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4
Situated in a long depression in the land； Oatley spread itself out meagerly from two principal streets。 One； the continuation of Mill Road； dipped past an immense and shabby building set in the midst of a vast parking lot…a factory； Jack thought…to bee a strip of used…car lots （sagging pennants）； fast…food franchises （The Great Tits of America）； a bowling alley with a huge neon sign （BOWL…A…RAMA！）； grocery stores； gas stations。 Past all this； Mill Road became Oatley's five or six blocks of downtown； a strip of old two…story buildings before which cars were parked nose…in。 The other street was obviously the location of Oatley's most important houses…large frame buildings with porches and long slanting lawns。 Where these streets intersected stood a traffic light winking its red eye in the late afternoon。 Another light perhaps eight blocks down changed to green before a high dingy many…windowed building that looked like a mental hospital； and so was probably the high school。 Fanning out from the two streets was a jumble of little houses interspersed with anonymous buildings fenced in behind tall wire mesh。
Many of the windows in the factory were broken； and some of the windows in the strip of downtown had been boarded over。 Heaps of garbage and fluttering papers littered the fenced…in concrete yards。 Even the important houses seemed neglected； with their sagging porches and bleached…out paint jobs。 These people would own the used…car lots filled with unsaleable automobiles。
For a moment Jack considered turning his back on Oatley and making the hike to Dogtown； wherever that was。 But that would mean walking through the Mill Road tunnel again。 From down in the middle of the shopping district a car horn blatted； and the sound unfurled toward Jack full of an inexpressible loneliness and nostalgia。
He could not relax until he was all the way to the gates of the factory； the Mill Road tunnel far up behind him。 Nearly a third of the windows along the dirty…brick facade had been broken in； and many of the others showed blank brown squares of cardboard。 Even out on the road； Jack could smell machine oil； grease； smouldering fanbelts； and clashing gears。 He put his hands in his pockets and walked downhill as quickly as he could。
5
Seen close up； the town was even more depressed than it had looked from the hill。 The salesmen at the car lots leaned against the windows in their offices； too bored to e outside。 Their pennants hung tattered and joyless； the once…optimistic signs propped along the cracked sidewalk fronting the rows of cars…ONE OWNER！ FANTASTIC BUY！ CAR OF THE WEEK！…had yellowed。 The ink had feathered and run on some of the signs； as if they had been left out in the rain。 Very few people moved along the streets。 As Jack went toward the center of town； he saw an old man with sunken cheeks and gray skin trying to wrestle an empty shopping cart up onto a curb。 When he approached； the old man screeched something hostile and frightened and bared gums as black as a badger's。 He thought Jack was going to steal his cart！ 'Sorry；' Jack said； his heart pounding again。 The old man was trying to hug the whole cumbersome body of the cart； protecting it； all the while showing those blackened gums to his enemy。 'Sorry；' Jack repeated。 'I was just going to 。 。 。 '
'Fusshhingfeef！ FusshhingFEEEFF！' the old man screeched； and tears crawled into the wrinkles on his cheeks。
Jack hurried off。
Twenty years before； during the sixties； Oatley must have prospered。 The relative brightness of the strip of Mill Road leading out of town was the product of that era when stocks went go…go and gas was still cheap and nobody had heard the term 'discretionary ine' because they had plenty of it。 People had sunk their money into franchise operations and little shops and for a time had； if not actually flourished； held their heads above the waves。 This short series of blocks still had that superficial hopefulness…but only a few bored teenagers sat in the franchise restaurants； nursing medium Cokes； and in the plate…glass windows of too many of the little shops placards as faded as those in the used…car lots announced EVERYTHING MUST GO！ CLOSING SALE。 Jack saw no signs advertising for help； and kept on walking。
Downtown Oatley showed the reality beneath the happy clown's colors left behind by the sixties。 As Jack trudged along these blocks of baked…looking brick buildings； his pack grew heavier； his feet more tender。 He would have walked to Dogtown after all； if it were not for his feet and the necessity of going through the Mill Road tunnel again。 Of course there was no snarling man…wolf lurking in the dark there…he'd worked that out by now。 No one could have spoken to him in the tunnel。 The Territories had shaken him。 First the sight of the Queen； then that dead boy beneath the cart with half his face gone。 Then Morgan； the trees。 But that was there； where such things could be…were； perhaps； even normal。 Here； normality did not admit such gaudiness。
He was before a long； dirty window above which the flaking slogan FURNITURE DEPOSITORY was barely legible on the brickwork。 He put his hands to his eyes and stared in。 A couch and a chair； each covered by a white sheet； sat fifteen feet apart on a wide wooden floor。 Jack moved farther down the block； wondering if he was going to have to beg for food。
Four men sat in a car before a boarded…up shop a little way down the block。 It took Jack a moment to see that the car； an ancient black DeSoto that looked as though Broderick Craw…ford should e bustling out of it； had no tires。 Taped to the windshield was a yellow five…by…eight card which read FAIR WEATHER CLUB。 The men inside； two in front and two in back； were playing cards。 Jack stepped up to the front passenger window。
'Excuse me；' he said； and the cardplayer closest to him rolled a fishy gray eye toward him。 'Do you know where…'
'Get lost；' the man said。 His voice sounded squashed and phlegmy； unfamiliar with speech。 The face half…turned to Jack was deeply pitted with acne scars and oddly flattened out； as if someone had stepped on it when the man was an infant。
