God damn she hated to be followed! Hated any man following her with his eyes, even.
Ma had put the fear of the Lord in her, years ago. You would not want anything to happen to you, Rebecca! A girl by herself, men will follow. Even boys you know, you can’t trust.
Even Rebecca’s big brother Herschel, Ma had worried he might do something to her. Poor Ma!
Nothing had happened to Rebecca, for all Ma’s worrying.
At least, nothing she could remember.
Ma had been wrong about so many damn things…
Rebecca smiled to think of that old life of hers when she’d been a girl in Milburn. Not yet a married woman. A “virgin.” She never thought of it now, all that was past. Niles Tignor had rescued her. Niles Tignor was her hero. He’d taken her from Milburn in his car, they’d eloped to Niagara Falls. Her girlfriends had been envious. Every girl in Milburn adored Niles Tignor from afar. He’d brought his bride Rebecca then to live in the country east and a little north of Chautauqua Falls. Four Corners, it was called.
Their son Niles Tignor, Jr. had been born here. Niley would be three years old, end of November.
She was vain of being Mrs. Tignor, and she was vain of being a mother. Wanting to shout at the man in the panama hat You have no right to follow me! I can protect myself.
It was so. Rebecca had a sharp piece of scrap metal in her jacket pocket. In secret, nervously she was fingering it.
If it’s the last thing I do mister I WILL MARK YOU.
In school in Milburn, Rebecca had had to fight sometimes. She was the town gravedigger’s daughter, other kids taunted her. She had tried to ignore them, best as she could. Her mother had so advised her. But you must not stoop to their level Rebecca. She had, though. Frantic flailing and kicking fights, she’d had to defend herself. Damn bastard principal had expelled her, one day.
Of course she had never attacked another. She had never hurt any of her classmates not really, even the ones who’d deserved to be hurt. But she didn’t doubt that if she was desperate enough fighting for her life she could hurt another person, bad.
Ah! the point of the steel was sharp as an ice pick. She would have to stab it deep into the man’s chest, or throat…
“Think I can’t do it, asshole? I can.”
Rebecca wondered if the man in the panama hat, a stranger to her, was someone Tignor knew. Someone who knew Tignor.
Her husband was in the brewery business. He was often on the road for days, even weeks. Usually he appeared to be prospering but sometimes he complained of being short of cash. He spoke of the business of brewing, marketing, and delivering beer and ale to retailers through New York State as cutthroat competitive. The way Tignor spoke, with such zest, you were made to think of slashed and bleeding throats. You were made to think that cutthroat competitive was a good thing.
There were rivalries in the brewery business. There were unions, there were strikes and layoffs and labor disputes and picketing. The business employed men like Niles Tignor, who could handle themselves in difficult situations. Tignor had told Rebecca that there were enemies of his who would never dare approach him-“But a wife, she’d be different.”
Tignor had told Rebecca that he would murder with his bare hands anyone who approached her.
The man in the panama hat, Rebecca wanted to think, did not really look like a man in the brewery business. His sporty straw hat, tinted glasses, and cream-colored trousers were more appropriate for the lakeshore in summer than the industrial edge of Chautauqua Falls in autumn. A long-sleeved white shirt, probably high-quality cotton or even linen. And a bow tie. A bow tie! No one in Chautauqua Falls wore bow ties, and certainly no one of Tignor’s acquaintance.
It was like seeing Bing Crosby on the street, or that astonishing agile dancer: Fred Astaire. The man in the panama hat was of that type. A man who didn’t look as if he would sweat, a man who might smile if he saw something beautiful, a man not altogether real.
Not a man to track a woman into a desolate place and accost her.
(Was he?)
Rebecca was wishing it wasn’t so late in the afternoon. In full daylight, she would not feel so uneasy.
Each day now in September, dusk was coming earlier. You took notice of the days shortening, once Labor Day was past. Time seemed to speed up. Shadows rose more visibly from the underbrush beside the canal and the snaky-glittery dark water like certain thoughts you try to push away except in a weak time you can’t. The sky was massed with clouds like a fibrous substance that has been squeezed, and then released. There was a strange quivering malevolent livingness to it. Through the cloud-mass, the sun appeared like a fierce crazed eye, that glared, and made each grass blade beside the towpath distinct. You saw too vividly, your eyes dazzled. And then, the sun disappeared. What had been distinct became blurred, smudged.
Heavy thunderheads blowing down from Lake Ontario. Such humidity, flies were biting.
Buzzing close to Rebecca’s head, so she gave little cries of disgust and alarm, and tried to brush them away.
At Niagara Tubing, the air had been sultry hot as in midsummer. Stifling at 110° F. Windows opaque with grime were shoved at a slant and half the fans broken or so slow-moving they were useless.
It was only temporary work, at Niagara Tubing. Rebecca could bear it for another few months…
Punching in at 8:58 A.M. Punching out at 5:02 P.M. Eight hours. Five days a week. You had to wear safety goggles, gloves. Sometimes a safety apron: so heavy! hot! And work shoes with reinforced toes. The foreman inspected them, sometimes. The women.
Before the factory, Rebecca had worked in a hoteclass="underline" maid, she was called. She’d had to wear a uniform, she had hated it.
For eight hours, Rebecca earned $16.80. Before taxes.
“It’s for Niley. I’m doing it for Niley.”
She wasn’t wearing a watch, never wore a watch at Niagara Tubing. The fine dust got into a watch’s mechanism and ruined it. But she knew it was getting on toward 6 P.M. She would pick up Niley at her neighbor’s house just after 6 P.M. No son of a bitch trailing her on the towpath was going to prevent her.
Preparing herself to run. If, suddenly. If he, behind her. She knew of a hiding place somewhere ahead, on the other side of the canal embankment, not visible from the towpath, a foul-smelling culvert: made of corrugated sheet metal, a tunnel about twelve feet in depth, five feet in diameter, she could duck and run through it and into a field, unless it was a marsh, the man in the panama hat would not immediately see where she’d gone and if he did, he might not want to follow her…
Even as Rebecca thought of this escape route, she dismissed it: the culvert opened into a fetid marsh, an open drainage field, if she ran into it she would stumble, fall…
The towpath was an ideal place to track a victim, Rebecca supposed. You could not see beyond the embankments. The horizon was unnaturally close. If you wished to see the sky from the towpath you had to look up. Had to lift your head, crane your neck. On their own, your eyes did not naturally discover the sky.
Rebecca felt the injustice, he had followed her here! Where always she was relieved, grateful to be out of the factory. Always she admired the landscape, though it was slovenly, a wilderness. Always she thought of her son, eagerly awaiting her.
She knew: she must not weaken. She must not show her fear.
She would turn and confront him, the man in the panama hat. She would turn, hands on her hips, Tignor-style she would stare him down.
She mouthed the words she would say to him: “You! Are you following me?”
Or, “Hey mister: not following me, are you?”
Or, her heart quickened in hatred, “God damn you, who are you to follow me?”
She was not a shy young woman, and she was not weak. Not in her body, or in her instincts. She was not a very feminine woman. There was nothing soft, pliant, melting about her; rather she believed herself hard, sinewy. She had a striking face, large deep-set very dark eyes, with dark brows heavy as a man’s, and something of a man’s stance, in confronting others. In essence, she despised the feminine. Except, there was her attachment to Tignor. She did not wish to be Tignor, but only to be loved by Tignor. Yet Tignor was not an ordinary man, in Rebecca’s judgment. Otherwise, she despised the weakness of women, deep in her soul. She was ashamed, infuriated. For this was the ancient weakness of women, her mother Anna Schwart’s weakness. The weakness of a defeated race.