“I’m sure she has her reasons.” Like it’s super boring…and full of creepy people like this woman. I need to talk with her about this festival before Thea ropes me into something Becca isn’t interested in doing.
“She’s just shy. And a little too much head in the clouds to notice what’s going on around her sometimes.”
“Right.” It’s nice that she isn’t assuming the worst motives behind Becca’s behavior. For an artist, my wife is actually surprisingly normal. No cutting off an ear or replacing her front door with a coffin lid. No firing blanks at fans for asking questions, even though she’s a Texan and nobody would think twice if she did.
Now that I think about it, I’m pretty normal for a rock star, too. So what if I sleep around a lot? Any self-respecting rocker does. But I don’t dye my hair with Kool-Aid or write songs with verses like “lick my Satanic anus” or refuse to shower because it’s a “health hazard.”
“Best not to intrude too much with those types,” Thea says. “If people hadn’t bothered my grandpa so much with wanting to talk to him and all, he would’ve been a writer of greater renown than that pesky word vomiter from Mississippi.”
“Uh…who?”
“That Faulkner fellow. You wouldn’t recognize the name. He isn’t that famous.”
Yeah, because she called him a word vomiter. Most wouldn’t recognize me as “that sexy drummer who used to live in Los Angeles.” Every poor kid in high school had to read Faulkner, and that makes him real famous if you ask me, but I keep that to myself. Thea has really long nails.
“People left him alone, but the folks here wouldn’t leave my grandpa alone. They thought he needed to talk to them and be interested in their boring little lives. And so we lost a great literary star.”
I smile and nod. “A great shame.” Maybe my English lit class would’ve been more tolerable if people had bugged Faulkner a lot. The Sound and the Fury might be an amazing work of art that captured the thought process of the human mind perfectly. But I never, ever wanted to know anybody’s thought process that intimately in high school. Even now I don’t, except for Becca’s. But she’s my wife, so…
“The festival would benefit from involvement from a famous artist like her. And you too, of course.” Thea nods. “Becca shouldn’t care what Margaret thinks.”
Margaret? “Does her grandmother not want her to attend the festival?”
Thea shakes her head. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? She thinks Becca’s a little too aloof and rude to mingle much in public. Anyway, tell her I said hi, dear. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all, ma’am.” I smile.
She beams. “Such a charming young man. I knew there was a reason you were my favorite from Axelrod. The tabloids say you’re a bad boy, but I never believed it.” She leans in and winks. “A bad boy is just a man who hasn’t met the right woman yet. Besides, bad boys are the best in bed. All that practice.”
“Uh…” I really don’t want to discuss my sex life with this…matron. Thankfully, she seems to have decided the conversation is done. She puts her hands on a cart with four cases of beer and heads off to the cash register.
I grab a tub of chocolate ice cream just because it seems like something Becca would like after paella. Then I check out, pushing the Cowboys cap further down to hide my face. My stranger gossip quota for the day is full.
Chapter Thirty-One
Becca
I stare at the text from Catherine again.
–Catherine: Her birthday is fine. Actually, I think it works great. Barron says he’s really excited about the portrait, and so am I.
She and her boss are excited because they don’t know I have face blindness. She also doesn’t know I’m completely blocked. The first painting Barron Sterling wants is only half-done. And now with the second commission on order, I can’t finish it.
Because if I do, I’ll have to confront the portrait piece.
My stomach knots, feeling like it’s full of acid. I rub the burning spot, but it doesn’t help much.
I’m such a fraud. I take a sweeping look around the studio. A couple of paintings, plus the half-finished one for Barron Sterling. A few palettes, and paint splatters all over the thick vinyl sheet I placed over the floor.
I told myself if I just got the studio Mom designed and built for me with Dad, all my creative juices would flow, but I wonder if anything can overcome my condition. Or help me create a portrait.
I should’ve never done those self-portraits. Shit, shit, shit. Because of them, Catherine might not believe me if I tell her I can’t do a portrait of someone else.
The clock on the wall says it’s five till six. Another unproductive day. I toss my smock on the back of a wooden chair in frustration and stomp out. As I cross the backyard, the mannequin is standing there with arrows sticking out of its crotch like spiky dicks. Pissed, I pick up a bow and arrow and shoot it right in the heart. My arrows hit the precise spot I was aiming for. But it isn’t enough to make me feel better.
“Asshole,” I mutter at the mannequin.
I spin around and walk into the kitchen. Then stop. This can’t be my kitchen.