30 Pieces of a Novel

Eyes

HE’S WITH HIS mother in the park. He’s on a bench; she’s facing him from her wheelchair, drinking ginger ale through a straw. “Cold enough?” and she says, “It hits the spot.” She looks around, then at him. “Excuse me, but you were talking of my soda?” “The ginger ale; yeah.” “Hits the spot. It’s my favorite drink on a warm day and always has been, even when I was a girl. That’s so far back, nobody but me could remember. Ancient times.” She looks at the trees behind her. “They look like shadows.” “The trees?” he says. “Like shadows, but not scary ones. Those I wouldn’t like. Even at my age, I get afraid.” They do; he can see what she means. Silhouettes, at least. “Why do you think they paint them black?” she says, pointing to the trees. “What do you mean black? The tar they sometimes put on them, or whatever that substance is, so when the tree’s slashed or something — a limb sawed off — the sap won’t run?” “Aren’t all the trees there painted black?” “No, they’re just dark: the bark is. Elms or some others. I used to know trees. I can’t tell what these are by their leaves, though I know they’re not maple or oak.” “My eyes, I suppose, playing tricks on me again. One eye I can’t see with almost at all. The other eye lets me see things but very darkly. Together they’re practically of no use. And even worse than that, ugly, because I’m sure people, especially children, who look straight at them, cringe. The soda’s good,” she says, sipping. “I’m glad you like it. Better than the orange flavor, I thought.” “Oh, the orange would have been good too.” “So, the next time.” “If I’m lucky and live that long, though sometimes I wonder.” “What? That you’ll live till the next time I take you to the park? I take you almost every day. This isn’t a one-time thing.” “No. I meant ‘ancient times.’ You can’t expect me to live forever, you know.” “Yes, I do. Now let’s stop talking about it.”

A woman walks past, young, maybe around twenty-five. Tank top, shorts cut high, flapping a Frisbee against her thigh. The kind of body he loves: thick strong thighs, compact high butt, small waist, flat stomach, large breasts. Blond hair but seems dyed, and a pretty face and not dumb-looking. Looks at him as she passes, and he looks back and she looks away. She’s alone, and she sits on the grass in the shade about thirty feet from them, shakes her head hard so her hair falls in front of her face, parts it away from her eyes, and looks at him. He smiles at her, she just stares and then looks away; he turns to his mother, who’s looking at the tree covering above them as if she’s studying it, then back at the woman. She’s stretched out now, leaning back on her forearms, facing front, one knee up, other leg extended out, hair now in a ponytail. How’d she tie it so fast? Must be one motion — ah, he’s seen it done by his wife and his older daughter, so he knows: pull the tail back with one hand, other already has an elastic band stretched wide for it to go in, and, for women with straight hair like his wife and this one, done in a matter of seconds. But what was with that shaking-her-head motion, then, after the hair fell over her face, parting it and looking what seemed coquettishly at him? On the last he might be wrong, but doesn’t see the sense of the head shake. He looks at her long enough, without her once turning to him, to imagine her with no clothes on, on a bed, legs like that: one knee up, other leg straight out though turned a little toward him so part of her inner thigh’s exposed, breasts hanging over the sides of her chest as the outline of them (or just the one he can see) against the tank top makes them appear to be doing now. She grabs the Frisbee off the grass and turns it around clockwise between her fingers while looking at him, then looks at it and continues turning it, but faster, till it’s practically spinning. A good show, but for him? and why’s she looking at him so much? Maybe because he’s looking at her and she’s using the spinning motion as some sort of thinking trick while she wonders why he’s looking at her; and why is he? Wife’s in the apartment, he’ll be picking up the kids from day camp in two hours, he’s with his mother, and he’ll have to wheel her to her home and maybe wait with her and make her comfortable till the woman who looks after her gets back from a movie, so it’s not as if he’s going to make a move on the woman. If his mother sees him eyeing her, what’ll she think? That he’s a bit of a fool, eyeing someone so much younger and who’s dressed in a way to provoke those kind of looks, or that something’s wrong in his marriage, or some connection between the two, or simply that it isn’t right, staring at a woman that way, no matter how she’s dressed or what the disparity is between their ages — she knows because she was a beauty and must have got plenty of stares — and she’d be right, but it’s hard to stop: the woman attracts him, he’s sitting rather than really doing anything, it’s also that she reminds him of someone he went with twenty years ago (her breasts, though, were small, but everything else including her height was pretty much the same); wanted to marry her, even. Looks at his mother; she’s resting with her eyes closed, may be napping. “Mom,” he says, almost so softly that she wouldn’t hear; she doesn’t respond. He also raises his hand to touch hers, but doesn’t want to disturb or wake her; right now he’d rather look at and fantasize about the woman. She looking at him now? Take a guess: she is. Looks: she is but quickly turns away, looks straight up at the sky, shuts her eyes, and smiles the way people do when they face the sun contentedly: the pleasure of the warm rays, especially on your closed eyelids. But she’s in the shade. So she’s just feeling content, maybe from the coolness of the shade. But why would she close her eyes while smiling like that? A breeze she’s getting and he isn’t, or something she thought of that made her smile, and she only looked at the sky to look away from him: didn’t want him disturbing her thought? Fun she had last night? Sex she had this morning? A guy she likes, just met, something somebody recently said? Or just that he’s looking at her, this much older not very attractive man, and that he in fact looks sort of funny with his unruly wiry hair made more unruly by the humidity, and is probably going through some big sex fantasy about her, and she finds that amusing though also a bit pathetic. Then she gets up — Well, see ya, honey, he says to himself — and sits on the grass in the sun about ten feet farther away from him, which could still be thirty feet; he’s not too good at gauging distances. So maybe she had been thinking of the sun before when she had her eyes closed in the shade, but forget it, forget her, will ya? He can if he wants; it’s just that before he didn’t want to.

