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Show 112 "Yeah," Sean chimed in. "I can even recognize him." "I think, basically," Hunt told his family. "Bascially, I think - I'm a Realist." "'Realist.' What does that mean?" Todd, the ten-year-old, asked. "Well," Hunt said, thinking about it, making Leah nervous; "I guess . . . 'Realist' . . .' He took a Hunt-like stab: "Truth!" "Oh, dear," Leah moaned. "Please, not Truth again!" But they both laughed. Arizona, at the end of June, was filled with open, wonderful heat. They had been living there for only sixteen days. "Let's meet neighbors!" Leah suggested. "Let's be social. In New Hampshire: we were more like turtles - or ferrets or something. Sluggish. Secluded." "Maybe all of it was necessary," Hunt tried. He liked to think that every confusion, every shadow and thicket, had necessity nesting somewhere in it. Life is a River, he had once said, very stupidly and unoriginally, to Leah. "Hunt," Leah pressed; "Let's meet other nearby creatures. Please? Let's introduce ourselves as human beings. It's a World we live in. It's a neighborhood. " "Fine," Hunt said. He smiled. He hugged her. "That's fine. I'm sailing. I'm doing nearly a painting a week. --Wonderful. Do it. Have people over. I'll learn a joke from Sean -- so I can tell one. "I'll mix a pitcher of margaritas." "Heavens!" Leah said. She did a brief flamenco tap. "How Southwestern!" To the north of Hunt and Leah were the Piersons, Lane and Andi, Andi with |
