"No problem," the artist replied, and immediately squeezed
a dab of bright blue paint from a tube onto her palette, dipped her long
sable brush into the paint, and touched the eyes of the subject with light,
quick strokes. "That better?" She smiled at Josey.
"Perfect, honey!" beamed the critic. And turning toward the
screen door, she called out, "Hey, Fenton, c'm here and tell me if
this ain't the spittin' image of Pop!" Presently, the screen door banged
again and a tall, gaunt man with a thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair slouched
out onto the porch, stretching his bright red suspenders with his thumbs.
"Whatcha, want, Josey?" he drawled. |
 |
"Well, just look at this here picture Lucy's paintin'. Ain't that
the spittin' image of Pop?"
Fenton bent over and earnestly scrutinized the likeness, comparing it again
and again with the snapshot. "Well, if that don't beat all," he
said in an awed whisper. Looks like he was goin' to start talkin' any minit."
Then he straightened up, patted Lucy on the arm, and cleared his throat
like someone who was apologizing beforehand for what he was about to say.
"But, yuh know, now that I think about it, there's just a little somethin'
about the eyes. Yuh see, Pop's eyes wasn't blue like that--they was kinda
hazel-like, yuh know what I mean? They was more hazel-like."
"Why, if that ain't the stupidest thing you ever said, Fenton Farlow,"
sneered Josey. "You ain't got no eye for color nohow. If you did, you
wouldn't wear them red suspenders with a blue striped shirt!"
"Now, see here, Woman, I got as good a eye for color as the next one.
Anyway, I guess I know what my own daddy's eyes was like."
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