Queen of the Owls Page 25

  “Should I fight it?” she asked. “Try to keep my job, instead of going quietly? Since I haven’t broken any actual rule.”

  She tried to picture it. Naomi, Isabelle, and the others would support her. If that was what she wanted.

  She had threatened Joaquin Ventana with the possibility of a student protest, but he’d told her she had it backwards. The students weren’t going to protest that he had put the photographs on display. They might protest, however, if the administration punished a fellow student—a doctoral student, like her—for their existence. They’d call it the suppression of a woman’s right to make decisions about her own body.

  A protest would attract more attention to the photographs, not less. She’d become notorious. Her private mayhem would be splashed all over the community.

  “If you’re asking my opinion,” Harold said, “you don’t have a case. The university isn’t obligated to rehire you as an adjunct instructor. If you recall, they offered you this upper division class at my specific urging. They don’t need a reason not to repeat the offer.” He adjusted his glasses once more, settling them on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t regret my intervention, by the way. I think you’ve done well as an instructor. But that’s of minor relevance, from the administration’s point of view.” Then he paused, emphasizing his point. “They can’t condone, or even appear to condone, your choice to dress up—or undress, I should say—and pretend to be O’Keeffe. Whether you intended it that way or not, it looks frivolous and self-serving.” He flicked his hand across the paper he had read from. “It doesn’t help that your fans are holding you up as an exemplar that we tenured faculty ought to emulate.”

  Elizabeth fought to contain her despair. Never, ever had she foreseen any of this. Images tumbled across her vision, each blurring into the next. Herself, Dr. Crawford, walking across the stage in an academic robe with its blue-and-scarlet hood. Liz, a person she hardly recognized now, in a peach-colored negligee. Elizabeth, in a kimono like Georgia’s, open and loose on her arms.

  “By the way,” Harold said, “have you actually seen the exhibit?”

  Elizabeth shivered. “I don’t have to. I know what’s in it.”

  “Well, I have,” he told her. “I went yesterday, so I’d know what we’re talking about.” His face softened. “Officially, it’s a serious problem. But personally, it’s quite powerful. You should go to see it.”

  She didn’t need to go to Ventana’s gallery to see the photos. They were burned into her skin. The light behind the white screen. The way Richard had crouched, shooting upward. The click of the shutter as he circled her body.

  Because of her stupidity, her career was crumbling—the career she’d been preparing for, ever since she took the advanced placement test instead of dancing onstage in a mermaid costume. They would let her finish her dissertation, there was no way to prevent her, but she wouldn’t be part of their world. That was her punishment for not thinking—proof that she should have used her brain, been her reliable Lizzie-self, instead of imagining she could be someone different.

  She looked at Harold, and a fresh wave of horror washed over her as she understood that I went yesterday meant that he had seen her naked. Was that how he was seeing her now? The sympathy she’d glimpsed on his face, the softness. Maybe it was something else.

  For a desperate instant, she wanted to grab his lapels and scream, “Tell me. What are you really thinking?” Was he disappointed in her, angry, ashamed? He’d invested a lot in her, it had to feel personal. But this was a university and those weren’t questions she could ask.

  Somehow she managed to offer a courteous response. “In any case, thank you for being so candid with me.”

  “Give yourself a bit of time to mull things over,” he said. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  Elizabeth dipped her head, the obedient acolyte. She wanted to run—or linger, in case he changed his mind—but she kept her steps measured and steady as she left his office. She made her way down the stairs and through the big oak door that led to the quad.

  The paths that crisscrossed the campus were dappled with shadows. A boy sped past on a bike, a black dog at his heels. A bird swooped low, startling her; she’d thought the birds would be gone, now that the weather had grown chilly and the trees were bare. Maybe she ought to go to the botanical garden, just to see something colorful and alive. She remembered the day she’d gone there and taken the yellow center of the hibiscus for herself. She had put it in her pocket and forgotten about it; untended, it had dissolved and disappeared.