'I just wondered if you knew somewhere I could get a couple days' work。'
'Try Texas；' said the man in the driver's seat； and the pair in the back seat cracked up； spitting beer out over their hands of cards。
'I told you； kid； get lost；' said the flat…faced gray…eyed man closest to Jack。 'Or I'll personally pound the shit out of you。'
It was just the truth； Jack understood…if he stayed there a moment longer； this man's rage would boil over and he would get out of the car and beat him senseless。 Then the man would get back in the car and open another beer。 Cans of Rolling Rock covered the floor； the opened ones tipped every which way； the fresh ones linked by white plastic nooses。 Jack stepped backward； and the fish…eye rolled away from him。 'Guess I'll try Texas after all；' he said。 He listened for the sound of the DeSoto's door creaking open as he walked away； but all he heard being opened was another Rolling Rock。
Crack！ Hiss！
He kept moving。
He got to the end of the block and found himself looking across the town's other main street at a dying lawn filled with yellow weeds from which peeked fiberglass statues of Disney…like fawns。 A shapeless old woman gripping a fly…swatter stared at him from a porch swing。
Jack turned away from her suspicious gaze and saw before him the last of the lifeless brick buildings on Mill Road。 Three concrete steps led up to a propped…open screen door。 A long； dark window contained a glowing BUDWEISER sign and； a foot to the right of that； the painted legend UPDIKE'S OATLEY TAP。 And several inches beneath that； handwritten on a yellow five…by…eight card like the one on the DeSoto； were the miraculous words HELP WANTED。 Jack pulled the knapsack off his back； bunched it under one arm； and went up the steps。 For no more than an instant； moving from the tired sunlight into the darkness of the bar； he was reminded of stepping past the thick fringe of ivy into the Mill Road tunnel。
CHAPTER 9
Jack in the Pitcher Plant
1
Not quite sixty hours later a Jack Sawyer who was in a very different frame of mind from that of the Jack Sawyer who had ventured into the Oatley tunnel on Wednesday was in the chilly storeroom of the Oatley Tap； hiding his pack behind the kegs of Busch which sat in the room's far corner like aluminum bowling pins in a giant's alley。 In less than two hours； when the Tap finally shut down for the night； Jack meant to run away。 That he should even think of it in such a fashion…not leaving； not moving on； but running away…showed how desperate he now believed his situation to be。
I was six； six； John B。 Sawyer was six； Jacky was six。 Six。
This thought； apparently nonsensical； had fallen into his mind this evening and had begun to repeat there。 He supposed it went a long way toward showing just how scared he was now； how certain he was that things were beginning to close in on him。 He had no idea what the thought meant； it just circled and circled； like a wooden horse bolted to a carousel。
Six。 I was six。 Jacky Sawyer was six。
Over and over； round and round she goes。
The storeroom shared a wall in mon with the taproom itself； and tonight that wall was actually vibrating with noise； it throbbed like a drumhead。 Until twenty minutes before； it had been Friday night； and both Oatley Textiles and Weaving and Dogtown Custom Rubber paid on Friday。 Now the Oatley Tap was full to the overflow point 。 。 。 and past。 A big poster to the left of the bar read OCCUPANCY BY MORE THAN 220 PERSONS IS IN VIOLATION OF GENESEE COUNTY FIRE CODE 331。 Apparently fire code 331 was suspended on the weekends； because Jack guessed there were more than three hundred people out there now； boogying away to a country…western band which called itself The Genny Valley Boys。 It was a terrible band； but they had a pedal…steel guitar。 'There's guys around here that'd fuck a pedal…steel； Jack；' Smokey had said。
'Jack！' Lori yelled over the wall of sound。
Lori was Smokey's woman。 Jack still didn't know what her last name was。 He could barely hear her over the juke； which was playing at full volume while the band was on break。 All five of them were standing at the far end of the bar； Jack knew； tanking up on half…price Black Russians。 She stuck her head through the storeroom door。 Tired blond hair； held back with childish white plastic barrettes； glittered in the overhead fluorescent。
'Jack； if you don't run that keg out real quick； I guess he'll give your arm a try。'
'Okay；' Jack said。 'Tell him I'll be right there。'
He felt gooseflesh on his arms； and it didn't e entirely from the storeroom's damp chill。 Smokey Updike was no one to fool with…Smokey who wore a succession of paper fry…cook's hats on his narrow head； Smokey with his large plastic mail…order dentures； grisly and somehow funereal in their perfect evenness； Smokey with his violent brown eyes； the scleras an ancient； dirty yellow。 Smokey Updike who in some way still unknown to Jack…and who was all the more frightening for that…had somehow managed to take him prisoner。
The jukebox fell temporarily silent； but the steady roar of the crowd actually seemed to go up a notch to make up for it。 Some Lake Ontario cowboy raised his voice in a big； drunken 'Yeeeee…HAW！' A woman screamed。 A glass broke。 Then the jukebox took off again； sounding a little like a Saturn rocket achieving escape velocity。
Sort of place where they eat what they run over on the road。
Raw。
Jack bent over one of the aluminum kegs and dragged it out about three feet； his mouth screwed down in a painful wince； sweat standing out on his forehead in spite of the air…conditioned chill； his back protesting。 The keg gritted and squealed on the unadorned cement。 He stopped； breathing hard； his ears ringing。
He wheeled the hand…truck over to the keg of Busch； stood it up； then went around to the keg again。 He managed to rock it up on its rim and walk it forward； toward where the hand…truck stood。 As he was setting it down he lost control of it…the big bar…keg weighed only a