Page 40 of A Happy Catastrophe

Someone from his imaginary audience yells out, “Why the hell don’t you just quit doing the paintings then, if you hate yourself so much? What’s the point?”

Right. He could stop painting if he wanted, couldn’t he? Even after all this time, he could call off the gallery show. He could say something’s come up. He could call off the magazine interview, as well as the whole so-called goddamned comeback. He’s not doing this for the money; he’s not even doing it for art. He has enough of a life without art. He could just keep on hanging out in his house, watching game shows, taking the dog to the park, cooking on the rooftop, making love to Marnie, the way he had been doing before all this.

But—aha, here’s the real problem—what if he called off the gallery show, what if he stopped doing these painful paintings, and it turned out he was still his fucked-up self? What then? Who would he be then? Just a guy with a bunch of scars all over his body mourning a past that he can’t change; a sarcastic guy who comes across great in text messages but who’s locked up in some prison, with no hope of parole. A man who hurts the things he loves.

He feels Marnie stirring next to him. So she’s not asleep either.

“Patrick?” she whispers.

“I’m awake,” he says after a moment.

She reaches over for him and he takes her in his arms, at first reluctantly. But then he goes through the motions of kissing her, and when he squints his eyes very tightly, he finds his way somehow to making love. He can do this. Maybe. He has to just keep reaching out for her strength to carry him through. He has to guard himself against Anneliese, who rises up in his head, wanting to make him pay attention. He doesn’t have to pay attention to what Anneliese believes about him. He can climb back into his real, regular life. He smells Marnie’s hair and feels her arms around him, and for a moment he does not have to live in sorrow.

But then the next morning, he goes into the studio and he hears the screams, sees the fear. He fills the canvas with everything he hears, but there’s more and more and more to be painted, and he knows—Anneliese tells him—that he has to work faster.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MARNIE

We are set to have a calm, boring, routine Thanksgiving, which goes against all my animal instincts as well as my most fervent wishes. Everything I stand for, really. Thanksgiving, you see, is my favorite holiday, and the ones I like best are filled with more guests than we can sanely accommodate, as well as a lot of gratitude, mismatched plates, turkey, stuffing, and waaay too many pies. I love when the required sweet potatoes are covered in brown sugar and marshmallows and when the green beans have hard fried onions that come from a can, and it’s fine with me if there are nineteen pies and all of them are pumpkin. I just like the whole idea of it.

But this year, out of deference to the Patrick Situation, I’ve scaled back. The guy from Inside Outside came yesterday and did an interview with him, and horror of horrors, Patrick told me that the guy brought with him an unexpected film crew, which may have flipped Patrick out for all time: cameras and lights, all pointed at him and at his work, work that he apparently doesn’t want anyone to see. Because he’s—well, he’s Patrick. He’s nothing if not ambivalent. And he talked to the guy for hours and hours and now he’s positive he said way too much, and from the way the questions were going, he now thinks the reporter is going to make him out to be some tragic hero, fighting his way back from a devastating personal tragedy to an unlikely, desperate comeback.

“I don’t want to have to be anybody’s hero,” he says. “I’m not a hero.”

“But they have to have an angle, you know. You can’t be Just an Ordinary Guy Named Patrick Who Used to Do Sculpture But Now Is Painting, and doing some good work . . . so hey, folks, come have a look. That won’t bring anybody in.”

“Which is exactly why I shouldn’t have agreed to do the show—or the article,” he says. “And why did they bring a film crew?”

“But was it a film crew, or just a photographer with some lights?”

“It was just a guy with one camera and one light,” pipes up Fritzie. “He took my picture, too.”

“Oh my God,” says poor Patrick.

“You could call the reporter,” I say for the millionth time. “He’s a human being; he’ll listen to you say what you’re worried about, and maybe he could leave that part out. If you think he’s going to misrepresent you, I think he’d be interested in getting the correct version.”

“You don’t understand. He wants me to be the sad, heroic artist.”

“See? That’s because that’s your brand, Patrick,” says Fritzie. “Call him and tell him you want to be Artist Who Paints Their Daughters They Didn’t Know They Had, and then you could paint me.”

