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Show 144 get back. To Belmont. You know, she'd give us ice-cream sandwiches and coke "Oh, Hunt!" he heard Marianna say. And he knew that, not wanting to, he'd begun her crying. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll see you tonight," she said. "I'm cooking a roast." "Sure," Hunt said. And they hung up. The Deli had stacks of papers, and Hunt bought himself a copy of The Times. Outside, police were towing a car from an expired meter. The awful snow Boston had been smothered by some weeks earlier had melted, but the street edges and the gutters were still choked with it. A black carbon crust iced the top. Perhaps it won't fully melt, Hunt thought. Perhaps all the crap will keep light from getting in and doing any final melting . . . and there will be a, kind of permanent archeology of Winter here, forever, until resourceful people up on Louisberg Square gather it and bring it in, come next Fall, to stoke their furnaces with. It really wasn't like any snow he had ever seen, fresh or lingered. To fill time, he wandered an antique store. The interior was like an old photograph of itself, like itself done in oils by a Dutch painter. Any light seemed without proper air to carry it. All the brass pieces, all the glass decantors and the pedestal tables, all seemed coated with a layer of dull and waxy dust. "Anything in particular?" a woman, rising from a Windsor chair in a dense shadow, asked. "I don't think so," Hunt said - then added, "Thank you." He stood a moment in the spot he'd come to, beside a ship's binnacle, then left. |