Richard laughed. “The Bible, I think. I’m not very religious, but I believe that at least.”
“Sounds…risky.”
We stood together for one last moment, eyes lifted to the glittering sky.
Finally, Richard shrugged. “Maybe that’s the best part.” He slid his hands into his own pockets as he started forward toward his tent. “Sleep well, Frankie.”
—
Inside my tent, with my headlamp set up like a lantern, I was still trembling from my exchange with Richard. But no—I’d already decided. Just no. I was grateful for the focus required to get even the most basic tasks accomplished: teeth brushed, spitting out the tent flap; face cleaned with wipes; getting the right clothes laid out for the morning. Trying to figure out what the right clothes might be. I left the air mattress for last, trying and failing to inflate it the way I’d seen the tech at REI demonstrate so easily. When I tried a second time, I instantly felt lightheaded. At this altitude, some things just weren’t an option.
I wiggled into my sleeping bag on the hard ground. And then there was only the dark and the mostly quiet. And me. Not silence, not yet. The smallest sounds traveled forever through the night air. Every cough, every shift or footstep. The rustling of some kind of creature at the outside edges of my tent. Still, so much space to think.
About the ground—so cold and so hard.
About that night. I was back in that cramped little bathroom at the back of the house, the noise from the party far away. Thebathroom tiles cold and hard under my bare knees as I knelt to unbuckle the Senator’s pants—God, that partwasthrilling. Because he was glamorous and powerful and so sure of himself. How I loved the feeling of being chosen by someone like that. Someone who knew things that I didn’t, who saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. The sick truth was that his wedding ring made the whole thingmoreexciting. It made me feel mature and reckless and almost as powerful as he was. I wanted to take him in my mouth, I did. But suddenly, the Senator was on top of me. He shoved my dress up and pulled my underwear to the side. And then, so fast, he was inside me. I didn’t say no. Not out loud. But silently, a part of me was screaming. She had been screaming ever since.
I was jolted awake sometime later by voices in the tent nearest to mine. Richard’s tent. I couldn’t make out most of the words. Just the cadence of a conversation between Richard and Van. The anger between them was unmistakable.
“I am not” and then “…money”—that was Van.
And then Richard: “I am not having this conversation again. I’m going to sleep.”
“I’m done,done—done,” Van replied. A beat later there was some aggressive unzippering and zippering of Richard’s tent, then footsteps stomping away, then what must have been Van’s tent opening and closing.
Then nothing at all.
***
After Noah and Max leave, I consider leaving, too. I could face the damage in the morning. At least the ruined paintings weren’t intended to be included in the show. Those I’ve already moved to the gallery. But I’m pretty sure the new series is—was—the best thing I’ve ever painted. Figures of women, more fractured than anything I’ve ever done—bolder, braver, more uncompromising. Raw. But there’s also an emotional depth to them. Like what I found in Africa has made its way into my work. The paintings feel like the first tangible proof that a new version of me might be possible. Gone now, erased again. By the Senator.
The sooner I clean up, the sooner I can pretend this whole thing never happened—which, of course, is my specialty.
But the destruction, it turns out, is even worse than I realized—four out of six of my newly finished canvases are sliced, as if with a knife, clean through their center. I could tuck them away somewhere, hope to figure out a way to fix them later. But I don’t think I can bear to be reminded of this feeling of powerlessness; like I’m a ballerina trapped in a sinister music box.
Turns out the paint on the floor and walls is even more of a problem than the damaged paintings. Spray paint, I think when I look closely at the fuzzy edges—neon red, blue, yellow. The colors feel blunt and garish compared to the subtle shades of my own work. The frenzied pitch of the damage feels like someone is screaming at me.
I try paint remover, but it immediately pulls the stain off the floor, leaving a small bleached area.Shit.It makes even more of a mess on the wall. The floor will need a professional. Not cheap, but okay—I can handle this. The damage isn’t permanent. Forward. Onward.
I lift the first of the four damaged canvases and head for the door. There are renovations going on next door, a large dumpster out front covered in warnings blaring:No Unauthorized Use!I’ll need to get the canvases all the way inside, so no one sees. The last thing I want is for the gallery to get wind of what happened, but also for my own sake. I can’t bear the thought of leaving them abandoned on top. Like actual garbage.
Outside on the dark stretch of sidewalk, I stand on tiptoes and peek inside the dumpster. Nearly empty, but not completely. Perfect. In the morning, more construction debris will go on top, and this nasty incident will officially be buried. Like so much else in my past.
I close my eyes as I lift the canvas. It’s not light, and I get it only halfway up in the air before it catches the edge of the dumpster. I manage to slide it up a little farther until eventually it tilts and falls in. A second later, there’s a loud thud as it hits the bottom.
“That bad, huh?” a voice calls.
I startle and turn—Richard, standing under a streetlight, hands deep in the pockets of his navy-blue field jacket. My breath catches, and I feel myself blush. In my defense, the halo of light makes his blue eyes glow.
“Oh, hi…” I’m thrilled. But also a little confused. “How did you know where…?”
It sounds more accusatory than I intended. Richard gestures toward a neon sign in a window above my head:Crystal Ball and All.“The name stuck with me,” he says a little sheepishly. “I looked it up.”
While we were hiking, I’d mentioned to the group my habit of getting my tarot cards read upstairs from my new studio when I was having a bad day.
“Oh, right.” I move away from the dumpster, trying to ignore the rush of warmth moving from my cheeks to my chest. “What are you doing here?” I don’t really care. I’m just glad he’s there.
“Why are you throwing out art?” he asks, ignoring my question.