  No, not the garden. Maybe the library, the place that had always welcomed her. She had to go somewhere. Numbly, she began to walk, following the path that cut across the center of the green, to Founders’ Lawn.

  A half-dozen people were standing in a row, arms lifted for Wave Hands Like Clouds. Juniper, at the end of the row, motioned for Elizabeth to join them.

  Elizabeth began to shake her head, the way she always had, but the absurdity of her diffidence made her laugh. Was she really worried that passers-by might look at her? That she might be revealed to students and strangers?

  You try, and you can, Mr. Wu had told her. Oh, what the hell. She hurried across the grass.

  Juniper stepped back to give her room. “Let’s start over, guys, okay?”

  Elizabeth slipped off her shoes and arranged her body into the first form, feet parallel, arms relaxed. We commence. One posture at a time, she moved through the forms, surprised by how much her body knew. When they were finished, she went to retrieve her shoes. Two students were standing at the edge of the lawn, watching her. One was a tall skinny boy in a red sweatshirt with Che Guevara’s face emblazoned across the chest. The other was a girl with waist-length braids in a #MeToo tee-shirt. Elizabeth didn’t recognize either of them.

  The girl beamed at her and gave a vigorous thumbs-up. “You go, Professor!”

  “Crawford rocks,” the boy agreed. His voice was unnaturally loud, as if he meant for passers-by to hear.

  Elizabeth blushed; their praise made her feel awkward and shy. “I’m not very good at this yet,” she wanted to explain.

  Then she stopped. Were they referring to the way she was doing Tai Chi?

  No, of course not.

  Word had already spread.

  Twenty-Three

  Elizabeth broke away from the group on Founders’ Lawn, anxious to distance herself from the admiring students. It was obvious that they had seen the exhibit or, at the very least, Naomi’s post.

  Who else had seen it, by now? Other adjunct instructors, members of her doctoral cohort, the people she saw at department meetings and seminars? What would they think—what did some of them already think—if they’d been to the exhibit or tagged in a post? That was how news spread these days. Anyone could forward a link, re-post to another Facebook page. Elizabeth’s head began to throb as the radius of potential ripples grew wider and wider. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the end-of-autumn chill.

  The irony was hard to miss. Her students were making her into an icon of what they admired and needed her to be. She’d wanted to be like Georgia, but not this way.

  The throbbing in her temples grew worse. A dog barked as it raced across the grass, chasing a squirrel that gave a taunting chitter before scampering up a tree. Its owner yelled, “Zero, come right back here!”

  Elizabeth opened her messenger bag, searching for the bottle of Advil that she was certain was inside. She fumbled beneath her wallet and felt the buzzing of her cell phone. What now? Ventana, telling her that a national magazine was going to do a story on the exhibit? Harold, telling her that they had come up with another way to punish her?

  By the time she found her phone, the buzzing had stopped. She grabbed the Advil, twisted the cap, and shook three pills into her palm. As she swallowed the tablets, she heard the ding that meant the caller had left a voicemail. She didn’t really want to know what the call had been about, but knew she’d better listen. Delaying bad news wouldn�
��t make it less bad.

  To her relief, the message was from Phoebe. It wasn’t about the photos. Elizabeth tapped to listen.

  “Hi there, it’s me, and great news! Lucy can take all four kids on Saturday evening. Perfect, right? I’ll check out the possibilities, like we talked about, and let you know what looks interesting. I’ll try your land line too, maybe I’ll catch you there. TTYL.”

  Elizabeth threw the phone back in the bag. A Saturday evening double-date was the last thing she cared about right now. Grimacing, she hoisted her messenger bag and hurried down the path to the library. She made her way up the tiered steps, trying to ignore the headache that still hadn’t gone away, trying to focus on the Hawaii paintings, O’Keeffe’s choice of colors and shapes.

  The smack of another body jolted her into awareness. Embarrassment turned to disbelief as she realized that she had slammed right into Marion Mackenzie, who was striding down the stone steps in the opposite direction.

