“You come by it naturally.” What he was remembering was Abra standing over Rose the Hat as Rose cycled. Does it hurt? Abra had asked the dying thing that looked like a woman (except, that was, for the one terrible tooth). I hope it does. I hope it hurts a lot.
“Are you going to lecture me?” And, with a lilt of contempt: “I know that’s what she wants.”
“I’m out of lectures, but I could tell you a story my mother told me. It’s about your great-grandfather on the Jack Torrance side. Do you want to hear it?”
Abra shrugged. Get it over with, the shrug said.
“Mark Torrance wasn’t an orderly like me, but close. He was a male nurse. He walked with a cane toward the end of his life, because he was in a car accident that messed up his leg. And one night, at the dinner table, he used that cane on his wife. No reason; he just started in whaling. He broke her nose and opened her scalp. When she fell out of her chair onto the floor, he got up and really went to work on her. According to what my father told my mom, he would have beaten her to death if Brett and Mike—they were my uncles—hadn’t pulled him away. When the doctor came, your great-grandfather was down on his knees with his own little medical kit, doing what he could. He said she fell downstairs. Great-Gram—the momo you never met, Abra—backed him up. So did the kids.”
“Why?” she breathed.
“Because they were scared. Later—long after Mark was dead—your grandfather broke my arm. Then, in the Overlook—which stood where Roof O’ the World stands today—your grandfather beat my mother almost to death. He used a roque mallet instead of a cane, but it was basically the same deal.”
“I get the point.”
“Years later, in a bar in St. Petersburg—”
“Stop! I said I get it!” She was trembling.
“—I beat a man unconscious with a pool cue because he laughed when I scratched. After that, the son of Jack and the grandson of Mark spent thirty days in an orange jumpsuit, picking up trash along Highway 41.”
She turned away, starting to cry. “Thanks, Uncle Dan. Thanks for spoiling . . .”
An image filled his head, momentarily blotting out the river: a charred and smoking birthday cake. In some circumstances, the image would have been funny. Not in these.
He took her gently by the shoulders and turned her back to him. “There’s nothing to get. There’s no point. There’s nothing but family history. In the words of the immortal Elvis Presley, it’s your baby, you rock it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Someday you may write poetry, like Concetta. Or push someone else off a high place with your mind.”
“I never would . . . but Rose deserved it.” Abra turned her wet face up to his.
“No argument there.”
“So why do I dream about it? Why do I wish I could take it back? She would have killed us, so why do I wish I could take it back?”
“Is it the killing you wish you could take back, or the joy of the killing?”
Abra hung her head. Dan wanted to take her in his arms, but didn’t.
“No lecture and no moral. Just blood calling to blood. The stupid urges of wakeful people. And you’ve made it to a time of life when you’re completely awake. It’s hard for you. I know that. It’s hard for everyone, but most teenagers don’t have your abilities. Your weapons.”
“What do I do? What can I do? Sometimes I get so angry . . . not just at her, but at teachers . . . kids at school who think they’re such hot shits . . . the ones who laugh if you’re not good at sports or wearing the wrong clothes and stuff . . .”
Dan thought of advice Casey Kingsley had once given him. “Go to the dump.”
“Huh?” She goggled at him.
He sent her a picture: Abra using her extraordinary talents—they had still not peaked, incredible but true—to overturn discarded refrigerators, explode dead TV sets, throw washing machines. Seagulls flew up in startled packs.
Now she didn’t goggle; she giggled. “Will that help?”
“Better the dump than your mother’s plates.”
She cocked her head and fixed him with merry eyes. They were friends again, and that was good. “But those plates were ug-lee.”