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Show 151 "What?" "... I wanted you to have it," he said simply. "It seemed like you. His work. -The light." "Thank you." She slid a finger inside the cover, parting it, lifting it open to the first page. "You didn't sign it," she said. "No," Hunt said. "No. But you know it's me." She didn't say anthing. The oxygen apparatus, just diagonally over her left shoulder made a watery, somewhat congested sound. She won't use it. She hates the mask. She won't breathe with it nearly at all as much as she should, his father had said recently, over the telephone. "Should you be using that?" Hunt asked. He pointed. "Thank you, Hunt," she said. The book lay open to the reproduction of a woman, nude, fleshy, sitting on a bed in a city room. Hopper's light . sloped warm geometry through its available window. "When I was student-nursing here," his mother recalled, "Fresh from Gram's farm," she smiled. "... I lived in a room like this." Her eyes clouded. "It was kind of dingy," she went on: ". . . dusty, you know - but it was nice. And when it came ... I loved the light." Her lips quivered one against the other. "Don't ..." Hunt started. "It's nice," she stopped. "It's fine. It's nice. It's good. I do. I like to remember. I had so much energy then. It's like . . ." she stopped and thought. ". . . like breath." Hunt nodded. "Were you here earlier? Oh: ... Yes: Of course you were. We talked about that - didn't we." She turned a page. The image was of a room, open, |
