I try to remember his voice, even though I flinch from the memory of his words.Selfish fucking bitch.Most terrifying of all was that he usedmy name. Said it in a voice that was masculine, ageless, smooth—have I heard it before? Years and years ago, maybe, in a shabby, close kitchen?
Behind me, I only see empty sidewalk and one long, black car moving slowly down the street. He hasn’t followed me. No one has. I’m oddly alone here—as if I were back in one of the semi-deserted towns I frequent, as I probably should be. Bile and bitterness fill my mouth. I think of Tom, how he doesn’t even know I’m here and how furious he would be if he knew what just happened. Furious at the man, yes, but also furious atme. I’ve been reckless and it makes me regret the recent past.
When the pain finally passes, I rise slowly from the steps and make my way toward the train station, thinking only of getting back. I planned on having lunch here, but now I just want to be home. I want freshly vacuumed carpet beneath my feet; I want to see our family photographs on the wall and my small, shining crystal figurines on the shelves. I want curtains to pull across windows, a front door to slam shut and lock. For one sweet moment I think of Rosie, waiting at home for me, but then the moment passes and Rosie disintegrates—back to the pile of bones and moldy flesh she surely is by now. Another spasm runs through me, but I manage to turn right on Seventh, hand clutching my side, and run toward the station. My eyes flit to the side every now and then—is that him, walking beside me? An average, brown-haired man in a crisp white shirt. And another, and another—they’re everywhere. I push myself to walk as fast as I can, trying to leave him, leave all of them behind.
The city seems different now. Clouds hang low in the sky, casting gray light everywhere. People’s eyes dart toward mine as if I’m tainted, strange. I feel tainted and strange, but I keep pushing forward until I’m inside the station, in the NJ Transit waiting room, and finally on the westbound train. I collapse into a seat, breathing heavily, dabbing sweat from my face with my handkerchief. It isn’t crowded at this hour, but I’m glad to have people around me. Normal-looking people, not people who grab women in crosswalks and call them vicious names.
My breath slowly steadies and the pain ebbs as the train starts to move; we leave the city farther and farther behind. I lean my forehead against the smudged window, staring out at the wetlands caught between the frantic crush of the city and the orderly green lawns of home, and if I could, I’d raise my camera to capture the sight. But I’m limp and fatigued. All I can do is stare, and think one thing:He knows my name. He came and taunted me. Touched me. Said my name.
I close my eyes for the rest of the journey and shove all thoughts of him from my mind. I think of dinner, an upcoming dentist appointment, and the three shirts of Tom’s that need ironing tonight. I won’t run to the darkroom when I’m home, though there’s plenty of time. I’m not ready to see those vivid images, those stark reminders of the day and what happened inside it.
When I reach our quiet little station and walk through the empty, tree-lined streets, relief overwhelms me. It isn’t long before I’m steps away from our tidy brick home. Thinking of how the neighbors might react if they saw me is the only thing that keeps me from running pell-mell for the dark bluedoor.
17.
“I went to the city today,” I tell Tom as he chews his salad. I’ve been moving my fork through my bowl, stabbing a lettuce leaf here and there, but I haven’t been able to bring any food to my mouth. Blurting out my confession—one sliver of the story, the only sliver I plan to give him—frees me enough to take my first real bite. I chew and swallow it in a mouth gone dry.
“What for?” he asks. I see a flash of something in his eyes, hear the tremor in his voice. “You didn’t take the subway, did you?” We’ve seen evening news programs about escalating violence on the subway: robberies at gunpoint, stabbings on the platforms or in the flickering, failing light of a train car. I shake my head, imagining what might happen if I said,I didn’t take the subway but a man assaulted me on the street in broad daylight.His eyes might roll back in his head; he might slide from his chair to the floor. I know what it would look like: Tom on the ground, limp and barely breathing. I close my eyes to try to wipe the image from my mind.
When I open them again, Tom is there, giving me that look he gave Tom Junior whenever he misbehaved at dinner—when he spit food from his mouth as a toddler or sat sullen at the table in his teenage years. Once he left home, Tom told me he could finally fully digest, but I found the endless calm oppressive. I hated our too-easy small talk and the sounds of our eating. Even Rosie’s presence couldn’t distract mefrom the desperate scrambling I felt or the voice in my head asking,What now? What and who are you, Judith Stanley?I was no longer a mother and I felt suddenly old, my new life an ill-fitting skin.
It was then—three years ago now—that I started wandering the neighborhood, the town, the neighboring towns, like something of a ghost. I drifted through places that were mostly familiar to me, feeling oddly disconnected from myself. I had no purpose—only to drift. But I began noticing things: the wine-colored birthmark staining the side of a beautiful storekeeper’s face, or the dark interior of an abandoned house seen through the gaping front door. I saw the wounded, scarred underside of the world I knew well, and I wanted my camera. I’d used it mostly for family pictures since Tom Junior’s birth, but now I started carrying it everywhere—much to my husband’s confusion. I moved through emptiness and filled it with image after image; then I made my darkroom and taught myself how to process film. Before long, I was living in the middle of a rich new phase of life.