  Elizabeth backed away in horror. Incredible that Marion was in this very spot, outside the very building where she had first offered her friendship. “I’m so, so sorry,” she stammered. Then she turned crimson. “For crashing into you, I mean.”

  Did Marion think she was apologizing for posing naked? Elizabeth tried the words in her mind. I’m sorry for pretending to be Georgia O’Keeffe. For going to Tai Chi instead of your talk on Arthur Dove. For letting you down.

  Only she wasn’t sorry. Despite everything.

  The knowledge shocked her, but there was no time to think about what it meant. She had to make things right with Marion. This might be her only chance.

  She waited for Marion to say it’s all right or the ubiquitous no problem. Maybe Marion would ask how she was doing or offer an apology of her own. I really had no choice.

  Even a curt look where you’re walking would have been better than Marion’s icy silence as she brushed off her clothes. What was she brushing off? Elizabeth’s presence?

  Elizabeth’s heart began to hammer. She needed to say something, to explain how persuasive Richard had been—anything, so Marion wouldn’t hate her. She clenched her fingers, pleading for a sign. Before she could decide which words to use, Marion flicked her jade green scarf, stepped around Elizabeth’s frozen form, and strode down the steps.

  She stared at Marion’s disappearing back. If she hadn’t understood before, she did now. She’d done the one thing Marion couldn’t forgive. Posing nude would have been in bad taste, but posing nude as Georgia O’Keeffe was beyond redemption.

  For the second time that day, Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears. Warring emotions collided in her chest. Anger at being double-crossed—by Richard, Naomi, Marion herself, who had laughed and said I like you, Elizabeth Crawford. And then shame, because of the self-delusion that had made the betrayal possible. Fear of what would happen now. Anxiety, gripping her in its beak, because she didn’t know what that might be.

  Then she thought: No. She didn’t have to wait, like a model holding a pose, to find out what would happen. She could act.

  The Legacy of Feminist Art, that was the title of today’s lecture. According to the syllabus, they were supposed to talk about post-feminism in contemporary art—whether millennial women saw art as a means of social protest or simply a form of personal expression, whether all-women shows were necessary or patronizing or both. Elizabeth had slides of installations done by post-feminists and trans artists who sought to undo the very gender lines that had shaped the early feminists’ vision.

  Instead of warming up the projector or taking out her notes, she pressed her palms against the oak desk and surveyed the students—a sea of bodies in torn jeans, Indian tunics, and oversized hoodies. She hadn’t planned what she would say or do, beyond the certainty that she had to say or do something. She had to face them. Dressed, but revealed.

  After a long silent moment, she let go of the desk and straightened her shoulders. “We’re not going to talk about emerging women artists. Not just yet. First, we’re going to talk about me.”

  No one moved. Even Naomi was quiet, the jewel in her nostril motionless as an unblinking eye.

  “I know that many of you are aware of the exhibit in town,” Elizabeth said, “and some of you may think I was trying to make a statement about how to relate to art, or the autonomy of women’s bodies, or the repression of women in academia. Those are all important topics but they have nothing to do with my intention in posing.” She moved her gaze from face to face. “Whatever the photographs mean to you, it’s fine. Feel free to take them as you wish. But it’s your meaning and not mine. Just to be clear.”

  Naomi looked as if she wanted to speak. Elizabeth could almost see the yes, but forming on the girl’s lips. Yes, but weren’t you really telling us to claim women’s art for women instead of letting the men in power tell us how to view it—as something separate from ourselves, the way they do?

  No, she wasn’t. No more than Georgia was trying to do anything but let her lover see her exactly as she was. Georgia had been adamant. Interpretation was just a way for people to project their own needs onto her art.

  The girl with the tattoo raised her hand. “Are the admin people giving you shit?”

  Elizabeth could feel the students waiting to see how she would answer. If she said yes, they would sympathize and support her. She wouldn’t be alone; she’d be surrounded by an ardent, admiring crowd. Maybe their response would be dramatic enough that the department would reconsider and rehire her.

