Chapter Six

Allison's Portrait

Tuesday. It is midday when Bender comes over. They both have the day off. On such a hot day, it is pleasant in Allison's air conditioned house. The glowing green and gold garden beyond the sliding glass doors is a bright contrast to the dim coolness of the Reynolds' den. The radio is tuned to the college station, playing the Smiths. They have slid into a recumbent position on the suede sofa. Bender's large, gentle hands are stroking Allison as they kiss. Her body is moving against his, a tide of pleasure rising. His hand dips down from her hip to her waist, slips under her shirt. Suddenly the warm flow of touch is broken. She bolts off the couch in one leap, looking down at him with horror. Then she collapses onto the floor, in anguish, clinging to his leg as he quickly regains a sitting position.

"Al, Al, what is it? What's wrong?"

He slides onto the floor and she crushes his shirt in her fists, sobbing.

"It was him," she burrows into his chest. "It was Terrence. Suddenly it wasn't you, it was Terrence touching me."

"It's me now." He cradles her in his lap.

"I hate him, how could he do this to me? Why? Why can he still hurt me?"

"Allison, you have to tell someone. You need to see him brought to justice. I was there, I can testify. What happened was real. Ally, you need to tell your dad."

Shame is flooding her, she doesn't want anyone to know, she doesn't want to think about it, she wants it to all go away.

He's very firm now. "Ally, you have to tell."

"No one will believe me."

"Allison, do you know what a big shot your father is? He is the Chief Administrator of the University medical school. When he talks, people listen. That's why he is always working so hard. Terrence made a mistake, messing with Allison Reynolds. Your father can do something. C'mon Ally, you have to tell him."

She is crouched up into his lap, hiding her face in his chest with his arms around her.

"OK." It is the tiniest whisper.

Mr. Reynolds seems to understand that Allison needs Bender's physical presence. He doesn't ask the question she's been dreading- Why now? He just takes everything in, her whole story. Then he asks Bender some questions about what he witnessed.

"I'm calling Mr. Standish." He says this resolutely. Both of them are puzzled. What does Claire's father have to do with this?

Seeing their confusion, he explains, "Mr. Standish works for the State Attorney's Office. We were classmates at the University. His wife and Allison's mother are close friends."

Bender hugs her tighter and says, "He made a really big mistake, Al. Terrence made a big mistake."

"It's up to you Allison. We have a strong case with John's testimony. From a legal standpoint it is moot whether it was consensual as you are below the age of consent. All we have to do is prove he was there. We can place him there unequivocally. You can see justice done. But going to trial can be grueling. If it is too much, if you don't want to go through the whole process, we can make sure he never works again." Mr. Standish is calm and reassuring.

Allison looks to Bender. He gives her an encouraging look, gestures with his chin. "It's whatever you need. I'll be here." He gives her hand a squeeze.

"No, I don't want to go to court." She is relieved. The idea of telling her story over and over is too much. She knows he will not be a teacher and will not touch girls again. That is enough.

But she adds, "Make sure he knows it was me."

Among the art crowd in the Chicago gallery, Bender is standing next to Mr. Reynolds, holding a glass of red wine with a dubious look on his face. He was talked into wearing a real shirt rather than a cut off flannel over a thermal undershirt, but he clung to his boots; he refused to clean them or even remove the red bandana.

"People LIKE drinking this?"

Allison hushes him as Mr. Standish approaches with Claire in tow. Mr. Standish and Mr. Reynolds shake hands and Allison politely receives congratulations on her painting. Claire is trying to appear as if she isn't looking at Bender while he gives her one of his patented Bender come-hither smiles. Allison discretely elbows him. He desists, but with a devilish grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

Behind the small group, track lighting illuminates a canvass filled with a pale face and swirling black hair. Allison's portrait has been resurrected from the far corner of her bedroom and now proudly takes its place in Gallery Navet.