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Show 141 "Once it even seemed like she was on the mend for two days." His father, in the manner of the teacher that he was, put a closure on the paragraph he'd begun. He pulled himself erect, apart. "Excuse the display," he said. "She's our woman," Hunt said and wanted to add: What do you mean? What display? "She's our woman," he said again. "It's only natural." Hunt's father turned and walked to the wall. He stood there. "I have to get on back across the river," he said. "I need to put in another couple hours this afternoon." "That's fine," Hunt said. "I'll stay." "Thank you for coming," his father faced in now. "I'll be back -- five-thirty, six. Can we meet here?" "Sure," Hunt said. He held his hand out, and his father took it. "There's a new Chinese place," his father said, "in Cushing Square." Hunt was standing at her window looking out at a frozen Boston when his mother woke. He was framing memories, framing images: Beacon Hill, lights, a skyline, men in hats and blue woolen coats. "Well," his mother said. "Well." He turned in and smiled. She smiled back. "You're nice," she said. Hunt crossed to her bed. He bent and kissed her on the forehead and could smell the chemicals. "Hell of a situation," he said, trying to frame it without too much gravity. "It's a good hospital," his mother said. "They're trying hard." |
