“I remember it used to be that anybody’s presence in my life was a fuss and a bother. More than a bother, an outrage. I used to feel just that obsessed about my work. I would have killed before letting anyone interfere with it, you know.” She glances at me. “I used to have this little saying. ‘Never kill your work for a man or a child, kill them first.’ ” She laughs a bit. “Cathy remembers.”

“Yeah,” nods Catherine. “I know what you mean.”

“No, you don’t.” Gillette throws one broken mushroom into the trash, picks up another. “You’re too good. You wouldn’t kill a soul for art; you’d let them kill you first.”

Gillette glances at me again.

“No, I wouldn’t,” mumbles Catherine.

She sniffs at a nacho, pops it into her mouth. She looks sleepy.

“I was a real bitch then,” says Gillette softly. “I thought you had to be a bitch to make great art. Like if Picasso had been a woman, he would have been a bitch. Like a woman’s a bitch when she makes the same choices a man would make without thinking.” She shrugs. “Gauguin.” She laughs. “This is as close to Tahiti as we could get . . . I used to be a bitch though.”

“You weren’t a bitch,” says Catherine, chewing a nacho.

“You were always nice to me.”

Gillette looks at Catherine like you’d look at a child.

“You guys can go to bed when you want to. Sometimes I’m up half the fucking night with this shit.”

10

“Uh, what are you into now?” asks Gillette over breakfast.

Tatum dabs her oatmeal like it’s fingerpaint.

“Improvisation,” says Catherine. “You know, assembling, found objects, that sort of stuff.”

“That sounds good,” says Gillette, chewing a donut.

Then she says, “That’s a little different from the way you used to be, Cathy. I mean, your art always seemed so premeditated. I don’t know why I said premeditated. That’s hardly the word for art. It’s good to know you’ve gotten freer; you can never get too free, can you? . . . Eat your oatmeal, Baby.”

11

Gillette stands looking at me fully for the first time. She’d waited till we’re standing at the airport, ready to board the plane, it seems, before she tried to get a good look at me.

“Uh, are you a painter too?” she asks.

“No, she’s a writer,” says Catherine. “I’m sure you’ve read something by Amanda Wordlaw. Some really heavy stuff, heavy stuff.”

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t.” Gillette stares at me. “I guess what little time I have I spend with my own work. I haven’t done much reading in years, of anybody. But I’ll try to get something of yours the next chance I get.”

“You’ll like her. She writes like you paint,” says Catherine.

Gillette frowns slightly, then she looks amused.

“Well, it was good to meet you,” she says, curtly.

I nod.

“You’re welcome to come back anytime,” she adds suddenly. “If you’re in town. I mean, even if you’re without Catherine.”