“I apologize, Judith. I really do. I got carried away—your work makes me do crazy things.” He gives an embarrassed smile at this, and I inch toward forgiving him. Too quickly, I know, but I’m relieved, too, when the tension between us breaks.
“Look, I fully acknowledge my guilt. But tell me the truth. Did you enjoy it? Just a little?” His playful question sends me toppling back to my grandmother’s kitchen floor.You enjoyed that, didn’t you? You little slut.I’d forgotten—or smothered—the words; they sound fresh now, as if the man just poured them in my ear. Or as if Paul himself meant to echo those vicious original words. But he couldn’t have, could he? I stand frozen before Paul, staring, unsure, but he just shakes his head and laughs a little. He’s lighthearted and markedly different from my kitchen assailant. He’s Paul. Simply Paul.
When he holds out his hand, I obediently place my envelope of pictures in it.
“I didn’t get a chance to take these in during class. I was just looking for the light, you know?” I nod, still a bit dazed, and watch him flip through. When he gets to the side mirror self-portrait, my stomach clenches. Will he see it there? Minuscule, just outside the curve of the mirror.Hey, what’s this?he’ll say, his finger hovering over the spot. But it doesn’t happen. It’s too small, and even if he saw a man standing in the background, what would he care? I exhale, feeling at once relieved and let down.
Paul moves on, oblivious. He shakes his head in wonder at every picture. I hear him mumble about techniques I’ve used to great effect. I never think about techniques when I’m out “in the field.” I don’t think about anything; I see, I feel, I focus and shoot.
When he’s done, he looks a bit dazed himself. “You’ve reached a whole new level with these, Judith. I knew shooting in the city would give you a boost. I mean, you have a solid thing in these small towns. But these new ones, they’re something else.” He flips through the prints once more, like he can’t get enough of them. I tell him I’m glad I went, and I appreciate his praise, all the while hearing the crosswalk man sayingselfish fucking bitchand knowing I won’t go back. Paul will have to settle for my less exalted small-town photographs. As will I.
Paul is unusually quiet as we walk from the classroom to my car. When I start up the engine, he leans down into my open window.
“Judith, you should keep going to the city. And you know what else I want to say. I won’t beg, though. I know it’s not something you want.” I can only just see his face in the darkness, but his hand, resting on the windowsill, is lit by the overhead lamps. I can see every line, every freckle and hair. And it’s close to where my left hand rests on the steering wheel, so close I can imagine him grabbing my hand the way he grabs my pictures—urgently, hungrily. I clear my throat.
“Thank you, Paul,” I say as lightly as I can. “I’ll try to go back. It’s tricky, though, with my…family schedule.” I feel a sinking as I say this. There is no “family schedule,” of course, and when my mind flashes back to those crowded city streets, to the roar of its trains, to its wildly diverse faces, I long to go back. Right away. But I can’t. Or—I shouldn’t. Not after what happened. In the small towns I visit, the man might trail me, he might watch me, but he’s nevertouchedme. The city’s energy sets him loose, I think—in the same way it sets me free.
The way itsetme free: past tense. I clench my teeth as Paul walks to his car, and then I drive off with my window down, letting the cold wind tear at my hair, sting my face, and bring tears to my eyes. I wipe the tears away angrily, telling myself it does no good, no good at all, tocry. But it eases something in me. By the time I pull up to the house, I’m fairly calm. It’s only when I step outside that I feel unsettled again. Exposed. The front door seems miles away. I stand still, eyes darting around in the darkness, seeing slight movement in the neighbor’s bushes, hearing the wind pick up and rattle the fallen leaves. Suddenly, our porch light comes on; I slam the car door and run toward it just as Tom opens the door.
“Judy?” he says, then, “Oh.” I brush by him, panting, on my way inside.
“I got spooked!” I say, trying to sound carefree. There’s nothing more wonderful to me now than the sound of the front door closing, the lock sliding into place.
21.
These are bad, I tell myself, with each click of the shutter button.Nothing like what I’d take in the city.And it’s true—I’m just repeating myself here in Mason, another small New Jersey town where I’m taking the same photographs I’ve taken in other small New Jersey towns. If I showed Paul the results, he would give me a pitying smile, then turn away. So I turn away myself; I let the camera dangle around my neck as I walk up and down the small grid of streets without touching it again. I’ve wasted enough film this morning as it is. It feels rotten but slightly better than forcing the effort on a hopeless day.
