Points of Departure Read Free Page A

movies. I smack the set again and again, bruising my hand. I switch desperately from channel to channel. Nothing.
    I look under “Television Repair” in the telephone book.
    In shop after shop, the phone rings unanswered. Sunday afternoon and no one is at work.
    Finally, at a place called Pete’s Repair-It, a man answers the phone. “Pete’s Repair-It. Pete speaking.”
    “Thank God you’re there,” I say quickly. “My television’s broken and I have to have it fixed.”
    “Sure,” says the man. “Drop it by on Monday and I’ll have a look.”
    “You don’t understand,” I say shakily.“It has to be fixed this afternoon. My father will be on at two and”—I glance at the clock—“it’s quarter to two now. I’ll pay extra.”
    “Sorry, ma’ am,” he says politely. “The shop’s closed today. I just stopped by to—”
    Then I break down. “You have to help me,” I plead. “You just have to. My father’s going to be on TV at two and I have to see him.” I start crying and I can barely speak.
    “Hangon,” he mutters. “Just calm down. What’s the matter with the set?”
    Between sniffles, I describe the TV’s behavior. He gets my address and promises that he will come right away. I pace, watching the clock. At five to two, I hear a van in the driveway. I meet the man halfway down the walk. He’s a broadly built man, middle-aged, with glasses and curly brown hair. Over the pocket of his red shirt,his name is embroidered: PETE . He carries a toolbox.
    “Please hurry,” I beg him.
    I watch him work: removing the back of the TV and inspecting the tangle of wires inside. “Would you like something to drink?” I ask awkwardly.
    “Sure. Have you got a beer?”
    I shake my head. “How about bourbon and lemonade? That’s what I’m drinking.”
    “All right,” he says. “I’ll try it.”
    He is whistling softly asI come out of the kitchen. “You could probably just get yourself a new TV for the price of this house call,” he says.
    I nod. “Maybe I’d better get another. So I’ll have one as a spare.”
    He chats as he works, talking about what’s wrong with the set, about how much a new set might cost me, but I pay little attention. I am watching the clock, waiting for the moment I can watch the movie. Finally,at two-thirty, he plugs in the set and the picture snaps into focus.
    “Thank you,” I say. “Oh, thank you.”
    I curl up happily on the couch. On the TV screen, my father paces to and fro in his little cell. “I don’t belong here,” he says.
    His cellmate; a wiry man with a thin face and cold eyes, lies back on his bunk and laughs. “You and every other con in the joint.”
    “You don’t understand.” Thescreen shows a close-up of my father’s face, his tortured eyes, his square chin rough with stubble. “I’m innocent.”
    “This is a great movie,” I say to Pete.
    “You’ve seen this before?” He picks up his drink and sits beside me on the couch.
    “Of course,” I say. “Five times before.”
    “Sure, you’re innocent,” my father’s cellmate is saying.
    “You and everyone else. We’re all innocent.” The wiry mantakes a drag on his cigarette then blows the smoke at the ceiling. “But we’re all stuck here together.”
    “If you’ve seen it before, then what was the big hurry to get the set fixed?” Pete growls. He is staring at me with puzzlement and frank curiosity. “You got me out here on a Sunday with a sob story about your father being on TV, and—”
    “That’s my father,” I say quickly, pointing to the TV,where my father is lighting a cigarette.
    “He’s your dad?” Pete stares at the set. “I grew up watching his movies.”
    “So did I,” I say. “I watch all his movies. All of them.”
    For a moment, Pete glances from the screen to my face and back again. “Yeah, I can see it,” he says. “You look like his daughter.”
    I’m startled. “You think so?”
    “Of course,” he says. “Especially, the eyes. You