This was Tim’s show, Tim’s and Dick’s, and she was window dressing—and hostess, of course, that too. And waitress. And pot scrubber. And chambermaid. Tim told her to dress in white, as much as possible, even though it was winter, and to look good, look her best and give everybody a mysterious smile. “You’re good at that, Joanie—you’re a champ.” He was always doling out compliments, that was his way, that was his method, and the night they’d tripped together he’d told her she had the best figure of any woman—or girl—in the inner circle, Peggy included. And that from the minute he’d laid eyes on her, at that first session, that first night back in Newton, he’d wanted to trip with her. And fuck her. He’d wanted to fuck her—and what did she think about that? She’d thought nothing. She was tripping and smiling so hard she thought her face would split in six places and fall right off her. But he was Tim and Tim always got what he wanted.

Now, after all the guests had been settled in their rooms and the slowly accumulating snow swept off the front and back porches, she was in the kitchen with Paulette and Susannah, putting the finishing touches to the meal. What they were doing—and the idea had been Michael Hollingshead’s—was doctoring the dishes with food coloring. The potatoes she’d mashed were a bright Saint Patrick’s Day green, the Chablis was black as coffee, the coffee pink and the meat glazed a bright banana yellow. Why? To disorient the senses, to make things seem what they weren’t and break set for all the hushed guests who might have been wealthy, might have been powers in their own right, but were dressed indistinguishably in white robes, stripped now of clothes and jewelry and any other identifying ornaments and sitting solemnly at the big table in the dining room where candles flickered and a projector threw rotating globs of color against the far wall, precursor of the light shows Tim would begin to employ on the lecture circuit.