wasn’t violent. I wasn’t that kind of Chicken. (I tried to explain Chickens and Ghosts. He didn’t get it.)
He said, OK, that’s great. What about the psychotic break? The electroshock? What about these fantasies? What about you wanting to kill yourself? Is any of that true?
He sounded so convinced it was all made up. I didn’t know how to break it to him that yes, I am just as fucked up as they say.
I said, It’s the way they put it together …
What we have to focus on are the factual inaccuracies, he said.
I thought for a moment.
Well, I never tried to strangle Theo. I only fantasized about it.
That’s it, he said, relieved. Perfect. That’s what we’ll focus on.
MAY 14 1983
The past few months have made me want to blow my brains out. The calls, the letters, the newspaper articles. Lawyer updating me about the lawsuit, like the lawsuit can undo that heartbeat after people recognize me, when their eyes fill with fascination, disgust. I don’t even think about going to the gallery openings, the parties. I can’t handle how everyone looks at me. They see me through a frame I didn’t make.
No, but think of the good news, Miranda! The shrink says I have to lead with the good news before letting myself get to the real shit. (Not his exact words.)
Good News: Apparently if people think you might kill yourself any day, the value of your works goes way up and your dealers sell out of everything they have. So suddenly you’ve finished paying the medical bills and your bank account is bulging and you have all the time in the world to create something new, because whenever you finish it, it will surprise people that you are not already dead or in jail.
Good News: Hal is happy.
Good News: Jake is happy. He sold a painting recently, a decent chunk of change. Of course then the tabloid happened, and now money’s not an issue, but selling work puts him in a good mood. Which makes the days go smoother.
Good News: Theo is happy. Cooing and cuddling. Talking gibberish words. A sweet boy. A good phase.
Bad News: Someone sold me out.
Bad News: Everyone knows I’m crazy.
Bad News: Maybe I’m still crazy.
Bad News: You never really know for sure.
10.
KATE
There was already a crowd at the Fourth of July party by the time Kate, Frank, and Louise hauled their wares over the rise of the dunes. Folding tables had been set up in the middle of the beach, and they were fully laden, their middles bowed by stoneware tagines and large aluminum trays. Red, white, and blue balloons snapped in the breeze. The mayor was blending margaritas in a battery-powered travel blender. Louise had also gone all out, making a watermelon salad and a leek soufflé that she had been worrying about ever since it came out of the oven that afternoon. Now she set it down on one folding table with an audible sigh of relief.
“Your cake’s not here,” Kate said. Her aunt had spent hours the previous day baking an elaborate cake with alternating layers of blue- and red-dyed batter, but she had transferred it to her friend Nora to decorate.
“Nora has it in her car. We’re going to bring it out as a surprise,” Louise said.
The party was much bigger than Kate had expected. There must have been two hundred people there, easily. Women in woven ponchos and men in quarter-zip sweaters. Women with clipped blond bobs and men in Hawaiian shirts. Star-spangled knee socks. A baseball cap that said Make America Gay Again. Babies swaddled to their mothers’ chests. Children building sandcastles, children crying. Kate had never seen so many Callinas residents in one place.
Her palms began to sweat. She had been so distracted with getting Theo to come to this thing, she hadn’t thought about what a party would mean for her. How many people there would be.
This was different than parties in Brooklyn, she reminded herself. It had to be different. Here, the curious looks had nothing to do with her. People wanted to know about Theo, about Miranda, about the house. She was a means for getting the gossip, not the target.
Still, when the mayor handed her a margarita, her clammy hands slipped a little on the cup.
“You’re sure they’re coming, right?” Louise asked as she hid someone’s rival soufflé under a pile of paper napkins.
“Theo said they were.”
“I guess there’s still time. The fireworks don’t start until nine. No, Katie, don’t eat that.