penance. a love story (The Böhme Series) Read online

  “Hello, everyone, sorry for keeping you waiting,” declared a stout man, breaking our conversation as he entered the room. His facial characteristics reminded me of a cartoon, with his round cheeks and strawberry nose.

  The room had filled with other people as my bomb diffuser and I were at work trying to distract us from the girl’s heady scent. Wall-to-wall people now occupied the room. I tried to calm my breathing as I thought of the other people using up the oxygen.

  After he introduced himself, the professor passed out the syllabus. We opened our books and I examined the images, vying for a distraction. Turning off the lights, he started a slide show and continued to discuss each of the images. My knee began to hop as I tried to push my nervousness out with physical motion.

  We started from the beginning of art history. As I listened to the professor discuss cave drawings and ancient statues, I found my thoughts drifting. I appreciated art history for the mere fact that it showed that human beings always had the drive to create. Even humans from eons ago needed to express themselves. Stories find their way in each of us. Guilt filled me for my dismissal of the girl in front of me. But I didn’t have enough energy to know her story, because she didn’t interest me. Not as bench girl did.

  “Who knows who this beauty is?” the professor asked looking across the room. He looked for someone to respond and I grew frustrated as no one did. I always hated this part of school; no one wants to respond first as if being intelligent or knowing answers is something to bring one shame. I lifted my hand in the air. I hated being in this room, I hated taking part in the ritual of raising my hand, but the silent waiting for someone else to respond was far worse.

  The professor pointed at me, “Yes.”

  “It is the Venus of Willendorf—thought the oldest sculpture ever found in existence. Another female figure discovered a few years ago dates to an earlier time, but hasn’t reached the fame that she has yet,” I said so fast it was as if I hadn’t even spoke. The words flew from me as if they belonged to someone else.

  “You are correct, what's your name, son?” Well it's not son. I hate the labeling term of son by older men. Women never refer to younger women as daughter in passing. Why am I called son? It’s degrading.

  “Wynn. Wynn Hawthorne,” I said, trying to keep my voice and expression neutral.

  “Thank you, Wynn,” he said as he made a note in his book.

  The rest of the class continued as expected. No one else responded to the questions and I knew most of the pieces discussed.

  When we were leaving, the girl sitting in front of me turned to give me another seductive smile. “You sure know your art, Wynn,” she said with a proud expression as if her knowing my name was an integral piece in a puzzle she had solved.

  “Yup,” I said as I stood to exit the room in a hurry without looking back at her. It was a dick move, but I didn’t want to try to stave her off any further. It was a tiny step taking the time to answer questions. Stinson might be right in his assumption and I learned a few things. First, I can sit in a room full of people if I push myself. Second, I know enough art history that I could teach a beginning level class. Third, I didn’t hate every minute of it.

  I left the art building and decided to find a space others weren’t occupying. A short walk later, I found the quietness in a disused building that sat away from others on campus. Abandoned buildings were the focus of most of my photos.

  I looked for any eyes watching me before I pushed open a cracked basement window. Pressing myself against the ground, I lowered my legs into the abyss below me. Darkness surrounded me in the first room and since I don’t use flash and prefer natural light, I moved forward.

  I found the stairs of the building that led up to the main floor. They didn’t look old and I wondered why the building was no longer used. I wonder why any of the places I visit are. What causes someone to leave and not take items with them? How does one choose which items to take and which remain?

  I snapped a few photos of the stairway as I climbed it and found a large room at the top. I entered a library filled with dusty books. Anxieties faded as my focus centered on the surrounding decay. I pulled one of the many dust masks from my bag and continued to take photos. Everything I needed was always with me and I craved the control it gave me. It extended from the control I needed in my life. I kept my thoughts and emotions compartmentalized in much the same way I did my bag.

  The buildings reminded me of my own history. Where I had order and details, they were dirty and in disarray. They led me to believe my decision to control my life was rational. I created order out of the chaos.

  2

  Hannah

  I took a deep breath and eased into my steps as I rounded the corner to the art department’s offices. An average young woman with plastic rimmed frames sat behind a desk. She didn’t acknowledge me as she continued to read her book and I cleared my throat to draw her attention to me.

  She looked over her frames and gave an annoyed glance at my nerve to interrupt her. “Can I help you?”

  I met her eyes to show she did not intimidate me. “I’m here to meet with Lawrence,” I said as she looked me over and raised an eyebrow. I raised my eyebrow right back at her. Not allowing myself to drop her gaze first, I kept hold of her eyes. She rolled hers at me before turning to stand from her seat. She didn’t give me another look and I smiled to myself as I watched her disappear through a door in the back of the room.

  I took a seat and opened a book that I assumed was for one of the art classes. It had many old paintings that I had never seen. I paused on one that I did recognize. It was a Renoir.