  She could do that, just a small shift in emphasis. Nothing she’d said had foreclosed the possibility.

  She tried to envision what would follow if she gave the answer that she sensed the students wanted to hear. She would become a martyr, the leader of a worthy and inspiring cause. People would cheer for her—the way her mother had promised all those years ago, when Andie danced across the stage in The Nutcracker. She would make something noble out of the humiliation, transform a private failure into public acclaim. She would be saved.

  Not really. It would be a false salvation.

  That was the price for being so smart. She knew better. Pretending to be a heroine would turn the photographs into exactly the kind of stunt Marion had accused her of.

  It would be like putting on a costume. She didn’t want the mermaid costume, or Georgia’s kimono, or anyone else’s clothes. She wanted her own skin.

  If the students needed a cause, someone else would have to provide it.

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “It’s a private matter.”

  She waited for the next question, surprised when it didn’t come. Had she defused the situation that easily? Then Naomi leaned forward, frowning.

  “I don’t get it,” Naomi said. “If it wasn’t about deconstructing the border between the viewer and the viewed or showing us what education is really about—why did you do it?”

  Responses arrayed themselves across Elizabeth’s vision like a fan. Because she wanted to be Georgia instead of Lizzie. Because she was tired of being invisible and unloved.

  She remembered how Richard had touched the place in the center of her sternum. Open. From here. She had. For him. To him.

  Her voice was soft. “I wanted to.”

  Elizabeth had only skipped one Tai Chi class, yet it felt like much longer than two weeks. Mr. Wu looked stronger, more substantial. He was standing in front of the class, legs apart, feet parallel. Richard was next to him, facing the pupils. Elizabeth slipped into an empty spot. Not in the back this time. In the center.

  “We commence,” Mr. Wu said. He looked straight at her, and Elizabeth felt a shift in her posture, as if someone had put a hand on top of her head and drawn her upward, lengthening her spine, opening her chest. The lightest touch, barely perceptible. But it changed everything.

  For the first time, the movements made sense. Not a sequence of instructions to memorize and will herself to reproduce, but a natural expression of her body’s relation to the air, the space, its own shape. Inhale as
you lift up, exhale as you push out. Draw the silk up. Raise the leg and step out. As if the form was already there and she was simply filling it.

  Her body. Beautiful. Perfect, with a language of its own. No wobbling or hesitation, only an obedient grace. She could feel Richard watching her.

  The hour flew past, and then the class was over. Elizabeth waited for Richard outside the entrance to the building. He might, of course, have another plan. He might be taking Mr. Wu home or inviting another woman to share an Americano at the little café. But she didn’t think so and she didn’t care. She was going to talk to him tonight, no matter what.

  She watched the pupils come out of the building, knowing that Richard would be among the last. Juniper, flanked by two other women, spotted her and broke into a smile. “Hey, Liz. Want to come to that smoothie place with us?”

  “Thanks, but not tonight.”

  Juniper’s smile twisted into a smirk. “Otherwise occupied?”

  Elizabeth flushed; she hadn’t realized that her interest in Richard was so obvious. “Another time,” she repeated.

  “Have fun, then.” Juniper’s voice was jaunty, as if she and Elizabeth shared a secret. She bent close to one of her companions as they strolled off, laughing loudly.

  Elizabeth leaned against the side of the building. Her pulse jumped each time the door opened. He had to appear eventually. Finally Mr. Wu and his daughter emerged, followed by Richard. Richard gave a short bow. Mr. Wu bowed in return and took his daughter’s arm as she ushered him into a black car that had been waiting by the curb.

  The car pulled away, and Richard turned to Elizabeth. She didn’t know what she had expected—annoyance, defensiveness, disdain— but he looked as pleased to see her as ever. The last time she saw him, she had raced out of his studio as she realized she was about to miss her children’s play. She hadn’t explained why she had to leave; she’d simply fled, his words ringing in her ears. “You look beautiful, trust me. It’s a good show. And it’s not coming down.”