Pies, Pies, Pies

Wayne Thiebaud, Pies, Pies, Pies, 1961. Crocker Art Museum, Sacramento.

Karen Greenfield

Ill tell you what happened, and you can tell me what kind of trouble Im in. Last week, I saw a new patient, a man claiming to suffer with severe guilt. Ill call him S.B. When he expressed concerns about privacy, I reassured him. What if Ive committed a crime? he asked. My right eyebrow twitched. In the state of California, I informed him, smiling, even criminal activity is protected by psychotherapeutic confidentiality. He relaxed a little and started glancing around my office. I added, Unless, of course, you are still engaged in criminal activity that jeopardizes the life or safety of others, and you reveal the details of this activity to me. I like that picture. He nodded toward a mounted poster showing plates of pie, several rows deep. The first ones cherry. I recognize pumpkin and lemon meringue. But whats that second kind? I went with the change of subject. What do you like about that picture? Reminds me of being a kid, this diner we used to go to. A more innocent time, I guess. Before Continue, I prompted. My antisocial behavior. He chuckled nervously and wrung his hands. Or maybe Im just hungry. S.B. relayed a history of misdemeanorsvandalism, petty theft, simple assault. Convicted once, he had spent seven months in jail. I also killed someone, he disclosed, counting out cash at the end of the session. His words reverberated. All I could think to say was, Lets pick up there next week. On Friday, at the end of the day, I walked into my kitchen with groceries. Cooking dinner for a woman. By habit, I dropped the bags on the table. One tumbled, sending a pricey pinot grigio to the floor.

Klutz! I scolded myself. Squatting to pick up the miraculously intact bottle, I discerned the cause of the mishap: My kitchen table lacked the uniformly even surface I had taken for granted. There was something on it. Moving the bags away, I uncovered, row by row, plates of pie. They were painted in luscious oils on a canvas I had last seen hanging in a Sacramento museum. A typed note read, Its chocolate cream. Indeed, the thick paint made the second pie easy to identify. I shook my head, having read a few months earlier that one of the artists pieces from the same period fetched 4.5 million at auction. As I studied the velvety brushstrokes, questions swirled: Was this a sorely misguided gift? Or had S.B. and I entered into some kind of pact, wherein each would remain silent about the others seeming or confessed transgressions? How the heck did he get in? I reached for the phone. But how could I explain to the police the sudden appearance of a conspicuously famous masterwork on the table where I ate breakfast every morning, without implicating myself or S.B. (whose final admission clanged like pie tins in my memory)? Fixating on the paintings blue shadows, I realized part of me wanted to keep it. But how could I rationalize such an indiscretion? I hit upon a happy thought: Perhaps it was a reproduction! A knock on the door triggered panic and a knifelike desire for dessert. It was my date. Grabbing her hand, I announced, Were going out. The next morning, I searched online for news stories. Finding none, I drove six hours to Sacramento, the painting wrapped in a trash bag in my trunk. Under the high ceiling of the Contemporary California Art room, on the white wall next to a useless placard, only a scratch remained.

I backtracked to a coffee shop to orchestrate my reverse art heist. As I ate apple pie, a homeless man joined me at the counter. I walk by his house, he proclaimed, pointing at the reverse of the museum map I was analyzing. I flipped it over to find an image of delectable cake slices, yellow with lush white frosting and cherries on top. My plan had fallen into place. I paid the man twenty dollars for his napkin sketch. Across from the artists residence, my engine idling, I fought the self-gratifying impulse to retrieve the painting from his doorstep. Luckily, a car pulled up and an elderly man, whom I recognized from the Internet, emerged from the passenger side carrying a tennis racket. I proceeded down the street without looking back. Maybe Ive shared too much. But Im counting on you, as my therapist, to help make sense of this mess.