Chapter 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—or anyone—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.
I remember the knife and slowly open my hand to stare at its silvery sides.
The pain hasn’t come. Because of the knife?
Because it protects me? I’ll give him this, I think grimly.
If he comes at me again, if he nears me or touches me, I’ll give him this blade in the chest, neck, arm, face—whatever’s closest. It’s what I wanted to do all those years ago but couldn’t.
I lay there and received his harm, and then he vanished.
Only to reappear now? To lurk in the background of my pictures, to breathe into my ear on the telephone? I shake the illogical thought from my head and slip the knife into my purse. I’ll go everywhere with it now—even to class tonight.