Points of Departure Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 offalling. 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 throughthe 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 wentto 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 comesup, 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. Thetruth 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 thatyou 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. Highin 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 lightlooks 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