I’m relieved when I finally turn off the main street to find my car. A row of nearly identical houses, painted shades of white, blue, and gray, line the street. Most are tidy, with wooden porches and small, clean lawns. I think of how I’ll set my camera on the side table at home, not bothering to process any film. Then I’ll soothe myself with a cup of tea and my four o’clock cooking show. I try to tell myself I’ve done enough today, that I’ve earned these small rewards, but it isn’t true, of course—what I’ve done amounts to nothing. I walk along, simmering with disquiet.
A car is suddenly idling beside me. A long blue Buick with white leather seats. The windows are down but I can’t see the driver—only his hands, lean but muscular-looking and tan, gripping the white steering wheel.Mean hands, I think, and then I envision Paul’s very differenthand, aglow in the parking lot light. The driver loosens one of his from the wheel and lays it flat on the seat beside him. My throat tightens.
“Get in, Judith,” he says. Low and gravelly. Commanding. I should run, but my feet go padding along toward my car—slowly, so slowly—as if I were out for a leisurely stroll, or caught in a dream. And then the pain tears through me. I want to stop and lean against a nearby tree, but I know I have to push through it, keep moving.
The car matches my pace, its engine idling softly.
“Get in,” he says again, higher-pitched now, impatient. I try to focus on his voice, to remember it; is it familiar? From the telephone, or the crosswalk, or from long, long ago? Trying to fix it in my mind worsens the pain, so I stop. I scan the houses beside me for help, but they’re locked and silent; it’s the middle of a workday. I creep closer and closer to my car with one hand on my hip, my clawed fingers digging in to try to ease the stabbing sensation.Stabbing.The knife. With my shaking free hand, I reach into my purse, draw the knife out, unfold the blade, and point it toward the driver. It feels cold and good in my hand; it makes the pain subside a little.
“You can’t reach me with that, Judith,” he laughs, and though it’s true, I still grip the weapon. I can’t reach himnow, no, but maybe soon? If he comes closer.
When I get to my car, the man pulls up and brakes, blocking the driver’s-side door. Even so, I want the familiar shelter of my car’s interior; I reach for my keys, fling open the passenger door, and slam it once I’ve crawled inside. I hold the knife out, training it on him as steadily as I can, and close my eyes to the pressure of his presence. If I were to open them, turn my head, I’d see him—either in profile or staring me full in the face. But I can’t bear the thought of it. I tell myself Ineedto look so I can identify him at last, but some unidentifiable force comes pouring off the man like scent and keeps my eyes sealed.
Then I realize: I could photograph him, even without looking at him. All I have to do is lift my camera in his direction and shoot. Hemay be out of focus, but it would be better than nothing. And it might even startle him, send him away.
I set the knife down beside me to free my hands. I sense him looking at me, quietly laughing, as if he knows what I’m about to do. The futility of it. I do it anyway; I lift the camera, turn the lens toward him and shoot, advance the film and shoot again, all with my eyes closed. I can feel him facing the camera head-on and smiling. Posing, even—like all the partygoers at Samantha and Hal’s. I haven’t thought of the party, of that couple in the bedroom, in some time. How the man on top of her was smiling—wasn’t he? Taking pleasure in all of it, even in my watching.
I drop the camera like it’s hot to the touch.
“What now, Judith?” I hear him shout. His windows are down, mine rolled up, and I wish my closed eyes could prevent me from hearing him, too. I sit like this, boxed in by his car and his unending menace, waiting for him to reach through the glass and metal somehow to touch me irrevocably. Minutes pass, or maybe an hour, or more. There’s nothing in the world but the sound of his engine, idling. Then a car honks loudly, piercing the quiet; my eyes fly open.
I see the tail end of the blue Buick gliding past, followed closely by another car. The man is going, then he’s gone, and I won’t wait for him to circle back and find me. I veer out of the spot and drive wildly for home, obsessively checking my rearview mirror the whole way—on the small roads, the highway, then the small roads again—and even when I pull into the driveway and park with a lurch, I look behind me, expecting to see the blue Buick ease into view. But it doesn’t.
I walk quickly to the house, lock the front door behind me, and stand there against it, breathing heavily.
I expect the telephone to ring. I expect him to be there, breathing, on the other end of the line. Saying,Judith, you got away but I can still reach you. My mean hands can always reach you.I stand in place against the door for a very long time, afraid to move because I’m certain if Imove, if I set down my things and give up my vigilance, the telephone will ring. I go on standing until the silence has lasted so long that it melts me a little. My first steps are tentative—I inch away from the door, and then I go wincing through the house.
The burst of cheerful noise when I turn on the television is welcome. I turn it up loud enough to cover all sound—even the ringing of a telephone.
22.