Looks at his mother — sleeping, definitely: the breathing. If she weren’t he’d initiate a conversation about something: that they’re much better off in the shade than the sun, don’t you agree? How can people, like the ones on the grass there, lie in the sun, not just the heat and humidity but the sweating and harmful rays? And what do you get from it? Brown, red, possibly a bad burn. Her soda! and he looks but she placed it on the ground by the wheel. The Frisbee? Lying by the woman; she’s flat on her back now, no towel or anything like that beneath her that he can see, arms and legs stretched out, sandals off, and eyes closed. So, out to get a tan — maybe the main reason for coming to the park and explanation for the brief clothes — but why the Frisbee? Looking for someone to play with? A come-on or you-come-to-me or whatever the term. A ploy. Guy sees the Frisbee, says, “Wanna toss it around?” and she likes athletic, forward young guys. So they throw, start talking. First: “Good catch,” or “Sorry,” if that one misses it. “No, it was my fault. I threw it too far over your head,” or “I didn’t keep it up long enough for you to get under it.” Then: “You throw and catch well, where’d you learn?” “Frisbee school.” “Yeah, funny, me too, classes right here in the park.” “Really, I just picked it up; it’s not very hard.” Suppose it’s a woman who sees the Frisbee lying beside her and says, “Wanna toss it around?” “No, thanks, I came out here mainly to rest; maybe later.” Suppose the woman then says, “Mind if I borrow it and me and somebody else toss it around?” “I’d just like to keep it beside me, if you don’t mind.” And she has no sunglasses on; she looks the kind that would. Anyway, after they toss it around he invites her to the kiosk nearby for a soda or iced coffee or tea, or she invites him, or they both say they’re hot, at the same time say, “Let’s get something cold to drink,” and the thing’s started: tonight, or an hour or two from now, in one or the other’s bed, or not so fast. Gould’s energetic enough to toss a Frisbee around, knows how to, doesn’t think he’d get winded from it if he didn’t do it too long or hard, but would he do it if he weren’t married or with his mother and so on? What “so on”? Well, overcoming his natural shyness and anxiety about being rejected and other things to go over to her and say something like, “Excuse me, miss, but I see you have a Frisbee; would you like to toss it around?” He doesn’t know. Would depend on how long he hasn’t been with a woman, what he thought he looked like at the time. Also if there were other people near her; now there aren’t. Other things. You think about them at the time, you never do it. But he loves her body. He has to admit that. It’s the body for him. So many bodies for him. So many in the park. So many in tight tank tops and shorts cut high and with full breasts and rears and small waists and long solid legs or just solid legs of normal length like hers. So many people exercising and in shape today. He’s in shape too. Exercises, runs — not much but enough to stay in shape or look as if he’s in good shape for a guy his age. Doesn’t want to get a pot, likes the feel of his hard muscles, especially the arms, after he exercises with stretch bands or does pushups. But the point is she’s the only young woman in a long time who’s looked at him in a curious if not even a flirtatious way.

