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7
Dan Torrance knew he would be living in the turret room of the Helen Rivington House from the
moment he had seen his old friend Tony waving to him from a window that on second look turned out
to be boarded shut. He asked Mrs. Clausen, the Rivington’s chief supervisor, about the room six
months or so after going to work at the hospice as janitor/orderly . . . and unofficial doctor in
residence. Along with his faithful sidekick Azzie, of course.
“That room’s junk from one end to the other,” Mrs. Clausen had said. She was a sixtysomething
with implausibly red hair. She was possessed of a sarcastic, often dirty mouth, but she was a smart and
compassionate administrator. Even better, from the standpoint of HRH’s board of directors, she was a
tremendously effective fund-raiser. Dan wasn’t sure he liked her, but he had come to respect her.
“I’ll clean it out. On my own time. It would be better for me to be right here, don’t you think? On
call?”
“Danny, tell me something. How come you’re so good at what you do?”
“I don’t really know.” This was at least half true. Maybe even seventy percent. He had lived with
the shining all his life and still didn’t understand it.
“Junk aside, the turret’s hot in the summer and cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey
in the winter.”
“That can be rectified,” Dan had said.
“Don’t talk to me about your rectum.” Mrs. Clausen peered sternly at him from above her halfglasses.
“If the board knew what I was letting you do, they’d probably have me weaving baskets in that
assisted living home down in Nashua. The one with the pink walls and the piped-in Mantovani.” She
snorted. “Doctor Sleep, indeed.”
“I’m not the doctor,” Dan said mildly. He knew he was going to get what he wanted. “Azzie’s the
doctor. I’m just his assistant.”
“Azreel’s the fucking cat,” she said. “A raggedy-ass stray that wandered in off the street and got
adopted by guests who have now all gone to the Great Who Knows. All he cares about is his twicedaily
bowl of Friskies.”
To this Dan hadn’t responded. There was no need, because they both knew it wasn’t true.
“I thought you had a perfectly good place on Eliot Street. Pauline Robertson thinks the sun shines
out of your asshole. I know because I sing with her in the church choir.”
“What’s your favorite hymn?” Dan asked. “ ‘What a Fucking Friend We Have in Jesus’?”
She showed the Rebecca Clausen version of a smile. “Oh, very well. Clean out the room. Move in.
Have it wired for cable, put in quadraphonic sound, set up a wetbar. What the hell do I care, I’m only
the boss.”
“Thanks, Mrs. C.”
“Oh, and don’t forget the space heater, okay? See if you can’t find something from a yard sale with
a nice frayed cord. Burn the fucking place down some cold February night. Then they can put up a
brick monstrosity to match the abortions on either side of us.”
Dan stood up and raised the back of his hand to his forehead in a half-assed British salute.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
She waved a hand at him. “Get outta here before I change my mind, doc.”
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