Patrick looks at her and shakes his head, speechless. “You, too? I can’t believe that even third graders are talking about brands these days. I think this may be the actual end of civilization. I don’t have a brand. I don’t even want a brand. I am an artist!” He realizes he is raising his voice. Roy runs from the room.

Fritzie is not flappable. “Ariana,” she says quietly, “tells me everybody has a brand.”

I just want Patrick to be calm again. So I tell him it will simply be Thanksgiving for the three of us. No strangers. No homeless people from the corner, no displaced employees from Best Buds. No Amazings. Ariana is going to have dinner with her family at her grandmother’s house anyway, and Lola and William Sullivan are taking a road trip to visit her son in Pennsylvania. Fritzie wanted to invite Laramie’s family, and I must admit I had thoughts about how we could help find them a place to live, but when I call Laramie’s mother, Gloria, to invite her, she says they’re heading up to Massachusetts to see a place Laramie’s grandmother knows where they can live.

So . . . it’s us.

“Thank you, thank you,” says Patrick.

“However, this does go against everything that Thanksgiving stands for,” I tell him. “You do know that.”

“I know.”

“And it might give Fritzie the wrong message about family love and community.”

“Marnie.”

“What?”

“Fritzie is pretty much steeped in family love and community here. Maybe this gives her a healthy message about boundaries and respecting when one member of the family is having a dark night of the soul.”

“Are you having a dark night of the soul?”

“I don’t know.”

I stare at him, measuring the amount of light in his eyes. “What time of day would you say it is in your soul?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now.”

“It’s four thirty p.m.”

“Winter or summer?”

“Late autumn, I’d say. After the time change.”

“That sounds dark.”

“It’s getting dark, but it’s not the dark night of the soul completely yet.”

I study him carefully. “You’re going to be fine. I have faith in you. Blix has faith in you.”

He grimaces when I mention Blix. “No. I’m not going to be fine! I haven’t shown my work in years, and I’ve never shown my paintings at all. I have no idea if they’re even any good, and a man came and interviewed me and asked me all kinds of questions that I couldn’t answer.” He bangs his hand down on the counter, hard. “And it was a film crew. A film crew of one guy who was obnoxious and kept taking my picture. With lights.”

ne from his imaginary audience yells out, “Why the hell don’t you just quit doing the paintings then, if you hate yourself so much? What’s the point?”

Right. He could stop painting if he wanted, couldn’t he? Even after all this time, he could call off the gallery show. He could say something’s come up. He could call off the magazine interview, as well as the whole so-called goddamned comeback. He’s not doing this for the money; he’s not even doing it for art. He has enough of a life without art. He could just keep on hanging out in his house, watching game shows, taking the dog to the park, cooking on the rooftop, making love to Marnie, the way he had been doing before all this.

But—aha, here’s the real problem—what if he called off the gallery show, what if he stopped doing these painful paintings, and it turned out he was still his fucked-up self? What then? Who would he be then? Just a guy with a bunch of scars all over his body mourning a past that he can’t change; a sarcastic guy who comes across great in text messages but who’s locked up in some prison, with no hope of parole. A man who hurts the things he loves.

He feels Marnie stirring next to him. So she’s not asleep either.

“Patrick?” she whispers.

“I’m awake,” he says after a moment.

She reaches over for him and he takes her in his arms, at first reluctantly. But then he goes through the motions of kissing her, and when he squints his eyes very tightly, he finds his way somehow to making love. He can do this. Maybe. He has to just keep reaching out for her strength to carry him through. He has to guard himself against Anneliese, who rises up in his head, wanting to make him pay attention. He doesn’t have to pay attention to what Anneliese believes about him. He can climb back into his real, regular life. He smells Marnie’s hair and feels her arms around him, and for a moment he does not have to live in sorrow.

But then the next morning, he goes into the studio and he hears the screams, sees the fear. He fills the canvas with everything he hears, but there’s more and more and more to be painted, and he knows—Anneliese tells him—that he has to work faster.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MARNIE

We are set to have a calm, boring, routine Thanksgiving, which goes against all my animal instincts as well as my most fervent wishes. Everything I stand for, really. Thanksgiving, you see, is my favorite holiday, and the ones I like best are filled with more guests than we can sanely accommodate, as well as a lot of gratitude, mismatched plates, turkey, stuffing, and waaay too many pies. I love when the required sweet potatoes are covered in brown sugar and marshmallows and when the green beans have hard fried onions that come from a can, and it’s fine with me if there are nineteen pies and all of them are pumpkin. I just like the whole idea of it.

