Points of Departure Read Online Free PDF

thinking about the landlord’s grandmother—an old woman living in the house that was hers, making friends with the trees. You like that.
    Youhave 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. Hedoesn’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 theyare 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 betweenthe 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 afine 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 womenare 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 youfrom 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 asyour 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