I was frightened of "The Shining" when I was little, mostly because Jack Nicholson's character, Jack Torrence, reminded me of my father—The same plaid shirt, the same greasy hair combover, the same quiet lurch around the house, shimmering mercurial rage at imagined conspiracy. Like Alice in Wonderland, the more he drank, the smaller our world became. We did not invite friends home. We ate grilled cheese sandwiches with the bathroom door locked, listening to our father call our names, the squeak of his hush puppies on the stairs. Even now, the sound of our own voices is startling, an earthquake we coax back to dormancy. At the end of "The Shining" Jack Torrence is trapped, like the mythological Minotaur, in the hotel's outdoor garden maze as he attempts to kill his son Danny, who escapes. I have never been able to retrace Danny's steps, figure out how he doubled back. In my own dreams, my father and I navigate the snow-covered shrubbery. We see our breaths around corners, hear our voices through the leaves. We walk in circles, icicle fingers. In trodden paths, our footprints never lead out, never lead to each other.
