Chapter 17 Nicola
AS THE TRAIL WEAVES DEEPER into the woods, the canopy overhead thickens.
Moss creeps up tree trunks, then droops from boughs like the ragged tarps that hung off stacks of plywood behind our hardware store.
Ferns swish against our jeans as we pick our way over fallen logs and around rubble.
The others march a few paces ahead; Kemy and I bring up the rear.
“If I’d known we’d be hiking,” she says, “I would’ve stayed home.”
“Not a fan of the great outdoors?”
“My outdoorsmanship is limited to walking across campus.” She ducks to avoid an overhanging branch. “I overheard you mention on the bus that you’re a teacher?”
Was a teacher, but instead of correcting her, I say, “Elementary school.”
“Did you always want to be in the classroom?”
I recall weekend afternoons spent in my studio, light sifting through the skylights as I loaded my brush with paint, the smells of turpentine and strong black coffee.
How freeing it was to have nowhere to be, no one to answer to except the canvas in front of me.
“No,” I admit. “I wanted to be a professional artist.” It feels embarrassing to say it out loud.
“For a while, it seemed like it might actually happen. My professors called my work cutting edge, which—I don’t know—might not sound like much, but at Cooper Union, you’re studying alongside some of the best artists in the world, so praise doesn’t come easy. ”
“What made you change directions?”
The email from my academic advisor that arrived halfway through senior year.
We sat opposite each other in his office, the chatter of excited first-years outside, transitioning from class to class, at odds with the solemn look on his face.
“We’ve noticed that you’ve been struggling since Claire passed away”—that’s how he phrased it: passed away, like she succumbed to cancer in one of those gentle, soft-focus film scenes—“and while we’re sympathetic, we also wonder if this might be a time of artistic rest for you.
If maybe you need to take a few years to refill your well, as it were; to focus on broadening your horizons.
” He pushed a stack of brochures across the desk toward me, the top one for CCNY’s art education program.
We sat in silence while his meaning sunk in.
“I didn’t have what it takes,” I say to Kemy. “It’s a cutthroat industry.”
“Academia’s no different. This’ll be my first time up for tenure, and my colleagues have been hinting they might not recommend me.”
“Why not?”
“We’ve had some philosophical disagreements.”
“What about?”
“Most of my research focuses on capital punishment. My colleagues believe it should be abolished; I disagree.”
“You support the death penalty,” I repeat, just to make sure I haven’t misunderstood.
“Yes.”
Not what I was expecting. Not from a sociologist at a prestigious university, and certainly not from a member of this club. “If you don’t mind me asking, why?”
“Around ninety percent of all known serial killers are men, whereas their victims, according to FBI data, are overwhelmingly female, with members of marginalized groups running an increased risk of being targeted. You have the most powerful group in society being sentenced to life in prison, while the ones who’ve historically been subjugated end up dead. Where’s the justice in that?”
“But innocent people are wrongfully convicted all the time.”
“True, and I would never want anyone who’s been failed by our legal system to be executed. However, there are cases in which everyone knows who’s guilty, in which the evidence is irrefutable, and in those cases, the death penalty might be an appropriate punishment.”
“I don’t know—”
“All right, let’s use my father as an example: Marcus Jerome murdered a hundred and three women.”
My feet grind to a halt on the path. I can’t have heard that right. “He what?”
“A hundred and three women—mostly minorities, many of them sex workers, all of them left voiceless. Meanwhile, he’s giving interviews from his jail cell.
Men like him don’t stop talking just because they’re caught.
They publish books, write letters to their fans.
They costar on television shows,” she says, clearly referring to Tom Woods.
“We can’t give those women back their voices, but we can at least make sure the only person left speaking isn’t the man who killed them.
” She waits for my response. When one’s not forthcoming, she asks, “Can you honestly tell me he should be alive when they’re not? ”
Off in the distance is what looks like a small shack, nestled in a cluster of pines.
My father sold kits like that all the time.
The customer would pick the model, then he’d drive over the following week and build it in their backyard.
Sometimes he’d bring me along, and I’d pass him nails as he hammered his way around the frame.
