For twenty-two years, until we divorced in 1991, I was faithful to my husband.
Eduardo, on the other hand, had many liaisons.
Eduardo Sotara was a striking man—tall with dark wavy hair, intense blue eyes, and a body that seemed strong and lithe, although underneath his cashmere sport coat, turtleneck sweater and fitted pants, his body was soft as a well-stuffed down pillow. I met him at a party my English professor gave at his Victorian Village home south of the Ohio State University campus.
I was eighteen, a small-town girl from Cambridge, Ohio. I’d never been to a sophisticated party before. There would be professors from the English faculty, grad students, writers, and poets—a salon Professor Duggan called it. People would read from their works-in-progress. I felt as though I was entering one of Austen’s novels—the young innocent introduced to society.
I went to my classes the week before the party and I did all my reading and homework, but my mind was elsewhere. I needed something to wear to this party. I wanted to look foxy, hip, like I belonged. At Lazarus’ Department Store in downtown Columbus, I found a black and yellow plaid mini skirt, a black sweater, black tights, and black platform shoes. My mother would have nixed the mini skirt and the shoes, but this was 1968 and my mother was small-town and out of it.
The night of the party, my roommate, Angela, stopped me at the door. “Leigh! You can’t go out without eyeliner! Let me do your eyes.” Angela thought makeup could solve any image problem. She applied electric blue eye shadow to my lids and drew a heavy kohl line from the inside of my eye across my lash line and extended it halfway to the tip of my eyebrow to make my close-set brown eyes appear bigger. My light brown hair was cut short and brushed back from my face. Angela said there was nothing she could do with it, and I should consider letting it grow and dye it black like Cher. She said it would help balance my silhouette. What she meant was I was small on top and big on the bottom. A fact I had known since adolescence when my father pointed out my figure faults.
Angela coated my lips with light pink lipstick and brushed three applications of black mascara on my lashes. “This will make them look thicker and longer. You should consider false eyelashes, yours are awfully short.” Then she got out her eyelash curler and did her best.
I walked six blocks south from my dorm on Neil Avenue to King Street. I was nervous about attending the party and the walk helped calm me. Professor Duggan met me at the door, took my arm, and began moving through the crowd introducing me as his protégé. This was heady news to me.
Professor Duggan stopped in front of the most handsome man I’d ever seen.
“Eduardo, I’d like you to meet my latest star, Leigh Lancaster. Leigh, this is Eduardo Sotara, an old friend. Eduardo is an artist, a painter, and he’s found ways to devote himself to his work without having a regular paying job. We all envy him.”
Eduardo smiled, bowed from the waist, and lightly kissed my hand. I was dazzled. A handsome older man, practically seducing me. This was a scene out of a movie. I blushed and said something, I don’t remember what it was, and Eduardo led me over to a corner to talk. We stayed there all evening only stopping our conversation to listen to the readings. I made some witty critiques of the readers and their work, and Eduardo roared with appreciation. Then it was midnight, and I had a curfew at Mack Hall. As I started to leave, Eduardo said, “You can’t walk back to campus this time of night. I’ve got a car. I’ll drive you.”
We pulled up to Mack Hall, and I started to open my car door. Eduardo stopped me, got out of his silver Volvo, walked around the car, opened my door, and escorted me to the entrance. We moved between coeds and their dates saying goodnight. Angela and I had walked through the kissing couples before and now here I was on the arm of a man.
We stopped at the lobby. Eduardo bent down, kissed me on the cheek, and said he’d call.
I walked to my room in a dreamy fog. I couldn’t wait to tell Angela.
I enjoyed my romantic evening, but I didn’t expect a call from Eduardo. He was ten years older, I was a kid, inexperienced, I’d never even had a date, and I’d reconciled myself to being an old maid. My father always told me I’d have to get by on my wits because I’d never attract a husband. He said I was pudgy and had a pasty complexion.
My mother tried to boost my spirits by telling me I was beautiful on the inside. I heard her, but my father’s voice was louder. I planned to be a career woman; I would take care of myself.
Eduardo called the next day and asked if I’d meet him at Mirror Lake. It was a short distance from Mack Hall and the most beautiful place on campus. I met him at the sundial, and we moved to a stone bench under some beech trees.
