A Storied Life

by Leigh Kramer

  My plate emptied of food, I pushed it away from me and hugged my knees up to my chest on the bar stool. I needed to be comfortable for this next part.

  “I don’t understand how it happened. I was riding high on Paris and all its charms, of course. It felt like this was the life I was meant to lead. Painting, living with artists, Paris. I couldn’t imagine returning to the States and what I considered a mundane existence there. Other than Gram, no one in the family believed I’d walk away from the bank. They thought art was a cute little hobby of mine, and I’d never pushed the issue. Spending time in Paris simply affirmed my dreams. I had to paint.”

  Reagan’s eyes were full of questions but he didn’t interrupt me.

  I exhaled. “Before I knew this trip was a possibility, I’d had a crush on my professor. All the girls did, even a few of the guys. Arturo Benoit. The name alone screamed mystery and excitement. And then when you met him, you were drawn into his world where artists were respected, creativity demanded, and senses needed to be explored. I took three or four of his classes before we left for Paris. We had a pretty good relationship, a little flirty but always aboveboard. I didn’t think anything of it. He was my professor, I was his student. Never the twain shall meet, you know? Plus, he was at least twenty years older than me. Crossing the line between crush and relationship never occurred to me.”

  Reagan’s muscles tensed and his brow furrowed. Understanding of where the story led washed over him. My stomach knotted. I only wished I had known then. I wondered how differently my life would look if I had.

  “See? You don’t even know everything yet, but you know it’s not good. How could I have been so stupid?” I spat out. Self-loathing overtook me. All the good of therapy undone by a simple admission. I hadn’t even told him the worst part.

  “I have a guess about what happened but that doesn't mean I'm right. Whatever you did or whatever happened to you isn’t going to change how I feel about you. You’re an artist and I want to know about whatever caused you to stop living like one.”

  I nodded, taking his words in and hoping they would stay true. I pressed on with the story.

  “Arturo took a special interest in me on the trip. He’d given good, challenging critiques when I’d taken his classes, but this was different. I felt like he’d chosen me, like I was somebody special. No one had made me feel like that before, not even old boyfriends. He didn’t view me as a student, but a peer, someone who was on equal ground with him. It made me wonder if my little crush wasn't so little after all. That was my first mistake.”

  “Sometimes we’d go off on our own at night. His mother was French and his father Italian, making him the perfect tour guide. I had the European experience I’d dreamed of. And even though I wondered what he saw in me, I didn’t question his attention or his intentions. My second mistake.”

  “Aside from all that, I did some of my best work there. I try to remember the good moments because no matter what else happened, Paris was magical for me. The instructors challenged and inspired me. Benoit told me I was a front-runner for the gala exhibit. With only senior year between me and graduation, winning the exhibit space would have launched my career, or at least been a stepping stone. I pictured myself in a studio apartment in Paris. I wanted nothing more. When you want something that badly, you don’t see things as clearly as you should.”

  “About three weeks in, Benoit asked if I would model for him. We used nude models in our classes but I’d never thought about posing before. He flattered me, called me his muse. He didn’t say so but I got the impression that if I wanted my painting at the exhibit, I should go along with the idea. But that’s not why I said yes. I liked the idea of this man wanting to see all of me. It made me feel powerful. Plus, it was supposed to be for his private collection, not anything he’d show at a gallery.” My face grew hot with shame. I shifted in my chair, avoiding Reagan’s eyes. Looking at him would be my undoing and I needed to rid myself of this secret.

  “He tracked down an empty studio and brought me over there. Nothing but a couch and an easel in the whole place. I was nervous.” A different kind of nervous compared to how I felt now, unearthing dirt from my soul. I forced myself to look up and confess. “I took my clothes off and sat on the couch, like it was no big deal. I let him stand close and arrange me the way he wanted. I let him caress me. How many times had I painted a nude body for class? It was different being that nude body but I still did not think anything of it.”

  My skin crawled at the memory. I had been so trusting and naïve.

  “For three afternoons, whenever class was over, I posed for him. He wouldn’t let me see his work until he finished. Each night we’d eat dinner together afterward. The first night, he kissed me after he walked me home to the hostel. I enjoyed kissing him. It felt like a turning point; I thought he really cared about me. My daydreaming took off over what could be. I wouldn’t be able to take his classes anymore but that didn’t compare to the possibility of dating this supposedly magnificent man.” I shuddered in revulsion, remembering what came next.

  “The exhibit was a Friday night; Saturday we’d fly back to the States for the rest of the summer. Thursday afternoon, I posed for Arturo for the last time. They hadn't announced whose painting would be shown at the exhibit yet. I hoped he was going to tell me it would be my work on the wall. He didn't mention my painting at all, focusing on his instead. I didn’t know what approach he’d taken to the painting. He tended toward modernism but the final product was more true to life. You could tell it was me, though it wasn’t a direct profile. Seeing my body on canvas was like looking into a mirror.”

  I took a deep breath. I didn't want to relive what happened but it was too late to stop.