  When I was a girl, my mother owned an old board game she purchased from a garage sale. The game had cards with famous paintings on them. I always loved this Renoir, Two Sisters on the Terrace. I envisioned Lily and me on the terrace with them. Where the one sister wore a bright red hat, Lily would choose blue. I imagined we shared tea with them and ran through a field of flowers, because that is what civilized girls do when they wanted to disobey their parents.

  As girls, civilized was not a term to describe us growing up on a farm in rural America, though. I stared at that painting and thought of times when I was a child. One word always echoed through my mind when I thought of those days—freedom. That’s what I experienced when my sister took my hand and danced me around our living room. I thought of one Sunday morning in particular.

  Three Little Birds by Bob Marley was playing on our mother’s stereo that day. It was Lily’s favorite song. She always sang the verses of that song to me any time I was unsure of myself. But that day, she sang it for her own pure joy. She grabbed my hand and led me out the back door. I kicked my little legs to keep up with her as we ran toward the field of flowers behind our house.

  I remember the wind on my face as I ran after her and knew possibilities and dreams never ceased. They stretched to the horizon and nothing stopped us. Daddy was riding his tractor around the field that day, having waked before everyone else to finish mowing before were to leave for church. We jumped in a patch of daisies to hide from him. Falling back to the ground, we looked to the sky and watched the clouds roll over us. Lily kept singing her song and I couldn’t stop giggling as I thought of how upset Momma was going to be when she saw our white nightgowns covered in grass.

  “Shh,” Lily said putting her finger to her lips. “Hannah, do you hear that?” she asked in a whisper.

  I had shaken my head not knowing what she meant. I only heard the breeze dancing across the field as if it were the percussion keeping beat for the birds singing in the distance.

  “It's the cherry trees,” she whispered. “They’re singing to us Hannah right along with the birds,” she said as she took our hands and held them above us as she continued singing her favorite song.

  It was a wonderful memory and I tried to cling to those when they came back to me. They were few and far between anymore. I looked back at the red hat the sister wore in Renoir’s painting and w
anted to hold tight to Lily.

  I looked toward the door to make sure I was alone and with quiet movements tore the painting from the book. I smiled to myself as I slid it between the pages of my own book I brought with me to read.

  “You must be Hannah,” a male voice said, startling me. The girl from earlier followed behind him and returned to her desk and paid me no attention as I smiled at the man.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I said as I stood from my seat and put my hand toward him. He wore a gray mustache that reminded me of old television shows from the 1980s. My mom always watched reruns and Lily and I dreamed of meeting a mustached man one day.

  “You’re late,” the man said, “I’m Lawrence, by the way.” He continued without allowing me to respond. “Follow me,” he said as he entered his office without shaking my hand.

  When I entered the room he shut the door behind me. He waved his hand toward a chair opposite his desk and gave me a sincere smile. “Sorry,” he said as he put his hand toward me to shake. “Alex thinks she can come and go as she pleases, so I have to make her believe I’m a hard ass with everyone.”

  I took his hand and appreciated that he had a firm shake with me. Limp handshakes annoyed me.

  “That’s a good way to be,” I said with a smile. “I apologize for being late. I got lost.” Not a lie, but I chose to omit the truth.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?” he asked as he shuffled papers at his desk.

  “Yeah, I’m new to the city. I used to live outside town, but I’d never visited the college. So it's new to me,” I said as I relaxed into the chair and held my bag and book on my lap.

  He smiled as his older, artistic eyes evaluated me. The way he studied me didn’t make me uncomfortable. He wasn’t judging as the girl at the desk had. He was an artist. “You understand figure modeling isn’t the same as modeling, right?”

  I smiled. “I assumed that. Most models don’t sit still for an hour or so while a room full of people stares at them.” I scowled. “Maybe they do, I'm not sure,” I said on a shrug.

  “It’s more than that, too, if you aren’t ready for it,” he sighed as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. I noticed that the decorations in his office and the orange-brown color of his furniture looked as though they were outdated. The office and the man himself were reminiscent of easier times. They were times when people had their own moments and their privacy. I looked at his desks and noticed he didn’t have a computer.

  “Why don’t you have a computer?” I asked and thought of how different I now was. I never used to be forthright with my questions. I learned that life is too short to not ask questions.

  Lawrence smiled as he looked toward the desk intended for a computer. In its place were several books stacked on their sides, as well as two Japanese Komainu statues. “I despise the things. If I need to email or check something for work, I use Alex’s desk. Otherwise, I prefer to research the old fashioned way.” He laid his hand upon the stack of books. “I sometimes wonder if these things are a dying breed and it breaks my heart. Why figure modeling, Hannah?” He leaned back into his chair and once again crossed his arms as he brought the conversation back to why I was there, “Not many people are up for it. It takes a strong will to do it.”

  “I want to be seen,” I said looking to the yellowed ceiling tiles above my head, “but not heard.” Something I fought against growing up, but now needed.

  “Don’t you think it involves more than being seen? You’d be surprised what you find in the silence,” he said without judgment.

  “That’s deep, Lawrence.” I smiled. “They may see something, but they won’t hear my story. I can be quiet in the silence.”

