| OCR Text |
Show decisions. You're pursuing balance." He couldn't paint. He tried working on a large oil street scene from his past: lower Washington Street, Boston; but it wouldn't shape or color. So he smoked. He smoked three cigarettes in his studio, one fast after the other, and looked out. He watched the snow. He watched wire-like branches and pines. He thought about his uncle in New York who was a Jew. He thought about different tones of white. He thought he could hear gunshots around the lake. When he went to get more coffee, Leah was not around. He checked the downstairs bathroom. He checked upstairs. He went out to the garage, and the car was there, Leah's keycase dangling from the ignition key in the lock. She had thought about leaving them, going somewhere. Where? Hunt wondered where she would go. To his parents again? To see them? Why? Driving? Just driving? Snowy roads scared her: driving through snow? Leah . . . "Leah . . .?" Hunt called into the landscape. "Leah!" He went inside, called her throughout the house. He checked the closets. He checked the medicine cabinets, not sure for what: bottles emptied of pills? He checked the furnace room, checked his studio lofts. There was nothing but the smells of oil and cold fishing gear. Outside the kitchen door, Hunt found tracks. They led through the snow, circling, wandering past the back of the house, around the edge of the lake. "Leah!" he called again. But it was like yelling out into foam. He followed the tracks. The steps were short, absent-minded. They were |
