got　hold　of　him；　dragged　him　away；

wrestled　the　cane　out　of　his　hand。　Jack

（little　Jacky　now　he　was　little　Jacky　now　dozing　and　mumbling　on　a　cobwebby

camp　chair　while　the　furnace　roared　into　hollow　life　behind　him）

knew　exactly　how　many　blows　it　had　been　because　each　soft　whump　against　his

mother's　body　had　been　engraved　on　his　memory　like　the　irrational　swipe　of　a

chisel　on　stone。　Seven　whumps。　No　more；　no　less。　He　and　Becky　crying；

unbelieving；　looking　at　their　mother's　spectacles　lying　in　her　mashed　potatoes；

one　cracked　lens　smeared　with　gravy。　Brett　shouting　at　Daddy　from　the　back　hall；

telling　him　he'd　kill　him　if　he　moved。　And　Daddy　saying　over　and　over：　〃Damn

little　puppy。　Damn　little　whelp。　Give　me　my　cane；　you　damn　little　pup。　Give　it

to　me。〃　Brett　brandishing　it　hysterically；　saying　yes；　yes；　I'll　give　it　to　you；

just　you　move　a　little　bit　and　I'll　give　you　all　you　want　and　two　extra。　I'll

give　you　plenty。　Momma　getting　slowly　to　her　feet；　dazed；　her　face　already

puffed　and　swelling　like　an　old　tire　with　too　much　air　in　it；　bleeding　in　four

or　five　different　places；　and　she　had　said　a　terrible　thing；　perhaps　the　only

thing　Momma　had　ever　said　which　Jacky　could　recall　word　for　word：　〃Who's　got　the

newspaper？　Your　daddy　wants　the　funnies。　Is　it　raining　yet？〃　And　then　she　sank

to　her　knees　again；　her　hair　hanging　in　her　puffed　and　bleeding　face。　Mike

calling　the　doctor；　babbling　into　the　phone。　Could　he　e　right　away？　It　was

their　mother。　No；　he　couldn't　say　what　the　trouble　was；　not　over　the　phone；　not

over　a　party　line　he　couldn't。　Just　e。　The　doctor　came　and　took　Momma　away　to

the　hospital　where　Daddy　had　wo