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Show LEAH'S QUILT When Hunt returned from London, Leah asked him if he still felt the same way about the divorce. "I do," he said. He was in the bathroom shaving. Leah went into the bedroom and lay down. She wept. She felt sick. Things had seemed to be expanding between them, to be soft again, to have warmth. Yet Hunt acknowledged none of this. He showed no change. Leah's face felt puffy and fat. Her stomach knit and snarled on her. She hated the taste of her own hair. Hunt came in. She did not look up to see him; still she could smell the Irish soap of him and his aftershave. "I'm sorry, Leah," he said; standing, not moving. "Go away," she moaned through the quilt she'd made for them that fall. Hunt had made the frame for it; Leah had made the quilt. Time was love, Leah knew. Time was love; and if she spent time making that quilt: cutting the squares-, feeling the colors, moving her hands, filling it warmly with soft things, then their lovemaking would find tenderness again, sorcery, heights. The quilt was patterned of squares of pink and orange, bright rose and green. "I have got to try it," Hunt told her. "Please! Go away." "I'm going to take the kids out coasting. Do you want to come?" "No." "Can I get anything for you while I'm out?" |
