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Show 138 Leah leaned forward and kissed Hunt's cheek. "Should we go to the gate?" she asked. "One minute," Hunt said. "In a minute." Tuscon, now in January, was warm, temperate. He liked having breakfast with his family. In the cab, under the tunnel, moving from Logan to the Mass. General Hospital, Hunt attributed the fact that he had chosen painting, to his mother. Not any particular, he thought. Not any particular choice she would have made, were she making it for me. Still, just her. Her spirit. How could . . . how could someone not have wanted to put The World together, being her child? She always said, was always saying: "Here." "Here: take this. Here -- this. Here: buy yourself a . . . Here: another bit of . . ." "Eighteen, thirty-five," the cabby, on the far side of his lucite panel, said. "Pardon?" Hunt said, surfacing, seeing that they were at the back entrance to the hospital, cleared and filthy snow heaped everywhere. "Eighteen, thirty-five," the man with the squat cap repeated. It sounded to Hunt like a date. What had happened in 1835? Men had painted America as The Garden of Eden. Hunt slipped a twenty dollar bill into the hinged, wedge-shaped box between them. "Keep the change," Hunt said. "What: No tip?" the cabby fired. And Hunt knew he was back home, on the East Coast, again. |