  He laughed at that, “We will see, Hannah.” He leaned his elbows on his desk and opened a three ring binder. “We will see,” he said softer as he began to flip through the pages. “Okay, you start on Monday morning at nine.” He pulled a pad of paper from his drawer and began to write the information. “You will need to be here at eight-thirty though. Rebecca doesn’t approve of her models being late. She isn’t as forgiving as me,” he said with a smile and handed me the papers.

  He looked at me and held his smile but his eyes were sad as if he saw something I didn’t want him to see. “There is more to figure modeling than being nude, Hannah,” he said. “You have nothing to hide behind except yourself and when you’re hiding in your own skin few shadows exist to cloak you and that is when you are loudest.”

  “We will see, Lawrence,” I said with a smile as I left his office. I didn’t believe a word of it. I had become a master at hiding in my own skin.

  I passed the girl’s desk without giving her a look and put my ear buds in as I stepped into the winding hallway. I passed a doorway and saw a bumper sticker taped across the wall that read, “Psalm 37.”

  I could recite the scripture without a second thought due to the many drills I faced growing up in a religious home. I pushed the words and any comfort they could bring away. I was no longer that person and that scripture was a shy comparison to the words that echoed through me as I thought of Lily. She was so far away from me now and her absence took my emotions with her. Everything happens for a reason and God has a plan. After she left me I said fuck god’s plan and I was full of anger and bitterness. Now, I’m filled with indifference and I miss the days when I was angry.

  I was battling with myself. I wanted attention, but I wanted to hide. I wanted to be seen, but forgotten. I couldn’t understand myself anymore. It was as if two years ago my spirit became disconnected from my physical form and I was a fog of existence living outside myself. My movements weren’t mine. My decisions weren’t mine. I played a part in a play or book. I was a puppet being played with by the universe. Everything decided for me, I was a piece of dust floating in the sunlight, seen at times, but unable to be found in the chaos of motion.

  I sat at the bus stop, waiting to return to the apartment that I shared with my cousin, Maggie. We moved to the city a week ago because she got a job at an advertising agency, which was what she always wanted. She used to be the one that followed me everywhere, but now I was the one following her. It was easier to escape into someone else’s life instead of planning my own.

  A man smiled and took the seat next to me and tapped the side of his ear and pointed toward mine. He wanted me to remove my ear buds so we could talk. I welcomed the conversation. Strangers are the easiest to hold conversations. They didn’t want from me but the short moment we shared. I turned off my mp3 player and removed my ear buds before giving him my attention.

  “Can I ask you something?” he asked.

  “You just did,” I said with a smile that made him laugh.

  “I suppose I did, didn’t I? But I was wondering if you could tell me where the best place to eat in town is,” he asked as he watched students trying to find their way around campus and life.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I recently moved here. If you ask me again in a month, I should have a better answer,” I said with another smile as he laughed. “Are you new here too?”

  “Yes, I am. My wife died late last year. I couldn’t stay in that house anymore. It wasn’t because of her memory. It was because it was too big and the world was smaller now without her in it. She left me a note telling me to get the hell out of the house when she died.” He laughed as I raised an eyebrow at his declaration. “Oh no, it wasn’t in anger. She knew that I stayed behind for her. See she became sick two years ago and we never planned on staying in the house. She and I were going to travel the world. I didn’t need to though. Being near her showed me how great the world was. Now she is gone and her last wish was that I travel at least across the country and I was to eat at the best place in every town I visited. She loved to travel, I loved to eat. So this makes sense,” he continued speaking, but I only heard two years. Two years. His life changed two years ago too.

  “Are you taking the bus everywhere? I think a car of your own might be easier to for traveling,�
� I asked keeping my thoughts from my expression so the conversation remained light. Two years.

  “Yeah, I have a car, right there,” he said as he pointed to an old Buick.

  I laughed, “Why are you sitting at the bus stop?”

  “Because I needed to ask where the best place to eat was,” he said with a smirk.

  “A gas station might be better.”

  “Nope, college kids always have a list of the best places to eat,” he said with a wide smile.

  “Well, I’m not a college kid. But I hope you find one to help you,” I said as I stood to meet the arriving bus.

  “Thank you for talking to me.” He smiled.

  “Thank you for talking to me.” I nodded as I put my ear buds back in and boarded the bus.

  Strangers have the most meaningful conversations. We hadn’t even exchanged names, but that moment we shared was human. I didn’t share any of my stories with him, but I absorbed his. I walk the path with the living and listening to their stories makes my existence legitimate. I don’t need names to know them. Once you give names conversations become redundant. Not with Lily and me though. Years ago we spoke without words. I longed for those days.

  I opened the door to our apartment and heard music coming from Maggie’s room. I pulled my keys from the door and eyed the boxes we had yet to empty. The boxes were full to the brim of memories and items we couldn’t part with and I foresaw boxes still stacked months from now. As much as I hated dealing with the details, it needed to be done.