Everyone knows my father’s guilty; the evidence against him is irrefutable. Does Kemy think he deserves to die?
She continues. “If my department ever discovered who my father was, there’d be a rush to discredit my research. They’d argue I’m only in favor of the death penalty because I wish he’d been arrested in a state that permits it.”
“Do you? Wish your father had received the death penalty?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean my arguments aren’t valid.” The trail suddenly plunges down a steep embankment. “Do you think that makes me a bad person?”
I choose my words carefully, not wanting to alienate anyone in my new social circle. “It’s a complicated issue. For what it’s worth, I can understand where you’re coming from.”
“But you don’t agree.”
I’m saved from having to answer by Imogen’s call: “Here we are!” Below, eight easels have been arranged in a semicircle around a rock wall. Water, whisking in from the stream above, pours over the slabs in dozens of miniature waterfalls, some of them thin as a fishing line.
“Wow,” I murmur, taking in the scenery.
“Can everyone find an easel?” I choose one slightly off-center, where I can get the best view. Kemy claims the chair to my left; the one to my right remains empty, along with two others. Imogen begins squirting paint onto the palettes.
Ros edges nearer, dropping her voice so Imogen won’t overhear. “Well, this seems like an improvement on last year.”
“You mean the nature photography workshop?” Kemy says.
“Jesus Christ, three hours spent snapping pictures in the woods, and then we had to do that ‘gallery walk’ and pretend to be fascinated by everyone’s work. ‘Wow, you really captured the essence of that log. I don’t know if I’ll ever look at logs the same way again. It’s almost like I am the log.’ ”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“Stop. It was, and you know it.”
Imogen steps into the center of the semicircle.
“We’re beginning this morning with an activity designed to foster self-expression and quiet our minds.
We’re lucky enough to have access to this unbelievable space, so draw inspiration from the landscape around you and paint whatever feels right in this moment. ”
I haven’t painted in a circle like this since college, when our professors would position nude models in poses meant to highlight their anatomy—the hunch of the back as one model slumped on a stool, the scoop of another’s as she stretched out supine on the floor.
Freshman year, Claire always claimed the easel beside mine, leaning over now and then to glance at my work.
“Yours looks better than the real thing,” she’d whisper, careful not to disturb the others, before flashing me a smile and turning back to her own canvas.
Sophomore year, though, we found ourselves enrolled in the same class as Justin Billings, who seemed to think he was entitled to every woman’s undivided attention.
He always picked the easel on her other side, and Claire would shoot me a look—this jackass again, seriously?
—before resigning herself to hours of forced laughter at his jokes.
As soon as class ended, we’d rush out of the studio together, desperate to escape him.
Men like him always manage to succeed, no matter how mediocre they are. The fact that he has work hanging in blue-chip galleries while my paintings were relegated to the walls of an elementary school classroom kills me.
I start sketching out the rocks, the river, the trees, but my gaze keeps returning to the empty chairs across the circle. How long does it take to drive into town and back? A few hours? Half a day? When should we start worrying that something’s gone wrong?
My thoughts are interrupted by a loud clank from the easel closest to the rock wall.
Hannah’s palette has tumbled into the dirt, splattering her with paint.
She’s frozen, brush in hand, and looks like she’s about to burst into sobs.
Instinct kicks in, and I hurry to help her clean up, the same way I do with my second graders.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her words like scraps of tissue paper. “I’m so sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Here.” I grab the acrylics and squeeze out fresh daubs, so that, if not for the blue paint covering her shin, no one would know there’d been an accident. “Good as new.”
Her lip starts trembling even harder, but she still manages to choke out a watery “Thanks.”
It’s then that I realize the look in her eyes isn’t embarrassment; it’s fear.
If Hannah were actually my student, I’d be calling the school social worker and requesting an evaluation, asking if she knew about any problems at home.
Even now, I find myself performing a quick visual check for bruises and abrasions on her neck, her cheeks, her arms. Hannah may not be a child, and I may no longer be a mandated reporter, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what the indicators of abuse are.