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Show 190 was en route, returning. And he'd met a girl in the Greyhound terminal in Chicago. "I think I'm in love!" he announced. "Sean: you're fifteen," Leah said. "Oh, and Dad - I meant to tell you before, when I called about them cancelling the busses . . . I don't think Grampa's very good." "What do you mean?" Hunt asked and felt panic. "He seems really old," Sean said. Later, during Hunt's studio ritual of freshening and feeding, he felt a sense of finality in his life he had never felt before. He remembered a play at the Cherry Lane theatre in New York, in which the immobile central character's ongoing closing refrain was "discard." "Discard:" and he threw away his biscuits. "Discard:" and he threw away his cane. "Discard:" and he assured himself that the proper end had come for his father and mother. Strange -- because Hunt swore that he remembered it being a funny play. Was this the time? Now? Was Hunt soon to be giving up his father? Despite Hunt's dream, the marten grew very sweet and placid. Serene. While Hunt was freshening her home, she would sit on the rug. Or wander studio space. Or rest beside him as he painted. He bought her mice. "You've gotten to be a healthy rascal," Hunt said, breaking his own tangled sense of closure. "I should never have done this in the first place," he went on. "But it's time to return you. -You don't belong in a Minimalist's studio." |
