“Can I walk you to your car?” he asks, and a new flutter goes through me.
I’m conscious of my body as I walk down the hall beside him, matching my stride to his, feeling his physical closeness. He’s talking fast, telling me about how he lucked into his cheap apartment in the East Village, and this leads him to urge me to visit the city.
“You really should, Judith. We’re going there later with the class, but you need to get there sooner. I can’t imagine the pictures you’ll take there. On the subway alone! You’ll be snapping shots left and right.” I’m swept up in Paul’s enthusiasm, already envisioning myself there, catching the train tomorrow morning and coming back by late afternoon. Tom won’t love the idea of me roaming around Manhattan alone. In fact, he’ll loathe it. But Paul is right; there isn’t a place more filled with unusual, wondrous, disturbing sights: a photographer’s heaven.
That settles it. I’ll go.
Will the man find me there?
“Paul,” I say abruptly. We’re almost to the parking lot, almost out of time. “Is there ever an impurity that could cause a—a mark to appear on your photographs? But only on certain photographs?”
“Yes and no,” he says, thinking for a moment. “If it’s a film impurity, you’d see it in every photograph, not select ones. But I didn’t notice anything like that in the ones you showed me.”
I know this, of course, but my heart sinks anyway. I nod and say, “I was just wondering. It’s happened before—not with these latest ones, though.”
“You must have had a bad roll.” I lie and say yes, that must be it. It’s the closest I’ve come to telling anyone about the man in my pictures; now I feel as if I’ve stepped back from a cliff’s edge onto firm ground. Relieved but melancholy—alone with my secret again.
When we reach my car—our old family Buick—he hovers behind me as I unlock the door. As soon as I’m safely in, he bids me good night. I watch him walk toward his own car, noting his long, lopingstride, and think what an excellent photo this would make—Paul striding across the heavily shadowed parking lot, moving through pools of light cast by the streetlamps.Moody and striking, he’d say, when I showed it to him.I love the deep contrast here—the man striding in and out of darkness andlight.
15.
That night, lying next to a deeply sleeping Tom, I find it hard to wind down. Usually I read before bed, but I’ve had my copy ofThe French Lieutenant’sWomanpropped open on my chest for almost an hour before I quietly close it and set it on my nightstand. I shut my eyes and replay everything that happened after class: the rapt look on Paul’s face as he reviewed my pictures, then his outburst of joyful profanity at the sight of my liquor store self-portrait. Lying here in the dark, with Tom’s quiet presence nearly an absence, my head fills with Paul’s words, facial expressions, and the stark wonder and desire in his eyes.
Not desire forme, of course; I understand that.
But his desire for myphotographsis a real, nearly palpable presence, one that sets a burning engine going in my chest. I turn on my side as if to keep Tom from sensing my excitement, and review my plan for tomorrow. I’ll start from Penn Station in Midtown and head north, then loop back to catch the three o’clock train to make it home before Tom. I’ll tell him about my day trip when it’s over, when I’ve come back. No need to worry him, or risk having him tell me to stay home. Though part of me—a small part—longs to be told exactly that, to let the trip go, to not put myself at risk of encountering the man.
But I don’t “encounter” him, do I? He hangs in the background, behind me somewhere, appearing only in my pictures. Or he calls andbreathes into the telephone.He’s cowardly, I tell myself.And he’ll be lost in the commotion of the city. I’ll be safer there than I’ve been in small towns.
Tom shifts beside me, and I freeze. I stay rigid until I hear a light snore, then try to let my body relax. It doesn’t work. Pushing the covers aside, I rise creakily and walk to the bathroom for one of the sleeping pills the doctor prescribed after Tom’s incident. I need a full night’s rest.
16.
I’m as nervous and excited as a child boarding the crowded nine o’clock train. I’ve been to the city many times, of course, but never as aphotographer. Though I’m hesitant to call myself that, it gives me confidence as I stare at commuters in fresh suits, dresses, and shoes waxed to a shine, many of them with bright faces to match, rattling their newspapers purposefully. I desperately want to lift my camera and capture every last person, but I feel shy, even with Paul’s words from a recent lecture ringing in my ear:Photographers should have a one-track mind when they’re out in the field. Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!He punched the air as he said the last part, and everyone laughed. But they listened, too; I listened deeply. I want to obey but I tell myself I’m not quite “in the field” yet; I’m in a small, contained train car. I’ll shed my reserve when my heels hit the city sidewalk.
