Chapter 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 different hand, 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 him now, 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 I need to 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. He may 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 I move, 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.