you're right, the stories you know are good. They're good entertainment, Alex. The truth is always strong. The best art is always based on the truth. It has to be."
"Look, Jeremy, you make these kid's books. They're sweet, they're wholesome, they're beautiful-"
"You're making me sick. But those books happen to be exactly what I want to do, Alex. They are the truth for me. Sometimes I wish they weren't. It's not like there's something else better that I'm hiding or passing up."
"Isn't there? Jeremy, I've known you for years. You could paint anything you want, but what do you do? Little girls in haunted houses. The fact is you do them because they sell-"
"That's not true, Clementine, and you know it."
"You do them because you've got an audience and you want them to love you. Don't talk to me about truth, Jeremy. Truth's got nothing to do with it."
"Not so. I'm telling you that people love us more for the truth," I said, really working up a head of steam. "That's my whole point. The stars dish the dirt about their love affairs in books now, and the public devours it because it's authentic."
"No, son, no," he said. "They dish the dirt about certain affairs, and you know what I'm talking about."
Dead silence for a moment. Then he laughed again, his hand lightly squeezing my shoulder. I knew we should lighten up. "Come on, Walker-"
But I couldn't let it go. It tormented me too much, him blazing away at dinner with all those stories and none of them in the book. And me, what the hell, had I said to that reporter two nights ago at the promotion dinner? That I wrote Looking for Bettina because the audience wanted it? Did I mean that? That little slip was bound to come back to haunt me, and maybe I deserved it, too.
There was some real important issue here, something that was damned near critical to my life. But I was maybe a little too drunk and a little too tired to really grasp it.
"I don't know what's wrong with me tonight. I don't know," I said. "But I tell you, if you'd put everything you knew in that book, they'd have loved it more, they'd have made a movie out of it."
"They'll make a movie out of it the way it is, Jer," he said with the loudest laugh yet. "We've got two firm offers."
"OK, OK," I said. "Money, the bottom line, all that crap. Don't I know it! I'm going to paint some pictures of money!"
"And you'll sell your little Angelica What's-her-name to the movies, too, won't you? But listen, son, they're calling you a genius for this Looking for Bettina book. Saw a window of it downtown. Downtown. Not in some kiddie bookstore. Genius, Jeremy. Got to admit it. Saw it in Time."
"Fuck it. Something's wrong, Alex. It's wrong with me and that's why I'm fighting with you. It's really wrong."
"Ah, come on, Jeremy, you and me, we're both fine," he drawled. "We've always been fine. You've got it made with those kids, and if and when you write your life, you'll lie for them and you know it."
"It's not my fault my books are wholesome and sweet. It's the card I drew, for Chrissakes. You don't pick your obsessions when you're an artist, damn it!"
"OK, OK, OK!" he said. "But wait a minute, smarty pants. Let me give you a damn good example of why I can't tell the true stories. You want me to tell everybody that when your mother was dying, it was you who wrote her last two novels for her?"
I didn't answer. I felt as if he had hit me in the head.
We had stopped at the light at Van Ness and California and the empty intersection was absolutely quiet. I knew I was glowering at the street in front of me, positively glowering, but I could not look at him.
"You didn't know I knew that story, did you?" he asked. "That you actually wrote every word of Saint Charles Avenue and Crimson Mardi Gras?"
I shoved the car into first and made an illegal left turn onto California. Alex was probably my closest friend in the world, and no, I had not known that he shared that old secret.
"Did the publishers tell you all that?" I asked. They
"Look, Jeremy, you make these kid's books. They're sweet, they're wholesome, they're beautiful-"
"You're making me sick. But those books happen to be exactly what I want to do, Alex. They are the truth for me. Sometimes I wish they weren't. It's not like there's something else better that I'm hiding or passing up."
"Isn't there? Jeremy, I've known you for years. You could paint anything you want, but what do you do? Little girls in haunted houses. The fact is you do them because they sell-"
"That's not true, Clementine, and you know it."
"You do them because you've got an audience and you want them to love you. Don't talk to me about truth, Jeremy. Truth's got nothing to do with it."
"Not so. I'm telling you that people love us more for the truth," I said, really working up a head of steam. "That's my whole point. The stars dish the dirt about their love affairs in books now, and the public devours it because it's authentic."
"No, son, no," he said. "They dish the dirt about certain affairs, and you know what I'm talking about."
Dead silence for a moment. Then he laughed again, his hand lightly squeezing my shoulder. I knew we should lighten up. "Come on, Walker-"
But I couldn't let it go. It tormented me too much, him blazing away at dinner with all those stories and none of them in the book. And me, what the hell, had I said to that reporter two nights ago at the promotion dinner? That I wrote Looking for Bettina because the audience wanted it? Did I mean that? That little slip was bound to come back to haunt me, and maybe I deserved it, too.
There was some real important issue here, something that was damned near critical to my life. But I was maybe a little too drunk and a little too tired to really grasp it.
"I don't know what's wrong with me tonight. I don't know," I said. "But I tell you, if you'd put everything you knew in that book, they'd have loved it more, they'd have made a movie out of it."
"They'll make a movie out of it the way it is, Jer," he said with the loudest laugh yet. "We've got two firm offers."
"OK, OK," I said. "Money, the bottom line, all that crap. Don't I know it! I'm going to paint some pictures of money!"
"And you'll sell your little Angelica What's-her-name to the movies, too, won't you? But listen, son, they're calling you a genius for this Looking for Bettina book. Saw a window of it downtown. Downtown. Not in some kiddie bookstore. Genius, Jeremy. Got to admit it. Saw it in Time."
"Fuck it. Something's wrong, Alex. It's wrong with me and that's why I'm fighting with you. It's really wrong."
"Ah, come on, Jeremy, you and me, we're both fine," he drawled. "We've always been fine. You've got it made with those kids, and if and when you write your life, you'll lie for them and you know it."
"It's not my fault my books are wholesome and sweet. It's the card I drew, for Chrissakes. You don't pick your obsessions when you're an artist, damn it!"
"OK, OK, OK!" he said. "But wait a minute, smarty pants. Let me give you a damn good example of why I can't tell the true stories. You want me to tell everybody that when your mother was dying, it was you who wrote her last two novels for her?"
I didn't answer. I felt as if he had hit me in the head.
We had stopped at the light at Van Ness and California and the empty intersection was absolutely quiet. I knew I was glowering at the street in front of me, positively glowering, but I could not look at him.
"You didn't know I knew that story, did you?" he asked. "That you actually wrote every word of Saint Charles Avenue and Crimson Mardi Gras?"
I shoved the car into first and made an illegal left turn onto California. Alex was probably my closest friend in the world, and no, I had not known that he shared that old secret.
"Did the publishers tell you all that?" I asked. They
Similar Books
