Chapter 40
Tears burn my eyes as I walk outside. I fumble for a handkerchief in my purse, see the knife there, glinting in the bottom like a bright coin, and wipe my face with too much roughness.
Angry at myself—but why? Angry for not having spoken up, for not having offered Paul something I can’t give.
I see Paul’s car and wish it were mine. If I could drive home fast with the windows down, the cold air would clear my head.
Instead, I have to stand here waiting. Hopefully not for long.
I glance around at the circles of brightness cast by the overhead lights and see one light that’s gone out in the back of the lot, beyond Paul’s car.
I stare into its darkness, not quite knowing why.
I stare until a shape emerges slowly from the spot.
A scream forms, and freezes, at the back of my throat.
I tell myself it’s Tom, that he’s here early, that for some reason the car is nowhere in sight, and for some reason Tom is shrouded in shadow and doesn’t say a word, doesn’t call my name as he draws near.
When the man steps into a pool of light, I see that it isn’t Tom, of course; it’s
the first man
the man in the blue Buick
the man in the crosswalk
the man on the telephone
the man in the subway car
the man lurking in the back corners of all my self-portraits.
I know him instantly, though his face remains shadowed.
I think of my knife, nestled among my things: wallet, hairbrush, hand cream, and the old cherry cough drops I should have thrown out months ago.
The knife is right there, I think. Almost calmly, through the thick sludge of terror.
All I have to do is rummage in my purse and unfold it.
But my hands stay where they are, hanging limp at my sides.
The man comes closer—or have I moved closer to him?
I look over my shoulder and see that I’ve somehow passed Paul’s car, that the school’s entrance is just a dim beacon behind me.
I can see the man more clearly now: the gleaming whites of his eyes.
I’ve never seen his eyes before, or the vaguely oval shape of his face.
I expect the sharp pang of my old pain to come as we draw closer, closer—but: nothing.
Instead, the sight of him washes over me like a soothing wave.
I feel myself drifting asleep, then I snap awake when his voice comes.
“You shouldn’t be here, Judith. You should have stayed home like you were meant to. You should have stayed inside the building. You should have pulled out the knife before you stepped outside. I’ll wait for you to do it now, if you like.”
His voice surrounds me on all sides, soft and malevolent.
I close my eyes and open them after ages have gone by.
He’s still there, standing just a handful of feet away.
I reach my hand into my purse—because he’s told me to do it—and find the knife.
I pull it out. Unfold it. He laughs as if the sight of it amuses him.
The sound takes me back through the years, to my grandmother’s house, to the first attack.
The day I was born, I think, and there is truth to it.
“It was you, wasn’t it? All those years ago.” My voice rusty in the cold night.
His laugh rings out louder this time; I can’t stand to hear it.
I grip the knife tightly and hold it out toward him, watching the blade catch the light.
I’m transfixed by it. It seems to float before me, detached from my hand.
But it isn’t detached; I step forward and slash at him.
He gasps and his awful laughing stops. I can’t see his mouth but I know his lips have drawn into a tight, serious line.
He’s afraid now, I can taste his fear like blood in my mouth.
I want to spit but instead I stab him, lightly at first, then deeper.
I hear his animal moans with each thrust of my knife, until I’ve stabbed him so much my hand is tired—all of me is tired—and I loosen my fingers to let the knife go.
The sound of it hitting the pavement is a hard, bright clatter.
My eyes drift open. I find myself on the ground, looking up at the night sky. The parking lot lights mostly obscure the stars, but I can still see them, faint and twinkling.
I feel tired, so terribly tired. And sore.
My middle aches. I turn my head—with great effort—to look for the man, who must have fallen nearby.
I only see the knife, though, covered in blood.
No man. I turn my head the other way, toward the school: no man.
He can’t have escaped—I destroyed him. He’s here somewhere, lost in the darkness.
He must have stumbled or dragged himself out of sight.
While my eyes search for him, the school’s front door opens and a man comes out. Paul. I open my mouth to yell, but I can only whisper. “Paul,” I whisper. “Paul.” But he doesn’t hear or see me, far from him at the back of the lot. He walks decidedly to his car, oblivious, and starts it up.
“Paul!” I scream, my voice finally free. But the noise of his engine swallows it. He drives away, his red taillights blurred by my tears.
I’m left alone, waiting for Tom now. Willing him to come.
But will he see me when he comes? If I can turn over, pull myself toward the school, I might make it before he arrives.
But turning over hurts, and I’m so tired.
I must be wounded, though I never felt the man’s weapon, never even saw that he held one.
My stomach aches. I lift my hands from my stomach so I can see them: slick, shiny, and smelling the iron smell of blood.
Is it his blood, or mine?
Or both of ours, mixed together?
The lights in the parking lot flicker all at once, then dim.
They grow dimmer. I’m frightened of the dark.
I want Tom to come. But there is still so much time before he comes, I think hazily.
The lights grow fainter. I stare at them, trying to hold them, but soon enough they’re gone.
I feel a shiver of fear before the darkness surrounds me, cool and soothing.
It spills over my face and body. Fills my mouth.
It eases the pain of my stomach and the old pain beneath it and blots out every last painful inch of the world.