As soon as they sat down to eat, Stella started. “Why didn’t you come to my funeral?”
Johnny said, “I did.”
“Liar. You did not.”
“Okay. I lied.”
“Why, Dad? Explain to me why.”
“Because the public. Because publicity. Vultures. Paparazzi. Because there was a guy with a placard marching in front of our house, ‘Mister Stella-Denier’ with his ‘There is no child, it’s an actor.’ You want to talk about chutzpah: guy denies you ever existed, then climbs in the limo with us to hitch a ride to your funeral. Chalk it up to the fog of grief, Stellita. And get this, Stel. A shutterbug turns up at your graveside, Mount Sinai; they’re shovelling dirt on your coffin, he’s taking snaps of us. Your uncle Lou took him aside, quietly bent his wrist back, banged his camera around on his titanium knee. Tha
