Points of Departure (4 page)

You give him coffee to drink. Your husband would not like having this other man sit in his kitchen, even though the landlord is an older man, potbellied and unattractive.

Your husband would not like it, but it seems harmless enough and you are lonely. You ask him about the oak trees. He tells you that
they are California live oaks, tough trees that flourish under difficult conditions.

“How long have they been there, so close to the house?” you ask him.

“A long time,” he says, “a very long time.” They were old when his grandmother was growing up. His grandmother had lived in the house alone for many years, after his grandfather had died.

You nod. You like the thought of a woman living alone
in, this house, happy among the trees.

“I offered to cut back the oaks for her,” the landlord says. “They need trimming, sure enough. But she didn’t want me to. Had a thing about them, she did.”

You smile, understanding his grandmother across the years. She knew about the women in the oaks. You think you would have liked his grandmother.

You have lived in the farmhouse for two weeks when your
husband decides that you must celebrate the two-week anniversary of the move. He calls you from work and tells you not to make dinner. He brings home a pepperoni pizza; turns the lights low, and puts an old Elvis Presley album on the stereo. Together, you eat pizza from paper plates, and he talks and jokes. He tells you about his boss, imitating the way the man puffs out his cheeks when he talks
and making you laugh.”

When Elvis sings “Love Me Tender,” your husband takes your hand and pulls you up off the couch. He holds you close. As you dance, he sings along with Elvis, his voice deep and loving. When the song ends, he kisses you.

In the sudden silence, you hear the wind rattling in the branches outside. You ignore the sound. Your bruises have faded and you are happy. You think right
now that you will always be happy.

When you were a child, your family moved a lot. Your father worked as a mechanic in a garage, and he could get work anywhere. When he didn’t like his boss or the house or a town, he moved. Sometimes you stayed in one place for six months; sometimes, for three; sometimes, only for two. You and your sister were jerked from school; you packed your things in the
cardboard boxes that your mother never bothered to throwaway, and you drove to a new town, a new house, a new school. You had no choice.

Sometimes, you would cry about leaving your friends.

Once, you ran away and tried to stay at a friend’s house, reasoning that your parents might leave without you, they just might. But they didn’t. Your father found you, and you moved again.

After that, your
parents never warned you before a move. You would notice an odd tension around the house, a peculiar feeling of activity even when everything was still. Then one morning, you would wake up and your mother would be wrapping the dishes in newspaper and packing them away in boxes.

After a while, you stopped making friends. What was the use when you knew you would be moving in a month, in two months,
in half a year? No use. No use at all.

You swore that when you were grown-up you would live in one house. You would stay there with your husband who would take good care of you. You would live in the house all your life and never move. That’s why you like thinking about the landlord’s grandmother—an old woman living in the house that was hers, making friends with the trees. You like that.

You
have been in the house for a month when your husband brings home a hammock made of colored twine.

“Perfect for this place,” he says. “It will look great hanging between the trees.”

He takes a beer from the refrigerator. He’s been drinking more and more beer lately. He says that he needs it to relax after the long commute. He has been late to work a few times, and his boss is on his back. He
doesn’t like his job. You try to be sympathetic and understanding.

When he goes out to hang the hammock, you go with him. He wanders from tree to tree, looking for two that are the right distance apart. The hammock came with some rope, but not much. None of the trees seem to be positioned right. This part is too widely separated; this one, too close together.

As he searches for the right tree,
your husband is getting angry. He carries his beer in one hand and the hammock in the other. He does not like the oaks—you know that. They have deep roots. He does not like things that are stronger than he is.

“What about these two?” you say. “They look about right.”

“Too far apart,” he says impatiently.

You look up into the leaves where the women live. You can’t see them, but you know they
are there. You can feel them all around you. They will help you if they can.

“I think it might fit here,” you say. He glares at you and throws the hammock at you in exasperation. You catch it, smiling as if he were doing this in fun. You pretend. You lie to yourself and to him and to the women in the oaks.

You don’t fool anyone, but you do it anyway. It’s automatic now.

The distance between
the trees is perfect. The rope just reaches. You think gratefully of the women in the oaks as you tie the rope around the tree, stringing the hammock a few feet off the ground. Your husband is watching, angry that you succeeded where he failed. You speak to him softly, trying to placate him. You tell him that this will be a wonderful place for him to rest on weekends; you tell him that this is a
fine house, that you are so happy, that he is so wise. He turns away as you are tying the rope and goes to the kitchen for another beer.

You test the hammock, lying down under the trees. The sun is gone and the first stars are out. You don’t want to go back to the house, but you know that the longer you put it off, the worse it will be.

The sun is setting. In the leaves above you, the women
are dancing. You can only catch glimpses of them, but you make up the rest. They are beautiful—slim and young, about your age really. You hear them calling to you; they know your name. Perhaps they overheard it when your husband was yelling at you. Your name sounds different when they say it softer, gentler, like wind caressing leaves, like summer rain on the grass.

Your husband calls to you
from the porch. Reluctantly, you leave the hammock and go toward the house, “Where’s dinner?” he grumbles, and you smile as if he is just joking.

As you go toward him, you see that he is holding a beer in one hand and a saw in the other. He’s on his third beer: you see two empty bottles on the counter.

“It’ll be on the table in just a minute,” and you hear echoes of your mother’s voice saying
“Yes, dear. Of course, dear,” while your father shouts about something or other.

“I’m going to take care of that damn branch that’s been keeping me awake,” he says, stepping off the porch and heading toward the oak nearest the house. You stand by the porch and watch as he climbs the tree. The branch that scrapes against the bedroom window grows off a sprawling trunk that is as thick around as
your waist. He straddles the trunk and saws at the branch awkwardly. He is clumsy with the saw, a little drunk, you think. The tree in which he is sitting trembles each time he jerks the saw.

