the roadblock； a colossal symbol of the bad years at Stovington Prep； the
marriage he had almost totaled like a nutty kid behind the wheel of an old
jalopy； the monstrous assault on his son； the incident in the parking lot with
George Hatfield； an incident he could no longer view as just another sudden and
destructive flare of temper。 He now thought that part of his drinking problem
had stemmed from an unconscious desire to be free of Stovington and the security
he felt was stifling whatever creative urge he had。 He had stopped drinking； but
the need to be free had been just as great。 Hence George Hatfield。 Now all that
remained of those days was the play on the desk in his and Wendy's bedroom； and
when it was done and sent off to Phyllis's hole…in…the…wall New York agency； he
could turn to other things。 Not a novel； he was not ready to stumble into the
swamp of another three…year undertaking； but surely more short stories。 Perhaps
a book of them。
Moving warily； he scrambled back down the slope of the roof on his hands and
knees past the line of demarcation where the fresh green Bird shingles gave way
to the section of roof he had just finished clearing。 He came to the edge on the
left of the wasps' nest he had uncovered and moved gingerly toward it； ready to
backtrack and bolt down his ladder to the ground if things looked too hot。
He leaned over the section of pulled…out flashing and looked in。
The nest was in there； tucked into the space between the old flashing and the
final roof undercoating of three…by…fives。 It was a damn big one。 The grayish
paper ball looked to Jack as if it might be nearly two feet through the c