And then: Tom’s episode. Rosie’s death.
And now: the shadow, the caller, the man in the crosswalk. Sullying everything. Forcing me to hide more from Tom.
“I wanted to get better pictures. More pictures. There are simply more people there, Tom,” I say, sounding defensive and slightly condescending. “I’m tired of my usual circuit. I’m running out of subjects. Paul says—”
“I don’t care whatPaulsays,” Tom says with sudden heat, banging his glass down so hard that milk sloshes and spills onto the table. There’ll be a ring now. I wait a moment, staring into Tom’s red face, knowing it mirrors my own. I’ve forgotten to sayProfessor Sorenson. But I press on, too worked up to stop.
“I used to go to the city all the time, remember? And I can take care of myself,” I add, though I can hear the echo of the man’s words in my ear even before I finish talking:selfish fucking bitch. And here I am, making the insult ring true: telling my husband a half-truth so I cancontinue todo what I want. Tom exhales loudly and something shakes loose in me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just—needed to go.”
“I don’t like the idea of you roaming around the city like that, taking pictures,” Tom says, softer now. “I know some people get angry. Did you run into any trouble?” I take a breath and tell Tom about the grandmother who scolded me for taking pictures of her girl. I turn it into a funny story, telling him how she reared up to challenge me and then I took her picture, too, knowing she couldn’t chase after me. Tom laughs, his whole body shaking as it always does. I love his laugh. The sound of it wipes away the tension between us and clears my mind of the dark moments from the day. We spend a contented evening together, reading side by side on the couch, then curled together in bed, with Tom’s arm firmly aroundme.
18.
There he is.A frantic pulse beats through me as I scrutinize fresh prints the next day. I spot him first in the picture I took in the Cadillac’s side mirror, the one I thought was too cleverly composed to leave room for him. I can see why I missed it on the contact sheet: the dark figure behind and to the side of me is so small that I have to squint through my loupe to see it in the full-sized print. But even without the visual proof, I would recognize him by the sick feeling in my gut, the agonizing twist in my side. I struggle to stay upright as I pore over the other self-portraits for some time, seeing him in every last frame.
Suddenly the urge to leave, to get out, overtakes me.
I burst out of the house into the crisp morning air and walk briskly around the block. I long to have Rosie beside me, moving her short legs in triple time to match my stride. The pain fades as I circle the block once, then twice, checking now and then over my shoulder. I see no one, not even Patty on her front porch, waving me over for a chat; I’d welcome that today. I’d even welcome her prying questions. On my third time around, I’ve calmed enough to go home, to the self-portraits marred by that unmistakable small figure whose placement makes it impossible to crop. I take a breath and tell myself it doesn’t matter, that the figure is so minuscule, it’s hardly even there. It’s as if I’ve cropped it already, cleansed the image of the man’s presence. Paul—oranyone—would need a magnifier to see it, which renders the man as inconsequential as a regular passerby.
He isn’t, of course—not in real life. The thought of him: the knowledge of his presence in the world, the words he spoke to me yesterday, and the memory of his grip on my arm make me feverish with fear.When I go out tomorrow, I decide,I’ll stay closer to home—and I’ll bring Tom Junior’s knife.
I remembered it last night: the folding knife he kept in a box with compasses, twine, and other Boy Scouts paraphernalia. I take it out now and open the sharp, serrated blade, turning it this way and that; it’s a little rusty at the edges, but no matter. Just as I thrust it into my imagined attacker, the telephone rings. I fold the knife but keep it in my hand and rush to the kitchen.
“Hello, Stanley residence.”
No answer.
“Hello?” I repeat, impatient but apprehensive. There’s nothing but silence—and then the slow, shallow breathing I heard the other day. I can almost feel the small wind of it in my ear.
“What do you want?” I ask, clutching the telephone cord. I lean against the door frame and stare at the pineapple wallpaper just as I did before. I know it’s the man; I hear his breath. It feels intimate in a way that makes me recoil but also press my ear closer to the phone. If I could just make sense of his breath. If I could remember it—or know it. I’m beginning to lose myself in the rhythm of it—my eyelids drifting down, down—when the caller slams his phone into its cradle. I flinch but go on staring at the wall, still twining my fingers through the cord, listening to the dial tone as if it would answer the question I asked and the others I didn’t.Who are you? What do you want? Why are you doing this to me?
The dial tone goes on and on as if the phone never rang, as if I only heard this flat, persistent, meaningless sound from the moment I picked up the receiver.
