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Show 47 And she had started to cry. "Hey . . . " Hunt had said. "Hey - I'm . . . Are you hungry? Must be time for lunch." And she had dressed, and Hunt had walked her down to a l i t t l e seafood place on the pier. "I'm sorry I cried," she'd said. "Hey, really, please," Hunt had said; "God; don't apologize. People cry. I cry. I've cried half my l i f e ." "You have?" "I'm trying to stop!" Hunt had said in a mock-manly voice, and Martha had laughed. "You're a nice person," she had said. "I'm a klutz!" It was Hunt's turn now to laugh. At himself. "But I'm a good painter. At least I think I 've got that somewhere -- inside. Give it a shot." She'd asked him his age, and when he'd told her, she'd looked disappointed, then surprised. "You look older," she'd said. "Tribulations!" Hunt had joked, pushing the clown. Clown! That was the second element of his stupidity: wasn't it?! First: he just leapt in. Second he was the clown. There was a Country-Western song which nearly stopped his heart every time he heard it on the radio: Conway Twitty: "The Clown 'You love the Circus/ But you don't love the Clown.'" Women loved the arenas of Hunt's life, but they didn't cotton, finally, to his act. He was a clown. "My husband, Donald, has a very intense schedule," Martha had said, walking back the little hill to Hunt's street and house. "He's the Chief Surgical Resident at Mount Auburn Hospital." |