You can hear the leaves rattling, the oak women talking excitedly among themselves.

“Be careful,” you say. You are not sure what you are warning him against: the sharp saw, the oak women, the danger of
falling. Or perhaps you are warning the women.

You are not sure, but you know there is danger somewhere nearby.

He drags the saw toward him and the branch creaks, a high cry of alarm. It dips lower to rest against the ground.

Only a thin strip of bark and wood holds the branch to the tree. He pushes the saw forward and the bark gives way suddenly. The branch falls and the saw slips through
the gap, striking his leg. He cries out. The crash of the branch hitting the ground is like a burst of sudden laughter.

You bandage his cut, a ragged gash. The blood and pain have calmed him, and he submits to your attention willingly.

At times like this, he is a small boy, grateful to be taken care of. You baby him and bring him his dinner, happy that the earlier tension has somehow dissipated.

That night, when he is asleep, you slip out of the house and lie in the hammock. From the woods, you can hear the creaking of insects, the rustle of small animals in the underbrush, the low hooting of an owl. When you were a little girl, a teacher read the class a story about an enchanted forest. Dryads lived in the trees, coming out to dance and sing in the moonlight. One day, a little girl went
to the forest and met the dryads…

You don’t know what happened next. Your family moved the next day and you never heard the end of the story. In your mind, the little girl is still living in the enchanted woods, never leaving, growing up among the dryads and learning their ways.

You lie in the hammock and wait to see if the women will sing, but you do not hear them. After a time, the moon comes
up, and you go back to bed.

You have a red notebook, like the one that you carried to classes during the one year that you went to community college. Sometimes you write in your notebook, trying to tell the truth. You write, “I love my husband.” You consider the words, remembering your broken ribs. You cross the sentence out, then write again. “I hate my husband.”

You cross that out too. The
truth is a slippery thing, as elusive as the women in the trees.

The summer goes along. You try to take care of your husband. Small things anger him: He sees a letter from your sister and he says that she never liked him. You smile at the checkout boy at the grocery store and your husband says you are a slut. You ask him to take you to town so you can go to the library, and he insinuates that
you think you are better than he is, you think you are so smart. But these are all minor complaints. You soothe him, you comfort him, you make him dinner.

Your mother writes you letters, telling you the family’s latest address and asking how you are doing. You write back cheerful notes that say nothing. You have nothing to say. The first time your husband hit you, right after you were married,
you asked your mother if you could come home. She was packing the dishes for another move and she said that you must stay with your husband. Make your husband happy, she said. In your letters, you tell her that your husband is happy.

When your husband is at work, you walk in the woods. You feel strong when you are among the trees. On a warm day, you kick off your shoes and climb a tree. High
in the foliage, you find a place where two branches come together to make a natural seat, as comfortable as a rocking chair. When you look down, all you can see are leaves. You are alone at the top of the tree, hidden from view.

For a while, you sit and listen to the jays squawk and the squirrels chatter. The leaves rustle, fluttering in the breeze. When you squint your eyes, the flickering light
looks like sunlight on water.

You fall asleep and the oak women gather around you. In your dream, you smile at them. “This is a beautiful place,” you say.

They murmur to you, their voices no louder than the whispering of the leaves. “Stay. Stay with us!” They stretch their hands out to you.

You look around. “I can’t live in a tree.”

They mutter reassuringly. “You can do anything.”

You shake
your head, knowing they are wrong.

Their eyes are shaped like almonds; their hair is the color of new grass; their fingers are slender and graceful.

The smallest one, a young girl with a sweet smile, whispers, “You are beautiful.”

You look down at your hands. You have been biting your fingernails again. Your wrists are so thin you can see the bones. Your hair is thin and stringy. You are ugly.

“You are not seeing clearly,” she whispers. “Truly, you are beautiful.”

The rumble of an engine drowns out her voice. A car is coming up the driveway—your husband is, home. Startled, you clamber out of the tree and hurry home to greet him.

You call to your husband as you walk in the door.

“Dinner will be ready in just a minute.” You can hear him in the bedroom, changing out of his work clothes.
You hear his footsteps crossing the living room. From the sound, you try to judge how angry he is that you weren’t home when he got there.

He stands ill the kitchen doorway for a moment, watching you slice tomatoes for salad. He gets a beer from the refrigerator, throws the bottle cap in the general direction of the wastepaper basket. He misses. The cap rolls across the floor, but he doesn’t
pick it up. “This place is a sty,” he says. “Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother to come home.” He turns away and you hear the television go on in the living room. By the time the lamb chops are done, he is drinking his third beer. He eats half the chop and leaves the rest. As you wash the dishes, you can hear gunfire from a cop show on the television.

That night, you wake from a bad dream.
You dreamed of a time past that you would rather forget. Your husband had his hands on your throat and he was choking you, shaking you, cursing you for something you had done.

What was it? Smiling at the postman, maybe, or folding one of his shirts incorrectly. It doesn’t matter. All that mattered was the air and the pain. He released the pressure just before you fainted. You gasped, “I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.” You didn’t even know what you were sorry for, but whatever it was it must have been bad, very bad to make him so angry. You had to wear a scarf around your throat for two weeks until the bruises went away.

You wake and your husband is asleep, lying on his back with his hands at his sides. A fold of blanket is pressing lightly against your neck and you push it away. You can’t go back
to sleep and you are afraid that you will wake your husband, with your tossing and turning. As quietly as you can, you slip from the bed and go outside. In the moonlight, the trees are beautiful.

You are on the porch when you hear footsteps. The door creaks open. Your husband sits beside you on the steps and for a moment you let yourself think that everything will be all right. You listen to
him breathing beside you.