OCR Text |
Show 72 City, Las Vegas, Nevada! Hunt had never been there. He had never gambled. Still, he needed to dislodge himself, he'd said. He corresponded with a man named Freeman. Freeman wrote back. Hunt took nearly all of his and Leah's money out of savings and sent it on ahead. He grew a mustache. "Something's happening to Dad," Sean, their eight year old, said two weeks later over breakfast. "Something's always happening to Dad," Leah said. "I'm going on a junket," Hunt admitted. "Come on, boys," Leah signalled. "I'll walk you up the hill to the bus." When she got back, she found Hunt packing in his studio. "That's a dessert!" she said. "I remember. Junket's a kind of pudding - like jello; only softer. Hunt, what j[s this?" "I'm going on a junket." Hunt's flight left from Kennedy. He took the AmTrak from Boston down and spent a night in New York so that he could visit The Metropolitan early before his plane left. At the museum, he studied Renaissance Adorations: Saints and Shepherds and Magi. He liked the Magi best, although he thought he ought to be more responsive to the Saints. He spent nearly half an hour, standing before a tiny drawing by Correggio, measuring lines of red chalk and open areas of white, amazed at the simple draping, curious about the crudeness of horses, frightened that there could be so many humble postures. Hunt longed to submit to such a feeling himself. He bought a postcard with the print on |