arts； perhaps；
washing dishes in a diner。 Or possibly a more responsible position； such as
pumping gas。 A job like that even held the intellectual stimulation of making
change and writing out credit slips。 I can give you twenty…five hours a week at
the minimum wage。 That was heavy tunes in a year when Wonder bread went for
sixty cents a loaf。
Blood had begun to trickle down from his palms。 Like stigmata； oh yes。 He
squeezed tighter； savaging himself with pain。 His wife was asleep beside him；
why not？ There were no problems。 He had agreed to take her and Danny away from
the big bad boogeyman and there were no problems。 So you see； Al； I thought the
best thing to do would be to
（kill her。）
The thought rose up from nowhere； naked and unadorned。 The urge to tumble her
out of bed； naked； bewildered； just beginning to wake up； to pounce on her；
seize her neck like the green limb of a young aspen and to throttle her； thumbs
on windpipe； fingers pressing against the top of her spine； jerking her head up
and ramming it back down against the floorboards； again and again； whamming；
whacking； smashing； crashing。 Jitter and jive； baby。 Shake； rattle； and roll。 He
would make her take her medicine。 Every drop。 Every last bitter drop。
He was dimly aware of a muffled noise somewhere； just outside his hot and
racing inner world。 He looked across the room and Danny was thrashing again；
twisting in his bed and rumpling the blankets。 The boy was moaning deep in his
throat； a small； caged sound。 What nightmare？ A purple woman； long dead；
shambling after him down twisting hotel corridors？ Somehow he didn't think so。
Something e