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“Why?” she breathed.
“Because they were scared. Later—long after Don 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 Don 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.”
“Will you try it?”
“Yes.” And by the look of her, she couldn’t wait.
“One other thing.”
She grew solemn, waiting.
“You don’t have to be anyone’s doormat.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”