But this year, out of deference to the Patrick Situation, I’ve scaled back. The guy from Inside Outside came yesterday and did an interview with him, and horror of horrors, Patrick told me that the guy brought with him an unexpected film crew, which may have flipped Patrick out for all time: cameras and lights, all pointed at him and at his work, work that he apparently doesn’t want anyone to see. Because he’s—well, he’s Patrick. He’s nothing if not ambivalent. And he talked to the guy for hours and hours and now he’s positive he said way too much, and from the way the questions were going, he now thinks the reporter is going to make him out to be some tragic hero, fighting his way back from a devastating personal tragedy to an unlikely, desperate comeback.

“I don’t want to have to be anybody’s hero,” he says. “I’m not a hero.”

“But they have to have an angle, you know. You can’t be Just an Ordinary Guy Named Patrick Who Used to Do Sculpture But Now Is Painting, and doing some good work . . . so hey, folks, come have a look. That won’t bring anybody in.”

“Which is exactly why I shouldn’t have agreed to do the show—or the article,” he says. “And why did they bring a film crew?”

“But was it a film crew, or just a photographer with some lights?”

“It was just a guy with one camera and one light,” pipes up Fritzie. “He took my picture, too.”

“Oh my God,” says poor Patrick.

“You could call the reporter,” I say for the millionth time. “He’s a human being; he’ll listen to you say what you’re worried about, and maybe he could leave that part out. If you think he’s going to misrepresent you, I think he’d be interested in getting the correct version.”

“You don’t understand. He wants me to be the sad, heroic artist.”

“See? That’s because that’s your brand, Patrick,” says Fritzie. “Call him and tell him you want to be Artist Who Paints Their Daughters They Didn’t Know They Had, and then you could paint me.”

Patrick looks at her and shakes his head, speechless. “You, too? I can’t believe that even third graders are talking about brands these days. I think this may be the actual end of civilization. I don’t have a brand. I don’t even want a brand. I am an artist!” He realizes he is raising his voice. Roy runs from the room.

Fritzie is not flappable. “Ariana,” she says quietly, “tells me everybody has a brand.”

I just want Patrick to be calm again. So I tell him it will simply be Thanksgiving for the three of us. No strangers. No homeless people from the corner, no displaced employees from Best Buds. No Amazings. Ariana is going to have dinner with her family at her grandmother’s house anyway, and Lola and William Sullivan are taking a road trip to visit her son in Pennsylvania. Fritzie wanted to invite Laramie’s family, and I must admit I had thoughts about how we could help find them a place to live, but when I call Laramie’s mother, Gloria, to invite her, she says they’re heading up to Massachusetts to see a place Laramie’s grandmother knows where they can live.

So . . . it’s us.

“Thank you, thank you,” says Patrick.

“However, this does go against everything that Thanksgiving stands for,” I tell him. “You do know that.”

“I know.”

“And it might give Fritzie the wrong message about family love and community.”

“Marnie.”

“What?”

“Fritzie is pretty much steeped in family love and community here. Maybe this gives her a healthy message about boundaries and respecting when one member of the family is having a dark night of the soul.”

“Are you having a dark night of the soul?”

“I don’t know.”

I stare at him, measuring the amount of light in his eyes. “What time of day would you say it is in your soul?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now.”

“It’s four thirty p.m.”

“Winter or summer?”

“Late autumn, I’d say. After the time change.”

“That sounds dark.”

“It’s getting dark, but it’s not the dark night of the soul completely yet.”

I study him carefully. “You’re going to be fine. I have faith in you. Blix has faith in you.”

He grimaces when I mention Blix. “No. I’m not going to be fine! I haven’t shown my work in years, and I’ve never shown my paintings at all. I have no idea if they’re even any good, and a man came and interviewed me and asked me all kinds of questions that I couldn’t answer.” He bangs his hand down on the counter, hard. “And it was a film crew. A film crew of one guy who was obnoxious and kept taking my picture. With lights.”

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