“Leigh, I know this is sudden, but I felt a connection to you last night, as though we belonged together. Did you feel it?”
I’d been so mesmerized, I hadn’t noticed a thing other than enjoying his attention, but maybe there was something, so I said, “Oh yes. I did.”
We decided to see each other as often as I could get away. The university had rules about how late I could stay out on the weeknights, but Eduardo said we could always have breakfast. That sounded racy to me, and I loved the idea.
Eduardo took me to his studio in the Short North section of Columbus. It was a tough part of town with rundown bars, small factories, and a sausage plant. His studio was in an old industrial building with high windows and dark wooden floors. Eduardo shared the building with five other artists, but he had his own private studio on the second floor. His room was cold when we entered, and Eduardo switched on a space heater. A wooden easel centered the room and next to it, a metal folding table held tubes of paint and brushes and rags. A smell of turpentine and dust lingered in the air. Along the walls were large canvases, their faces turned inward.
Eduardo began to show me his work. One by one he turned the paintings for viewing. My mother had artwork at home, but they were soft landscapes and delft pitchers filled with yellow tulips. These were different. Eduardo’s paintings were bold slashes of color with no theme I could see. How should I respond?
Eduardo didn’t give me a chance. “I dropped out of the Columbus School of Art and Design. They wanted me to copy old masters. Our class went to the Columbus Art Museum twice a week so we could sketch Rembrandt and Caravaggio. I wanted to do something different, something new, unique to me, so I went out on my own.” I knew nothing of this world, and I didn’t ask where he showed or where his paintings hung. I simply believed he was brave, courageous.
Much later, I learned Eduardo had never had a show or a sale, but he did have patrons—wealthy women who financed his painting career. One might say that’s where his real talent lay.
There was a couch in Eduardo’s studio. By this time, we were necking and petting, but when Eduardo suggested more, I said no. This was the one rule my mother had instilled in me that I would not break. “Don’t give yourself away to a man before marriage,” she preached. I did not.
One spring night in 1969, six months after we first met, Eduardo proposed. He wanted to marry, and he wanted to do it immediately. “We can drive to West Virginia. You don’t have to be twenty-one to get married there, it’s legal at sixteen. You won’t need your parents’ permission. Let’s do it Leigh. Let’s get married right now.” Eduardo ran his hand through his hair, sweeping it back, the way he did when he was feeling intense. A passionate man for my husband. I said yes and with Led Zeplin playing “Whole Lotta Loving” on WBNS and Eduardo’s arm around my shoulders, we drove through my hometown of Cambridge on the way to Wheeling. I thought of my parents as we drove down US Route 40. For a moment, I wanted to stop by the house, tell them my wonderful news, but I reveled in the word elopement and saw myself as the heroine in a novel. I would call them after the ceremony.
After the nuptials, I telephoned my parents from a pay phone at the filling station next to the Justice of the Peace’s home. My father was furious and insisted we drive to Cambridge immediately. I told him we would honeymoon in Wheeling for two days because Eduardo had already paid for the motel room. We’d stop by on Tuesday.
I had dreamed of my wedding night: a double bed, silken sheets, flickering candles, a sheer negligee, perfume, kisses and caresses, a husband’s ardor. I was a virgin; I had followed my mother’s admonition. Eduardo, although he pleaded with me to go all the way, seemed excited by the waiting and soon we would consummate the marriage. We would sleep together in each other’s arms and awaken in the morning in our nuptial bed. It was supposed to be romantic, but something wasn’t right. Eduardo gave me the strangest look as he returned to his side of the bed. I lay on my back, my shorty nightgown panties on the floor, and pulled the hem down as far as it would go. There had been no time to buy a filmy negligee. I looked at Eduardo. “Is something wrong?”
“I was wondering how it felt to you.”
“It hurt, burned a little at first, but then it was okay.”
“Did it feel good? Did you like doing it?”
“It was all right. I love cuddling with you.”
Eduardo took me in his arms.
By the time we arrived at my parents’ home in Cambridge on Tuesday, my father, a federal judge, had had Eduardo investigated and he didn’t like what he found out about his new son-in-law. He took me into his study and told me to stand in front of his massive desk. He took his seat, reached into a drawer and laid a detective’s report in front of me. […]
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