The Burnt Orange Heresy

Suddenly I was weak and dispirited. All of my strength disappeared. I leaned against the nearest tree and vomited my dinner-the corn, the tomatoes and okra, the stringy chunks of sirloin, the biscuits, everything. Panting and sobbing until I caught my breath, I returned to the dogwood tree and picked up my tire iron. It had my fingerprints on it, and in case I had a flat tire on my way to New York, I would need it again.

I started back toward the car, and after walking for five minutes or so I discovered that I was lost. I panicked and began to run. I tripped and fell, banging my head against a tree, scratching a painful gash in my forehead. As Freud said, there are no accidents. Fighting down my panic by taking long deep breaths, I calmed down further by forcing myself to sit quietly on the damp ground, with my back against a tree, and by smoking a cigarette down to the cork tip. I was all right. Everything was going to be all right.

Calmer now, although my hands were still trembling, I managed to retrace my path back to the swamp and Berenice. I now had a sense of direction. I started back in what I thought was the general direction of the car, and hit the sandy road, missing the clearing and the car by about fifty yards. My face was flushed with heat, and I was shivering at the same time with cold. Before setting out, I put up the canvas top, and then kicked over the engine.

Two weeks later, back in New York, when I was cleaning out the car in order to sell it, I found one of Berenice's fingers, or a part of one-the first two joints and the Chen Yued fingernail. She must have got it lopped off when she had put her hands over her head in the car. I wrapped the finger in a handkerchief and put it safely away. Perhaps a day would come, I thought, when I would be able to look at this finger without fear, pain, or remorse.

The photograph of Debierue "reading" the flaming copy of the Miami Herald, which illustrated my article in Fine Arts: The Americas was republished in Look and Newsweek, and in the fine arts section of the Sunday New York Times. UPI, after dickering with my agent, finally bought the photo and sent it out on the wire to their subscribers. The money I made from this photo provided me with my first tailor-made suit. Coat and trousers, four hundred dollars.

I had made one side trip off the superhighway to Baltimore, on my way back to New York, where I checked Berenice's luggage in two lockers inside the Greyhound bus station (including her handbag and traveler's checks, knowing that her mother could use this money someday, if and when the bags were ever claimed). Except for this brief stopover, I drove straight through to the city.

There were five message slips in my office telling me to telephone Joseph Cassidy, collect, immediately, so I called him before I did anything else.

"Did you get the picture?" he asked.

"Yes, of course."

"Good! Good! Hold it for a few days before sending it down. I want to get Mr. Debierue settled in a good nursing home, you see-he doesn't know that you have the painting, does he?"

"No, and it'll be better if he doesn't. I've mentioned it in my article, although I won't run a photograph of it. Before sending it to Palm Beach I intend to take some good color plates of The Burnt Orange Heresy for eventual publication, if you get what I mean . . ."

"Naturally-is that the title, The Burnt Orange Heresy?' That's great!"

"Yeah. It'll probably have an additional title, too. Self-portrait."

"Jesus-James, I can hardly wait to see it!"

"Just let me know when, Mr. Cassidy, and I'll send it down to you air express."

"Don't worry, I'll call you. And listen, James, I'm not going to forget this. When the time comes to exhibit it, you've got an exclusive to cover the opening."

"Thanks."

"My problem right now is to persuade Debierue to enter a rest home. He's much too old to take care of himself. If he had been asleep when the fire started, he would've been killed you know. And when I think of those paintings that went up in smoke-Jesus!"

"Did he tell you anything about them?"

"Not a word. You know how he is. And nothing seems to faze him. He spends most of his time just sitting around watching old movies on TV and drinking orange juice. He can do that in a rest home. Well, you'll hear from me. This is a long distance call, you know."

"Sure. Later."

He didn't call me again, however. He sent me a special delivery letter after he had settled Debierue in the Regal Pines Nursing Home, near Melbourne, Florida. I sent Cassidy the painting, air express collect, although I had to pay the insurance fee, in advance, before they would agree to send it collect.