I hadn’t been home since starting college, would never again have to eat bologna sandwiches or puffed rice. I talked to Mother every couple of weeks and had gotten Jack on the phone once or twice a semester. Each time, she ended the conversation after five minutes, citing homework or parties. I could tell from her awkward, clipped tone that she didn’t want to talk, that she had looped me in with the dysfunction of our childhood. She was ashamed of us, I realized. After a while I stopped trying. I would not beg her to act like my sister.
Sir I had not spoken to since move-in day. By the end of high school I’d shaved seven seconds off my backstroke for him, but he’d still chewed me out for not being good enough. He didn’t know that I’d won the high school talent show with my magic routines sophomore, junior, and senior years. He wouldn’t have cared.
By the time I moved out, I was six feet tall, same as him, with arms ropy from swimming. I had gradually come to understand my father was neither wise nor brave. I stopped giving him the benefit of the doubt, quit hoping his punishments would somehow empower me. I admitted to myself what he was: a sadist, a man so pathetic that the only power he successfully wielded was over two little girls who wanted nothing more than to please their daddy. I was finished counting points for him, couldn’t get far enough away.
Remnants of his control lingered. I still found it difficult to relax. If I heard footsteps outside my dorm room, I’d jump off the bed and pretend I’d been organizing my desk or cleaning the room. I had to remind myself, or Lisa would, that no one was going to yell or call me lazy. I didn’t have to earn the right to relax. I hoped that impulse would wear off.
A door to the brick building opened. The line of people began shuffling through the entryway. Lisa clapped giddily. I smiled at her excitement.
“Sometimes her shows are interactive,” Lisa said as we filed inside.
Was that a good thing? I studied the space: concrete floor, white walls, high ceiling. Other than the warm bodies filling the gallery, the building was empty. Usually when Lisa dragged me to art installations, there was . . . art.
I nudged her and gestured at the barren walls. “Isn’t something missing?” Lisa shrugged, eyes flitting around the room, trying to take in every inch.
The bouncer closed the door. As the minutes ticked by sans any action, reverence faded. Voices crept higher. Then the door opened again. In walked a woman I assumed was the artist.
She was petite, in her sixties, had waist-length, unkempt jet-black hair with a thick silver streak. She wore a billowing rainbow-colored dress that resembled a parachute. Her expression was solemn, even grave. She drifted barefoot to the middle of the room as if in a trance. She held a black piece of fabric in one hand.
Lisa elbowed me. “That’s her! That’s Evelyn.”
I patted my friend’s hand.
Evelyn stopped in the dead center of the room. When she spoke, her tone was hypnotic. She turned in a circle, making eye contact with every patron. “We have become accustomed to violence. When we hear that more than one million people have died in a war, we hardly flinch. Are we proportionately more upset over one million than one hundred thousand casualties? No. Should we be?” She paused. “What number would it take to make us put an end to this senselessness?”
She stopped turning and locked eyes with me. “What about one? What if we make violence personal by putting ourselves on the receiving end of it?”
Evelyn looked away from me, fingering the black cloth in her hand. “I invite you now to insult me. The criticisms may pertain to anything. My art, my physical appearance, things you imagine to be true about me. Whether you believe the things you’re saying is immaterial. Do not hold back.” She bent her head. “Please begin.”
People in the crowd exchanged glances, shifting their weight uneasily. Some of them must have known what they were signing up for. I glared at Lisa, who already looked guilty, was undoubtedly aware of the ribbing she’d take from me back in the dorm tonight. Who was this deranged woman asking people to denigrate her?
No one spoke.
“I thought that might be the case.” Evelyn tugged the black fabric over her head and around her eyes. “How about now? Is this better?”
Another twenty or thirty seconds passed, the room holding a collective breath. No one wanted to throw a punch, but no one wanted the awkward silence to continue either.
Finally, a man across the room timidly offered, “You could use a haircut.”
Several people sniggered. Evelyn bowed, as if in thanks.