  “That’s when everything changed. Arturo suggested we make use of the couch, as an ‘homage to the beauty created here.’ It took me a few seconds to realize that he meant we should sleep together. It wasn’t the location I’d imagined for our first time but the fact that Arturo wanted to sleep with me? It was everything I’d hoped for. I thought it meant we would have an actual relationship. But then he spelled it out for me. If I slept with him, my painting would appear at the exhibit. I was crushed. I would have slept with him willingly, but to know I was just a stupid student to him, someone to manipulate…I couldn’t do it. I give him this much credit though. It took him a while to understand I wasn’t going to do it, but he didn’t force himself on me.”

  “That asshole!”

  I cut Reagan off. “I have to believe not all of it was a lie. If I don’t, it takes me down a bad road. I wasn’t completely innocent; I could have made other decisions.”

  “That doesn't excuse him,” he shot back. “He was your professor and he took advantage of you. I hope you pressed charges.”

  I smiled wanly. “I suppose that's what should have happened. That's not even the worst part. He didn't understand why I wouldn't sleep with him but, like I said, he didn't force himself on me. Things did get ugly though. His true colors came out.”

  Benoit's reaction had transformed into someone I didn't recognize when he realized he would not be getting his way that night. Cruelty imbued his features as hateful words embedded into me. The confusion of those moments left me without armor to defend myself. I felt armor-less now as the memory came crashing back. I would never be the same again.

  “What did he do?” Reagan, ever my would-be protector, warily asked.

  “He told me the only reason he had approved my spot on the trip was because he thought I'd sleep with him. That I'd been coming on to him that whole semester, begging for it.” All these years later, I wondered if it was true. Had I been sending out those signals unaware?

  “He screamed I had no talent and that I'd never make it as an artist. He said the whole cohort laughed at me behind my back because of how clearly I didn’t belong with them. Then he screamed at me for blowing my one opportunity. If we’d had sex, my painting would have been chosen for the exhibit and I was ruining my chance
at having a career.”

  Clothed only in a robe since the session had ended, I had felt all the more vulnerable to his attack. I’d wanted to get away, wanted to wash the night off of me.

  “He changed his tactic one more time, trying to sweet talk me into it but by then I was too upset. I'd gone from high to low in just a few hours. The idea I didn't deserve to be there in the first place...” I trailed off, the devastation still too fresh.

  “Somehow I made it back to the hostel. It was late when I returned and I just crawled into bed. I couldn't talk to anyone; I was positive they'd been making fun of me the whole time, that they knew I didn't belong there, just like Benoit said. I couldn't see past his judgement of me. The next day, I avoided him. Another professor announced the exhibit space winner. Which, of course, was not me.”

  “I made it through the last day and went through the motions at the exhibit. My friends asked me what was wrong but I couldn't say anything. Later, when I overheard a few classmates joking that Veronique's painting won the spot because she'd slept with Benoit, I was pretty sure it wasn't a joke. Had he gone to her after I refused him or had they already slept together? I have no idea. It still makes me sick to think about him and what could have happened.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. That was that. I could see Reagan wanted to respond but I continued on.

  “It was one thing to avoid Benoit for a day in Paris and another to avoid him as an art major.” I shuddered. “God, he was so awful. There was no way I could be around him when classes started. I didn't want the reminder of what had almost happened and I couldn't shake the fear that he was right about me. With few supporters in my life, I lived and breathed by my professors’ opinions of my work. Benoit shattered me that night. My family didn't want me to go into art anyway. Choosing another route and failing at it was not an option. Senior year loomed and all I knew for sure was that neither the bank or painting were options.”

  “Luckily, I'd taken a ton of art history classes, not as an official double major but out of sheer appreciation. On the flight home, I figured out that if I doubled up work for one semester, I could change majors and still graduate on time. As an art history major, I could spend time in the world I loved.”

  “Once home, I glossed over my time in Paris if anyone asked. The next week I told my family I wasn’t going to work in the bank and I was so numb their reactions went over my head. I didn’t care about much of anything then, but I got through it. I didn't know where art history would take me and I definitely didn't think I'd end up owning my own gallery one day. But here I am.”

  My body sank with relief into the hard back of the bar stool. Now he knew.

  “Come on,” Reagan prompted, standing up and extending his hand to me.

  I raised questioning eyes as I offered my hand.

  “This conversation calls for more comfortable seats.”

  I hopped off the bar stool, then paused to recover my balance before I plodded behind him. A bleary haze muffled my every move. I was probably going to have a wicked hangover in the morning despite Reagan’s efforts.

  We settled on to the living room couch, facing each other. I tucked my feet under me. The air conditioning must have been set a shade too high because I started to shiver. Or maybe it was the after-effect of a secret released.

  Sitting there in the comfort of my home with a good man across from me, an awkwardness settled into my spirit. What must he think of me? I couldn't explain why my foolishness led to so many hang-ups or why I'd kept everyone in the dark. Yes, Benoit had taken advantage of me but he hadn’t raped me. This wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened that night, but I couldn’t shake off the shame and betrayal. Benoit’s actions were not my fault, yet I continued to live as though they were.

