Points of Departure - Pat Murphy

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PAT MURPHYPOINTS OF DEPARTUREJan first heard wolves howling in the streets of Manhattan on the night of theblackout.It was two in the morning, but Jan was awake. She had been lying in bed watchingthe all-news cable station on TV. For the third time that night, a well-dressednewscaster was telling her about a sniper in a Miami shopping mall. Distraughtover his divorce, the man had opened fire with a rifle, picking off six womenshoppers and a saleslady before the police apprehended him. The blackout cut theannouncer off in mid-sentence.Just before the lights went out, Jan had been crying. A month before, Dennis,her husband, had said that he wanted a divorce, and that unexpected event hadshattered the rhythms of her life. "I'm leaving," he had said. And then he saidmany other things -- about finding himself, about feeling trapped, about beingconfused, about love. But of that storm of words only two had stayed with her:"I'm leaving."In the end, since the condominium that they shared belonged to him, she had beenthe one to leave, subletting an apartment in the Village from a friend who wasvacationing in Florida. Jan lived out of a suitcase and fed her friend's twocats, who regarded her as a convenient source of food and no more. The catsprowled around her bed and on her bed, pouncing on her feet when she shiftedposition and staring at her in the flickering light of the television.After Jan had left her husband, she realized that she had forgotten how tosleep. She found herself sitting up late at night, watching TV. Sometimes shedrank brandy to put herself in a drifting hazy state from which she could nodoff. Sometimes the murmur of the television lulled her to sleep. But she alwaysslept badly.On the night that the lights went out, Jan sat for a moment in the darkness,then got out of bed and went to the window to see if the lights were out acrossthe street. That was when she heard the wolves.First, the sound of distant barking -- maybe someone's dog disturbed by thesudden darkness. Then the animal began to howl, starting low and rising slowlyto a high-pitched wailing note. Others joined in with wavering voices, each on aslightly different pitch.No lights shone in the surrounding buildings. The streetlights were out.Moonlight glistened on the fire escape outside her window, reflected from theempty windows of the apartment building across the way.Jan opened the window and listened. A trick of the wind, she thought. But thehowling rose and fell in a chorus that was unrelated to the wind. Wolves in thestreets of Manhattan. She shivered and closed the window.When she dialed 911, a woman's voice answered."There are wolves in the street," Jan said. "I can hear them howling.""What is the nature of your 911 emergency?" the woman asked. She sounded bored."I can hear wolves howling" Jan repeated. "Not far away.""Noisy dogs do not constitute an emergency," the woman said briskly. "ContactAnimal Control during normal business hours.""But I can hear. . . ." Jan was speaking to the dial tone.She hung up and listened at the window again. The wind sang through thelatticework of the fire escape and a taxi passed by in the street below. Againshe heard howling a little nearer now.She hesitated, then dialed her husband's number. She imagined him fumbling forthe telephone on the bedside table, his eyes half-closed, his body naked underthe covers. She imagined the click as he switched on the bedside light, a brasslamp that she had bought at an antique shop a few months ago. She was reassuredjust by the sound of his sleepy hello.She said nothing. Since she left him, she had called him every now and then --maybe once a week, no more than that. She did not want to talk to him; she onlywanted to hear his voice. Each time, she swore she would not call him again, buther resolve always failed."Hello," he said again. She listened to the sound of his breathing, but she didnot speak. What would she tell him? The power was out. Wolves were howling inthe street. What would he say? He would tell her that she was just letting herimagination mn away with her. He would tell her not to call. It was best just tolisten to his voice, visualizing the bedroom that she had once thought of as herown."Who the hell is this?" he demanded. "God damn it, will you say something?"Finally he swore and slammed down the phone. The dial tone returned. She hung upthe phone and returned to the window. She could no longer hear the wolves.She lit the candle that she kept by the bed. By the flickering light, shewrapped herself in a blanket and lay down to listen for howling on the wind. Shewas still awake when the power returned at four o'clock and the television cameto life. A talk show was on and a