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Show 127 A sudden dread poured from the pause in Rex's sentence. Dead? Gone mad? Left town? A teacher had once told Hunt's studio class - and the memory dictum sped back (too late?) like an urgent telegram - Be careful! Paint the world: But know: The world will always paint you back. -- ". . . actually she's . . . in her room. She has a room she calls her sewing room." Hunt felt incredible relief. "She sews?" he asked. "No," Rex said. He looked embarrassed, quizzical, strangely alert. "She'd like to, but . . . I was thinking -- I was wondering - maybe you could . . . well, you know, reassure her." "Yes," Hunt said, "Yes." And not having any notion how he'd do it, added, "Of course." When Hunt got back, Leah told him -- her voice the voice of a low-keyed newscaster -- what had happened. Lane Pierson had come to the front of their house and smashed a huge zucchini on their front walk. "I looked out, and there he was," Leah went on, "in a rust-colored leisure suit -- the zucchini over his head, and . . . Are we back to winter again? Am I going crazy? . . . Hunt, I could have sworn that -- it makes no sense - coming out of the zucchini . . . was . . ." She almost couldn't say it. "What?" Hunt encouraged her. "... A lighted fuse." Her stare, Hunt saw, asked if he would verify her madness. "I think not." Hunt tried assuring her. "A lit fuse in a zucchini - it seems unlikely." |
