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Show 206 That night, waiting for their table in the lodge dining room, looking out the huge, bowed western window at the violent sunset and Yellowstone Lake, Hunt remarked: "Storm coming." "There's always a storm coming," his father smiled. "Where's Sean? What is it - what's the name of that game you said he was playing?" "Pac Man," Hunt said, "fac Mam. It's video. It's electronic." "Too much television," his father said. "You watch football." "Only in my declining years." "Are these years - are they declining?" Hunt asked. "They're not ascending," Hunt's father said. And Hunt felt alone. For the third time that day, he felt back on his roof: solitary, scanning, trying to determine something -- why he was there; the day; what his next act should be. "Did you think I was ascending?" Hunt's father pressed him. "Always -- in my estimation," Hunt said. "Mr. Hunt? --Mr. Hunt?" the address system came: "Table for three?" Was it the wine he and his father had had? Was it the walk in absolute silence the three had taken, after dark down to the water's edge? Was it the lightning now, at once mocking, at once scarring the sky? Or was it simply that he could hear Sean and his father laughing in the adjoining room? Whatever: Hunt found himself tossed by profound weeping. "Oh, Leah, Leah!" he said aloud; "Oh, Leah, Leah!" Though he had no sure idea of what it was |