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Then
I
happened
to
show
it
to
Ollie
Weeks
one
day
last
fall
.
He
asked
me
if
he
could
photograph
it
and
run
it
as
an
ad
one
week
,
and
that
was
the
end
of
my
own
false
perspective
.
Ollie
had
recognized
my
painting
for
what
it
was
,
and
by
doing
so
,
he
forced
me
to
recognize
it
,
too
.
A
perfectly
good
piece
of
slick
commercial
art
.
No
more
.
And
,
thank
God
,
no
less
.
I
let
him
do
it
,
and
then
I
called
the
exec
at
his
home
in
San
Luis
Obispo
and
told
him
he
could
have
the
painting
for
twenty-five
hundred
if
he
still
wanted
it
.
He
did
,
and
I
shipped
it
UPS
to
the
coast
.
And
since
then
that
voice
of
disappointed
expectation-that
cheated
child
's
voice
that
can
never
be
satisfied
with
such
a
mild
superlative
as
good-has
fallen
pretty
much
silent
.
And
except
for
a
few
rumbles-like
the
sounds
of
those
unseen
creatures
somewhere
out
in
the
foggy
night-it
has
been
pretty
much
silent
ever
since
.
Maybe
you
can
tell
me-why
should
the
silencing
of
that
childish
,
demanding
voice
seem
so
much
like
dying
?
Around
four
o'clock
Billy
woke
up-partially
,
at
least-and
looked
around
with
bleary
,
uncomprehending
eyes
.
"
Are
we
still
here
?
"
"
Yeah
,
honey
,
"
I
said
.
"
We
are
.
"
He
started
to
cry
with
a
weak
helplessness
that
was
horrible
.
Amanda
woke
up
and
looked
at
us
.
"
Hey
,
kid
,
"
she
said
,
and
pulled
him
gently
to
her
.
"
Everything
is
going
to
look
a
little
better
come
morning
.
"
No
,
"
Billy
said
.
"
No
it
wo
n't
.
It
wo
n't
.
It
wo
n't
.
"
"
Shh
,
"
she
said
.
Her
eyes
met
mine
over
his
head
.
"
Shh
,
it
's
past
your
bedtime
.
"
"
I
want
my
mother
!
"
