OCR Text |
Show 205 chasms: inevitable. As there had been in Hunt's mother's. And his father? Hunt waved congratulations to Sean for his fish, then looked down to where his father made only short, meager casts, without authority of any line. In his father's life, was Hunt that arterial bruise, that hole, that blue-yellow chasm? Sean strung trout one-after the other; Hunt landed a few; his father disappeared from the beach. All the incoming clouds over the lake had an eerie loose contour and drape. Some weave that Hunt had worked on for years seemed unraveling. The sculptor, Henry Moore, had learned his art from two things: the concavities and holes in sea-washed stone and wood . . . and the shape, as he messaged it, of his mother's back. Another cutthroat struck Hunt's lure. Hunt set the hook. The fish jumped. Hunt played him. Sean had a trout on now as well. Hunt was stripped to the waist, and the patchy late afternoon sun dried and gelled the air about his hair, about his chest and face in a way that felt like a resonance of his roof, the growing dawn, the morning. Hunt's fish jumped again and spit its hook. Sean was landing his. "Where did you go?" Hunt asked his father when the three were together again in the campsite parking area. "I'm letting you and Sean provide," his father said, scratching, drawing blood from a welt on his arm. "Mosquitoes have been terrible." |