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Show 79 stood with it by the pool. In his mind he saw the moon, sequined over his New Hampshire lake. It was as white as snow. Later that night, his phone awakened him. It was Victoria. "When will you begin?" she demanded. "What time . . .?" "You need to start." "I was sleeping." "You need to paint me. Please. They won't leave me alone." "I can't ..." Hunt woke the next morning, dislodged. He swore he'd gone to bed on the other side of the room. It was all the glass. He was doing things that were foreign. He couldn't think. He rented a car and drove it to the Boulevard Mall. What was . . .? He bought oils; he bought brushes and knives. He had two canvases stretched. He bought sketch pads. He played the rest of the morning and won two thousand dollars. Freeman asked if he was finding everything to his taste: Did he want tickets to any shows? Would he like to arrange higher limits? Hunt said he needed to be outside by the pool. Victoria found him. "Please," she said. Hunt dove. He stayed, submerged, swimming back and forth for as long as he was able, holding his breath. When he surfaced, she went on: "My husband never wrote a love poem in his life. He speaks of: 'Love Poetry.' It's a whole section of his revised anthology: Love Poets and Love Poems. God, he's brilliant! He's a brilliant man. He's the most brilliant man I have ever known. I collapse beside him. Turn invisible. He incorporates me. I am incorporated. In his children. |
