Chapter 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 a photographer.
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 reads PLEASE; 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 the autumn-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 for him—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 reminds me 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 of Parade 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 show him.
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?
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 used my 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 at me.
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 blue door.