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Show 143 Hunt's head was stuffed, in this benzene smelling elevator, with such silly tangles, such snarls and pictures and ideas. Fool! Jesus: Impotent son! Hunt the Artist! Outside the air from The Charles moved in like geletin. It contained Breughal birds. Hunt moved to move. He walked toward Charles street. Past the Eye and Ear infirmary. Past what had once been the wall to a prison exer-cise yard at the corner. Had the hospital taken over the prison - for expansion? Or had the prison taken the hospital . . .? Several prisoners had escaped once, Hunt remembered, through the Infirmary. All the bricks looked charred. He was Home. Hunt heard the traffic moving. He was in Boston. He started up the metal pedestrian overpass spanning Storrow Drive -- Fruit Street Charles Street at the traffic circle. He stopped, looked back, tried to find his mother's fifth floor window -- somewhere beyond the line of sleeping basketball standards in the prison yard. Goddman: she was dying! Hunt got some coffee at a Deli and called his sister at work: "I'm here," he said. "Thank you," Marianna said. "Have you been there?" "Just now." And Hunt could hear his voice congealing. "You know," he said to his sister: "Do you know what I was just thinking of? Do you remember Nat Breed?" "Of course," she said. "I was just remembering . . . how he and I, in the summers, used to ride the subway from Harvard Square all the way to the end of the line. The front car. The door open. We'd just ride in it, you know, kind of inhaling that flinty electric wind and feeling the air cool our T-shirts. -And when we'd |