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Show 172 glass, under awnings, in the rain, snow, with a whistle calling someone's cab, holding a fast-food hamburger to his lips. What had prompted . . . what had initiated. . .?! Jesus! He ran a hand through his hair, pressed a fist into his mouth, jostled people and their wine glasses to get closer. "Holy God," he muttered, and "Holy Hell." His body rocked; he moved his head forward and back, pushed a hand through his hair again, made two fists, rapped his knuckles together. "That's my father," he said. He said the words evenly and to nobody. Then he said it louder: "That's my father." And then, however it happened, he was shouting: "That's my father! - That's my mother! - That's my sister! Look! My Brother! My wife! My children!" People in elevators: People in elevators moving up and down; his sister stuck between floors; he and Leah, lovers in a dropping space; Sean and Todd in playful freefall with the elevator's panel of buttons. And himself . . . himself so strangely faceless, yet identifiable . . . standing, waiting, regretful, hopeful, preoccupied on a chain of thresholds. "I PAINTED THESE!" Hunt finally screamed. He was staring across the gallery to where Cletus Marion orchestrated light attention. "I PAINTED THESE. EVERY ONE OF THESE. THESE PEOPLE - ARE ME. THESE PEOPLE ARE MY FAMILY!" He paused. Then: "Reuben Garrison!" He hit his own chest with his fists and felt crazy. "Reuben Garrison!" he said again. The interior light pulsed, then ghosted. The crowd held - confident though, it seemed,that some projectionist would fix whatever it was that had happened to their film. Hunt could see Suskind, bald head giving off a white troubled arc. A security guard, speaking low and careful threats, materialized and seized Hunt, steering him out, out, through people, toward the exit door. |