OCR Text |
Show 43 great. If you can get away. I'm not a maniac or anything. I'm just a painter. And I guess impulsive. Obviously. I just find you \/ery ... I don't know what the word is: striking, compelling. My name is Hunt." "Martha," the woman'd said, taking Hunt's extended hand. Her jaw was agape, and it was like she was trying to recall the rest of her name, "Martha . . . McAllister." "Well it's nice to meet you, Martha." Hunt smiled and felt, not even boyish: childish; "You're really . . . arresting, I guess is the word! And that . . . float or whatever it is, freeze, is an incredible green. "Thank you," Martha McAllister had said. "Well, Wednesday, if you can make it," Hunt said, drawing away. "If not, I'll certainly understand that not everybody is crazy." It was a Friday, and Hunt had driven back to Rockport, the woman, Martha's image clinging to the screen of his mind like smoke to wool. He would have guessed her age near thirty. He had seen a wedding ring. He hadn't thought to ask where she lived. He hadn't thought to ask anything or to say that he lived without telephone. The next day he had walked along the rocks and wondered if she'd come. Hunt had done a sketch of a Portugee fisherman eating his lunch beside his nets. He had gone to the library and discovered that there were at least a thousand McAllisters in all the various suburban directories. He had seen something alive in her. That was the best of his articulation. No: He did better: burried alive; the intuition scared him. He had seen something alive, not yet emerged, and he had leapt toward it. Was that part of the pattern? Hunt wondered. From early in? Was that a chief component of the mix of women and his stupidity? |