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Show 164 "Seriously?" Leah asked later that afternoon: "They're done? They're gone?" "Nothing to it!" Hunt said, grinned and slapped his hands together. "How did they turn out?" Leah asked. "What did they look like?" "I . . ." Hunt shrugged his shoulders. "It happened so fast; I'm not really sure." "Ghost painting!" Leah said. She shook her head and went back to a bulb catalogue she was reading. Outside, behind the garage, Hunt could hear his two boys shouting: "Rockets!" "Rockets!" For the next ten days, Hunt shuttled about. He worked on their lawn. He cleaned the pool. Suskind sent him a one-word telegram: BRILLIANT! He tried to start a painting of his own - the night image of a used car lot - but it wouldn't form, wouldn't focus, and so he cleaned his airbrush. "Where's your check, Pusscat?" Leah asked. He took Sean and Todd trout fishing. The stream was low, the fishing, lazy, but they caught enough to eat and bring a half-dozen home. In the flames of the fire, before they crept into their sleeping bags for the night, Hunt kept thinking he saw familiar faces, but no . . . no; that must be wrong; they were only the faces of people in Hunt's invented elevators. "Nothing from New York;" Leah handed him the mail when he got home; "Not even another two-syllable telegram." He got her to drive |