psychologist was discussing stress. "Inabilityto sleep is one symptom of stress," he was saying. Jan fell asleep, listening tohim chatter.She slept through her alarm the next morning and woke up half an hour late,groggy from lack of sleep. The candle had burned itself out and an "I Love Lucy"rerun was on. The cats yowled at her and she dumped dry cat food in their dish.Hurriedly, she dressed and walked four blocks to the subway station. As shewalked, her breath made clouds of steam in the cold air.The temperature in the subway station was tropical, the humid air heavy withpungent odors. The advertisements that hung on the white tiled walls had beendecorated with spray paint in jungle colors: great slashes of greens brilliantreds and blues, like the plumage of exotic birds.As Jan waited for her train, she noticed an old woman wandering down theplatform, peering into the face of each commuter she passed. The woman wore aman's overcoat and sculled black shoes. Her hair, as gray and tangled as ragpaper stuffing spilled from beneath her knit cap. In one hand, she carried apink plastic shopping bag crammed full of clothing. As she drew near, Jan couldhear her muttering to herself. Jan looked away, pretending great interest in theadvertisement across the way.The smiling woman in a cigarette ad had been artfully disfigured by a graffitiartist: her ears were slightly point ed and tipped with tufts of fur; her smilehad been subtly altered -- the teeth sharpened with a careful touch of paint."They come out at night," the old woman said, stepping between Jan and theadvertisement. "Out of the dark." The woman's eyes were the muddy brown ofcoffee that's been left in the pot too long and her hands moved in an unevenrhythm that was unrelated to her words. She glanced down suddenly, as ifstartled by the movement of her own hands. There was a smear of red spray painton the cement at her feet and she stared at it fixedly. "Blood of the beast,"she said and then she lifted her eyes and regarded Jan with an unnerving smile."It's just paint," Jan said.The old woman shook her head and continued smiling. Though she had not asked formoney, Jan fumbled in the bottom of her purse for change and spilled herfindings into the woman's hand: a crumpled dollar bill, a quarter, a couple ofdimes.The woman's eyes lingered on Jan's face. "They come out at night and no oneknows where they go," she muttered dreamily. Her smile grew broader, a wideunthinking grin. "No one knows." She laughed, a high brittle sound, like glassbottles shattering on a city street.Jan backed away from the woman and the rumble of an approaching train drownedout the laughter. Jan fled on the train. When she looked back through the steamywindow, the old woman waved and Jan looked away.Jan had a temporary position in a legal office, typing endless briefs into aword processor. She worked in a small windowless cubicle at the back of theoffice. Through the cubicle's open door, she could see men in suits hurry up anddown the hall on their way to meetings. She typed, letting the words flowthrough her without touching her as they passed. She ate lunch alone, sitting bythe window of the coffee shop and trying to think of nothing. She made itthrough the day.That evening she met her friend Marsha after work. Jan and Marsha had attendedthe same small college in upstate New York. Jan had called Marsha when Dennisfirst said he was leaving. After Jan moved out, Marsha had insisted on gettingtogether at least once a week. Marsha had been through a divorce and she saidshe knew what Jan was going through. Marsha bullied Jan to a certain extent, butJan tolerated that with good grace: she liked the flamboyant dark-haired woman.She met Marsha at an Italian restaurant. Marsha, who was perpetually dieting,ordered pasta, then agonized over her decision. "You'll have to eat half of it,"she told Jan. "You must have dropped ten pounds since you left Dennis. You're solucky." Marsha regarded any weight loss as fortunate, whatever the cause."I haven't been hungry lately," Jan said."I can always eat," Marsha claimed. "Especially when I'm miserable."Jan shook her head. "I just don't feel like eating."Marsha studied Jan's face. "You've got to get your mind off him. Get out and dothings. Meet new people.""I don't think about him much," Jan said, and it wasn't really a lie. She layawake at night not thinking her mind filled with white noise. She did not thinkabout anything.Jan drank too much red wine and listened to Marsha's heartfelt advice. After afew bites of pasta she felt nauseous, but the wine eased the tension thatknotted her stomach. The wine made talking easier, shrinking the world to anintimate circle that included only her, Marsha, and the waiter who refilled... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]