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Show 145 He called his brother from a payphone. "Rob," he said. "Hunt." Rob knew him. "Just wanted to check in," Hunt said. "What do you think?" Rob said. "I mean, you've seen her." "I think every denying thought that I can," Hunt said. "Yeah," Rob said. "Every one!" "She keeps praising the nurses," Rob said, then laughed. "She makes the nurses feel better than they're making her feel." "She's an energy source," Hunt said. "She's a source of light." Hunt heard his brother start to say something, then stop. "Let's have a stiff gin and tonic," Hunt offered. "Tonight . . . tomorrow." "Tomorrow for sure," Rob said. They hung up. There was a basement bakery and coffee shop along the block, and Hunt stepped down and entered it. He bought a cinnamon roll and a large coffee and sat himself at a small table in the corner to read. He read the basketball scores, then an art review of a show at The Castelli, a painter, slightly younger than himself working with colored, magnetized patterns of iron filings, fixed on six and eight foot canvasses. John Canaday had called them "tight visceral explosions and implosions." There was one black-and-white photograph. The painting looked to Hunt like an x-ray he had seen of his mother's lungs. I'm a realist, recently he'd defined himself to people asking even though it seemed like such a silly word. "Realist." In what way were iron filings, or someone else's giant postcard of a motorcycle, part of any life a person |
