismanuscript,thethreeactplayhehadbeenslowlydevelopingfromanovelettehehadwrittensevenyearsagoasanunder-graduate,wasscatteredalloverthefloor.HehadbeendrinkingabeeranddoingtheActIIcorrectionswhenWendysaidthephonewasforhim,andDannyhadpouredthecanofbeeralloverthepages.Probablytoseeitfoam.Seeitfoam,seeitfoam,thewordsplayedoverandoverinhismindlikeasinglesickchordonanout-of-tunepiano,completingthecircuitofhisrage.Hesteppeddeliberatelytowardhisthreeyear-oldson,whowaslookingupathimwiththatpleasedgrin,hispleasureatthejobofworksosuccessfullyandrecentlycompletedinDaddy’sstudy;DannybegantosaysomethingandthatwaswhenhehadgrabbedDanny’shandandbentittomakehimdropthetypewritereraserandthemechanicalpencilhewasclenchinginit.Dannyhadcriedoutalittle…no…no…tellthetruth…hescreamed.Itwasallhardtorememberthroughthefogofanger,thesicksinglethumpofthatoneSpikeJoneschord.Wendysomewhere,askingwhatwaswrong.Hervoicefaint,dampedbytheinnermist.Thiswasbetweenthetwoofthem.

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