第8部分(第2/7 页)

）　store　for　a　case　of　beer　they　would

drink　parked　at　the　end　of　some　back　road。　There　were　mornings　when　Jack　would

stumble　into　their　leased　house　with　dawn　seeping　into　the　sky　and　find　Wendy

and　the　baby　asleep　on　the　couch；　Danny　always　on　the　inside；　a　tiny　fist　curled

under　the　shelf　of　Wendy's　jaw。　He　would　look　at　them　and　the　self…loathing

would　back　up　his　throat　in　a　bitter　wave；　even　stronger　than　the　taste　of　beer

and　cigarettes　and　martinis　—　martians；　as　Al　called　them。　Those　were　the　times

that　his　mind　would　turn　thoughtfully　and　sanely　to　the　gun　or　the　rope　or　the

razor　blade。

If　the　bender　had　occurred　on　a　weeknight；　he　would　sleep　for　three　hours；　get

up；　dress；　chew　four　Excedrins；　and　go　off　to　teach　his　nine　o'clock　American

Poets　still　drunk。　Good　morning；　kids；　today　the　Red…Eyed　Wonder　is　going　to

tell　you　about　how　Longfellow　lost　his　wife　in　the　big　fire。

He　hadn't　believed　he　was　an　alcoholic；　Jack　thought　as　Al's　telephone　began

ringing　in　his　ear。　The　classes　he　had　missed　or　taught　unshaven；　still　reeking

of　last　night's　martians。　Not　me；　I　can　stop　anytime。　The　nights　he　and　Wendy

had　passed　in　separate　beds。　Listen；　I'm　fine。　Mashed　fenders。　Sure　I'm　okay　to

drive。　The　tears　she　always　shed　in　the　bathroom。　Cautious　looks　from　his

colleagues　at　any　party　where　alcohol　was　served；　even　wine。　The　slowly　dawning

realization　that　he　was　being　talked　about。　The　knowledge　that　he　was　producing

nothing　at　his　Underwood　but　balls　of　mostly　blank　paper　that　ended　up　in　the

wastebasket。　He　had　been　something　of　a　catch　for　Stovington；　a　slowly　blooming

American　writer　perhaps；　and　certainly　a