said, “hey.”
“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing.” Miriam sat up, still sobbing, and wiped her face with the bottom of her T-shirt. He was surprised she didn’t leave makeup on it—he’d been told women from Texas wore makeup at all times. “This is so stupid.”
“I can leave,” he said.
“It’s—did you hear what happened?”
“Case’s car? Yeah, we all heard.”
“Oh. No, not that. John F. Kennedy Jr. He was flying his own plane last night, with his wife, and it crashed in the ocean.”
“They died?”
“This is the silliest thing to be crying about. I guess I was just a little bit in love with him. Like everybody else, right? I mean, I just always thought someday I’d at least get to meet him, and we’d have a really great conversation.”
Doug was thinking, on one level, about the Kennedys, about little John-John saluting his father’s coffin. On another, much louder level, he was realizing: Miriam is crazy. Miriam is absolutely bat-shit crazy.
He should have seen it before, in the bizarre, clashing mosaicscovering the sunporch floor, in her cutting scraps from cracker boxes, her smashing empty wine bottles and saving grape stems. He looked closely now at the two big pieces on the floor. The one that was nearly finished centered around a blue sundress covered almost entirely by other, tiny things—paper, wood, broken plastic toys, beads, a clock hand, pen caps, dried flower petals, paper clips—so that they constituted another dress, a beautiful one, with swimming lines and arcs of light. But there was something insane about it, something that screamed “outsider art,” the kind of work made by someone who lived in a cabin and produced her best pieces when she went off her meds.
“You must think I’m crazy,” she said.
“No, no, not at all! It’s a sad event. That’s horrible, that whole family. There was the one who just died on the skis, right? And now this. And he was the best one.”
She sniffed wetly. He wanted to leave, but she’d be hurt. So he said, “Did you see what Bruce is making Sofia do?” and told her about the salt for the end of the world.
“Oh, he asked us to store the canned goods! Did you know that? He goes, ‘You have all that room on the ground floor, how about we fill you up?’ He’s worried about mice in the basement at the big house.”
“Mice that bite through cans?”
She smiled a little, which was a relief. “Apparently. I mean, I guess there’s pasta boxes and stuff. And their pantries are packed already, and he said the attic is full of old furniture and file cabinets Gracie won’t throw out.”
He laughed, trying to make her laugh. “What files could Gracie need? I’ve never seen that woman touch a piece of paper that wasn’t a note to the staff.”
“Maybe they’re from that arts camp. He said the furniture was. He said there were at least twenty mattresses up there, and headboards and dressers.”
“ Really .” He’d been leaning against the door frame, but now he sat on the floor among the heaps of cloth and shredded magazines.
The vague promise of some artifact of Edwin Parfitt’s had hit Doug in the solar plexus, and he felt like a man meeting his former lover on the street, someone he believed he’d forgotten but whose overwhelming effect indicated otherwise.
“Christ,” he said. “That old bitch! Listen, you know first of all it wasn’t an arts camp , it was a major arts colony. Okay, so, no, a minor one, but extremely important, at least in the twenties. I mean, you’re an artist: Charles Demuth? Grant Wood? There could be—think what could be up there!”
“What do you mean, Charles Demuth? He stayed here? I adore him!”
“I mean his stuff’s in the attic.”
She looked as if he’d told her JFK Jr. had just swum to shore, shaken but still dreamy.
“Potentially,” he added. “But didn’t artists do that, sometimes? They’d leave paintings as payment?”
She sunk her head again. “I
“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing.” Miriam sat up, still sobbing, and wiped her face with the bottom of her T-shirt. He was surprised she didn’t leave makeup on it—he’d been told women from Texas wore makeup at all times. “This is so stupid.”
“I can leave,” he said.
“It’s—did you hear what happened?”
“Case’s car? Yeah, we all heard.”
“Oh. No, not that. John F. Kennedy Jr. He was flying his own plane last night, with his wife, and it crashed in the ocean.”
“They died?”
“This is the silliest thing to be crying about. I guess I was just a little bit in love with him. Like everybody else, right? I mean, I just always thought someday I’d at least get to meet him, and we’d have a really great conversation.”
Doug was thinking, on one level, about the Kennedys, about little John-John saluting his father’s coffin. On another, much louder level, he was realizing: Miriam is crazy. Miriam is absolutely bat-shit crazy.
He should have seen it before, in the bizarre, clashing mosaicscovering the sunporch floor, in her cutting scraps from cracker boxes, her smashing empty wine bottles and saving grape stems. He looked closely now at the two big pieces on the floor. The one that was nearly finished centered around a blue sundress covered almost entirely by other, tiny things—paper, wood, broken plastic toys, beads, a clock hand, pen caps, dried flower petals, paper clips—so that they constituted another dress, a beautiful one, with swimming lines and arcs of light. But there was something insane about it, something that screamed “outsider art,” the kind of work made by someone who lived in a cabin and produced her best pieces when she went off her meds.
“You must think I’m crazy,” she said.
“No, no, not at all! It’s a sad event. That’s horrible, that whole family. There was the one who just died on the skis, right? And now this. And he was the best one.”
She sniffed wetly. He wanted to leave, but she’d be hurt. So he said, “Did you see what Bruce is making Sofia do?” and told her about the salt for the end of the world.
“Oh, he asked us to store the canned goods! Did you know that? He goes, ‘You have all that room on the ground floor, how about we fill you up?’ He’s worried about mice in the basement at the big house.”
“Mice that bite through cans?”
She smiled a little, which was a relief. “Apparently. I mean, I guess there’s pasta boxes and stuff. And their pantries are packed already, and he said the attic is full of old furniture and file cabinets Gracie won’t throw out.”
He laughed, trying to make her laugh. “What files could Gracie need? I’ve never seen that woman touch a piece of paper that wasn’t a note to the staff.”
“Maybe they’re from that arts camp. He said the furniture was. He said there were at least twenty mattresses up there, and headboards and dressers.”
“ Really .” He’d been leaning against the door frame, but now he sat on the floor among the heaps of cloth and shredded magazines.
The vague promise of some artifact of Edwin Parfitt’s had hit Doug in the solar plexus, and he felt like a man meeting his former lover on the street, someone he believed he’d forgotten but whose overwhelming effect indicated otherwise.
“Christ,” he said. “That old bitch! Listen, you know first of all it wasn’t an arts camp , it was a major arts colony. Okay, so, no, a minor one, but extremely important, at least in the twenties. I mean, you’re an artist: Charles Demuth? Grant Wood? There could be—think what could be up there!”
“What do you mean, Charles Demuth? He stayed here? I adore him!”
“I mean his stuff’s in the attic.”
She looked as if he’d told her JFK Jr. had just swum to shore, shaken but still dreamy.
“Potentially,” he added. “But didn’t artists do that, sometimes? They’d leave paintings as payment?”
She sunk her head again. “I
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