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Show 180 image of a man on fire; the other a portrait of a boy he remembered playing football with, years before. "Too much color, too many colors:" Hunt judged himself aloud. Both paintings had his relinquished friend's riveting eyes. Six colors too many. Georgia O'Keefe painted for a long time with only blue. Hunt felt self-directed anger. Thirty pounds lighter, alone most hours of the day, sparer of line, sparer of possession, connection, expectation - he still felt himself the unforgivable abuser of restraint. He pulled a book, ANIMALS OF THE WORLD, from Todd's shelf. He indexed it, followed leads. No, it wasn't a weasel; it wasn't an otter or a mink that he had. It was a marten. It was an American sable. All right: The creature was named. Hunt felt better. Still Hunt's lack of discipline in caring for the marten, his insufficient reins, argued, chafed, so he placed a call to his father in Boston, where Sean had gone for a week at Thanksgiving, and requested that Sean's plane ticket be redeemed and that he be sent home on the bus. "I don't understand this," Hunt's father questioned him. "It's nearly two hundred dollars less," Hunt said. "You can't afford . . .?" "I afford too much," Hunt nearly snapped it. What he meant was: He had afforded a bruised creature. "But a young boy . . . on a bus . . ." Hunt's father sounded so sad, so lonely at the prospect. "Sean can handle it." "I'll pay the difference," Hunt's father offered. "Then it won't be coming out of your ..." "Pop: Put him on the bus. Cash in his plane ticket. Put him on the Greyhound |
