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Show 186 had burst some blood vessel. He tried to imagine where Sean would be on the bus. The morning paper on the first page had described a Midwest with ongoing snow. It was right under the headline of ongoing, deepening insurrection abroad. Solidarity strikes. Hunger campaigns. Would Hunt die for a cause, give himself up? Wasn't it a terrible luxury to worry about too many colors on his palette? But maybe that was just preparation. The phone rang. It was the operator asking if Hunt would accept the charges for a long-distance call from his son, Sean, in Chicago. "They've cancelled all busses West," Sean said. "Forever?" Hunt asked. "Indefinitely. That's the word the man used. What should I do? It's because of snow." "Sit tight," Hunt said. He tried to.sound hearty and like a father. "Sit tight. Snow melts." "In April," Sean said, sounding like his mother. "In Chicago, snow melts in April." He was not bouyed by his father's bravura. Hunt got the Chicago Greyhound phone number. "Just sit tight," he said a third time. "We'll keep in touch." The marten was sleeping when Hunt returned to his studio. At first he couldn't see her, somehow she'd burrowed into this weater and it was bunched. He felt a crazy panic. But she was simply comfortable. Or was she worse? Hunt regarded her, what he could see, and suddenly worried that her fur looked more slack, less attached. "Do you want more food?" He had read that martens ate mice. "Should I buy some mice? Do you want a vet?" The marten shivered - from some marten dream. |