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Show 130 turned, slow, heavy - a warm, light, but somehow, in-its-way, reluctant season. Hunt and Leah lived on one planet; the neighbors, on another. Hunt saw them -- here, there: entering a car, taking out the rubbish, frail and heavy shadows passing by a window. He thought about them always. But they were not the paintings that he had completed and sent off; they were forms, faces, qualities of light, shapes. A pecky-cedar fence rose between the Schoefields and Hunts. "It's not me. Don't think it's me," Rex said one dusk during construction. "Paula . . ." but he didn't finish his sentence. "About the art lessons . . .," but Hunt didn't finish his sentence either. And the two left, drifting away from shadowy posts and the smell of clay-and-sandy earth echoing, "Nice to talk. Yes; nice to talk." Sean and Todd played their music, swam, played in what Leah described one afternoon to Hunt as "a tender, really crazy-tender oblivion. Look at them." Andi Pierson caught Hunt heading off to market one afternoon and asked him in for coffee. Once in, she offered wine. She wore a blue button-down oxfordcloth shirt tucked into madras shorts, three buttons undone. Hunt was surprised to see the letters of the poet, Anne Sexton, on the coffee table. "Well, I just had a surplus of Dubonnet," she said after twenty awkward minutes. "I suppose you'd better be off - so you can get your teriyaki sauce." Hunt nodded. At the door, she asked how his painting went. The truth was that on receipt of Hunt's neighbor paintings, his gallery owner had cabled: SILENT MAJORITY REALISM. CLASSICAL! ONE SOLD FIRST DAY. TWO TO GO. IRV. He'd bought Leah a new fuel-economy car with his first check. But Hunt told none of that to Andi Pierson. His response to her question about how his painting went was: "Wei 1J you just . . . do it. You just paint and paint. Hope that |