And I do. With my first breath of Penn Station’s humid, tar-heavy air, all hesitation drops away. I shoot: the somber conductor as he stands, regal or simply very tired, by the long silver line of his train; a small homeless family huddled in the hallway with a cardboard sign that readsPLEASE; and the blurring bodies and faces of commuters set within the endless river of human momentum. The river splits around me as if I were a rock—a rock with a camera, shooting everything, everyone. I’m sweating before long, but the moment I ride the escalator up to the street, the cool air revives me. I stand staring at theautumn-blue sky caught between tall buildings, amazed by it all and relieved to be here, as if I’ve traveled many hours, many miles, to an unknown place.
At first, I simply walk. It’s a joy to navigate the city streets, to drink in the many and varied faces passing by. I watch them hungrily and no one flinches when I lift my camera, snapping photographs, even inches from a face. I feel giddy, snapping left and right. I don’t have a set destination in mind, only a direction: north. Toward Central Park, I suppose. On my way I can flow left or turn right, finding pockets of color and life here and there.
When I pass a string of enticing store windows somewhere along Forty-Eighth Street, I interrupt my heady obsession with the odd contours of people’s faces to zoom in on my own. But my finger falters on the shutter button; I know the man could be nearby despite how safe I feel. I turn and look behind me for a long while, checking every male figure and face forhim—and finding nothing—but I can’t quite take the picture, either, with all that terrible space behind my back. A moment later, I stride over to a shiny new Cadillac parked at the curb. I lean into the side mirror and see my face reflected with only a sliver of the street, buildings, and sky behind me. This will do. I set up the shot carefully, feeling clever; he can’t possibly squeeze into this one, even if he’s here somewhere. I’ve outmaneuvered him, and it gives me a great lift.
I go on finding shots that limit background space: my face reflected in a silver plate on display in a store window; my face reflected in the side of a toaster left on someone’s stoop. It’s still possible the man might appear in minuscule form behind me, but I push forward with growing confidence.If he’s there, I’ll crop him out, I tell myself—as if that were the main concern.
Turning onto Fifth Avenue, I’m distracted again by the restless flow of people. I feel bolder than ever before, so bold that even the stone-faced New Yorkers find me intrusive. I take an extreme close-up of a surprised workingman, whose tanned and deeply lined face remindsme of the earth scored by valleys and rivers. I shoot two middle-aged lovers kissing passionately on a park bench, then shoot a grinning child with dirty tear marks on her face: a younger, less desolate version ofParade Girl. After I’ve taken several shots, her grandmother heaves herself up from a nearby bench to threaten me.
“Get away, get out of here,” she says, like I’m a stray dog. Her reaction angers me, even though she’s justified in shooing me away. It may be that she reminds me a little of my own grandmother—who was also large and formidable—but this is a grandmother who cares enough to protect her grandchild. When I stand my ground and snap a picture of the woman herself, she explodes into profanity and moves toward me quickly. I turn and run, knowing she can’t run far; she’d leave the child behind. Soon enough, the sound of her voice fades, and I’m leaning on a low wall to catch my breath. I’m exhilarated by what I’ve done, even if it’s somewhat wrong. I’ve followed Paul’s dictum:Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!
I’ll have several rolls of good pictures to show for it. To showhim.
I move on and stand on a crowded curb before a crosswalk, feeling smug about my hasty escape and my photographic bravado. When the light turns, there’s a rush to cross. I’m almost to the other side when someone grips my arm and leans in close to my ear—so close I can feel a moist spray of breath. I think it’s the grandmother at first, and try to pull away, but the hand—a man’s hand, I realize—holds me fast.
“Judith, you’re a selfish fucking bitch,” he hisses, dropping my arm and striding off before I can see his face, or anything but his hand and the tan sleeve of his jacket. I follow the disappearing back of his head with my eyes, too frozen to do more than notice his average height and short brown hair. And then he’s gone. I walk in a daze to the sidewalk, letting my old pain rip through me.
I’m doubled over, gripping the railing in front of a department store, when a man’s voice asks, “Are you all right?” My pulse rockets but it’s a different man—a different voice. Even so I look up, terrified, into his kind, concerned face.
“Do you need help?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m fine. Fine.” I straighten up and begin to hobble away despite the pain. I don’t thank him, because I can’t push out the words. It’s not until I’m halfway down a residential block that I pause to sit on the steps of a row house, still clutching my side. I stare back in the direction of the crosswalk. Is my harasser nearby? Has he followed me?