  Reagan cleared his throat. I looked at him and waited for his indictment.

  “Do you know where that professor is now?” He cracked his knuckles. A fierce protector in action. If only he'd been around back then, my story might have turned out differently.

  “I assume he's somewhere in New York. A few years after I graduated, I heard he resigned because of a scandal. He pulled the same stunt with some other girl but she didn't keep quiet like me. I don't know if it was the exact same circumstances. Of course, that made me feel guilty I hadn't said something sooner.”

  “It wasn't your fault, Olivia,” he insisted, his eyes boring into mine, willing me to understand.

  “I know that now. He was a dirty old man who took advantage of me. My skin crawls thinking about it; I couldn't think clearly then. I didn't want anyone to know I'd been so stupid and that there was a nude painting of me floating around somewhere in Europe. I wanted to put it all behind me and move on with my life.”

  “You think the painting is out there?” Reagan asked with a steely glint in his eyes.

  The dreaded painting, an eternal reminder of my mistake. “I made a half-hearted attempt to find it when I first got back from France. For all I know, Benoit rolled it up and brought it back with him. I hate that he ruined an experience that made me feel so empowered at first. In any case, I learned my lesson. Don't let professors charm you into posing for them.”

  “I hate that asshole for doing this to you,” Reagan said, his voice low and harsh. “I understand why you couldn't be around him but I don't get why you dropped art as your major. He said those things because he was pissed you wouldn't sleep with him. Didn't you realize how talented you are?”

  “Reagan, when you're that young, what people say about your work matters more than it should. You might believe in what you’ve created and say you don't care what anyone says, but at the end of the day, you crave praise. There were other professors and classmates who encouraged my talent but sitting there in Paris, I forgot it all. I felt so used, and then I was terrified he was right about me.”

  I tried to remember my thought process back then. Frasiers didn't fail. Those words rang through my mind as I'd struggled to make a decision about what came next.

  “Frasiers don’t fail. You’ve spent enough time around my family to understand some of what I faced back then. I had to figure out what I could do that would give me some measure of success. I'd given up on pleasing them, but I didn't want to be the black mark on the family name either. Becoming a curator wasn't an outlandish idea and it certainly appealed more to them than the starving artist idea. I couldn't admit why I changed paths, so I pretended I'd always intended on art history. They were used to me making last-minute decisions or doing things to annoy them anyway. It wasn't a hard sell.”

  “You couldn't have told your grandmother or Elaine at least?”

  Tears burned to the surface. “You don't know how much I wish I had. Back then, I thought the truth would cost me my only allies. Elaine didn't understand my career decisions but she loved me nonetheless. Finding out her niece posed naked for someone? She wouldn't have respected me if she'd known.”

  “I don't know about that. They all love you, Liv. Even the ones you think don't.”

  “Maybe. But I didn’t feel like putting that theory to the test.”

  Reagan nodded, sensing that I could not be pushed further. “Then, tell me this. When did you start painting again?”

  I glanced out the window across the room before looking back at Reagan and confessing.

  “I never stopped. Not painting was never an option. I decided I would do it for myself and never show anyone. Until you happened upon that canvas, no one had seen my work since I got home from Paris.”

  Reagan looked confused. I took pity on him.

  “I can't make sense of it any more than you can. This has been my life the last decade or so. I work at the gallery, I help other artists, I occasionally teach kids how to paint. And then I deal with my family issues on the side. I'm good at what I do but I feel more alive when I paint. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to see my work on the wall.”

  “Then why not do something about it?”

  I shrugged my shou
lders. “Until recently, I thought this was how life would be. In the past year, I started to feel trapped by my decisions. Gram sensed that about me and that's why she chose me to be her decision maker. She thought the time away from the gallery would help me figure out what I want from life.”

  “What do you want from life?”

  I choked out a laugh. “As if it's that easy,” I said, exasperated.

  “Then why did you show me the painting from your aunt's house?”

  I looked down at my lap. Why indeed? “I don’t know.”

  “It's inside of you, Olivia. You can't turn that off. That's why you've kept at it all these years, because you know you have a gift and because you can't not do it. And that's why you feel miserable, because you refuse to admit it.”

  “It's not that simple, Reagan,” I shot back. “It doesn't matter if anyone knows or not. Gram doesn't need to know what happened, and it's too late to tell Elaine. I let her down. She believed in me all these years and I threw that belief away. Do you know why she bought that painting? She told Stewart she wanted to have a piece of my art before everyone knew my name. So what's the point now? I might as well let everyone think what they want about me. It’s better not to get my hopes up for more.”

  “You're not making any sense.”

  “Of course I’m not making sense! I’m drunk!” I returned, throwing my arms out for emphasis. Damn wine had really loosened my tongue but I didn’t want to take it out on him. “This is just how things are, Reagan.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair before rubbing his eyes. “It doesn’t have to be that way. It’s not about what your family thinks or why your life turned out this way. It's about what you were meant to do. You don't want to tell Gram because you know what she'd say.”