Looks at her. She’s leaning up on her elbows again, turns to him maybe two seconds after he looks at her, then looks the opposite way. In the distance, direction she’s facing, some kids playing badminton without a net. He imagines going over to her with her back turned, saying, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to startle you”—and she turns to him—“but you have a Frisbee and I could use the exercise, so I was wondering if you’d like to toss it around for a few minutes. No problem if you don’t, and I’m sorry if I disturbed you.” She says, “Sure, why not, I could use the exercise too.” She gets up — does he help her? Only if she extends her hand for him to. He has a book with him, so he says, “Mind if I move my book to where your things are? Just for safekeeping; we can keep an eye on them both at the same time.” “Sure, it’s okay,” she says. They find a more open area but not near the kids playing badminton. They toss, back and forth, little encouraging things said between them like the ones he thought of for her and some other guy before, and after about fifteen minutes he says, “I’m thirsty and hot, and to tell you the truth, a bit tired; like something cold to drink?” She says, “Sure, that’d be nice.” They go to that kiosk nearby. First they pick up their things. He pays, they talk. She’s an actress, she’s a dancer, she’s a singer or violinist or pianist; she’s a grade school teacher of language arts or a high school teacher in a private school teaching one of those things: music, theater, dance, maybe art. She’s intelligent, well read, good sense of humor, smiles a lot at him, seems to like his company. She looks at her watch — does she have one? Can’t see from here. Could be in her bag. Does she have a shoulder bag, little knapsack, something like that? Doesn’t seem to, and he doesn’t remember one. Just the Frisbee. Maybe what she needed to go to the park with — tissues, keys, money, wallet, watch — are all in her pockets. She have pockets in those shorts? Probably. But where was he with her? She takes a watch out of her pocket and says, “Oops, getting late; thanks for the drink but I have to leave now.” He says, “I better be going too.” She says, “I’m going out this way.” He says, “My direction too, which can’t be much of a coincidence, since we were both on this side of the park in the first place.” “Sixty-fifth Street exit?” she says. “Seventy-second, but I can go out Sixty-fifth too, then walk up Columbus. Lots of things to look at, though on the west side of it, not as interesting or aesthetic.” They walk, talk, bump into each other, laugh. He accompanies her to her building. First he says, “I can walk with you right to your door, if you don’t mind. It’s on the way to Columbus,” or, “It’s on the way to Broadway, and I just remembered I have some things to get there.” She can say, “Where?” he can say, “Fairway,” she can say, “I love that store, but gee does it get crowded. Maybe that’s another reason I like it: so many characters.” When they reach her building, what? He has her name by now; maybe asks for her address — no, he has her address; he’s standing in front of her building — so her phone number. Or she says, “Listen, like to come up for coffee? I still have a little time.” “Sure, I’d like that, thanks,” he says. They go up. Once inside, or a short time after she shows him her apartment, or in the kitchen, where she’s putting on the teakettle, he kisses her. She kisses back. They kiss, fondle, start to undress each other. She says, “Whew, wow, a little fast, I don’t know if this is such a good idea, but what the heck, you seem all right, and it’s probably too late now. You have a condom? If you don’t, I do.” He hasn’t. She gets one out of a night table drawer, takes off the rest of her clothes, lies on the bed, one knee up, other leg straight out, stares at the ceiling. He says, “That’s how you were lying in the park, though substitute ceiling with tree covering first, then sky. Where do you think we get all our body positions from, the ones we repeat over and over and naturally fall into, the womb?” “What?” she says. “Nothing, just talking.” He takes off the rest of his clothes, gets on the bed, kisses her, feels her breasts. She says, “Let’s just get right to it. I feel like it, but the truth is I have to be somewhere in an hour, though I also don’t want you to rush.” He puts the condom on, or she does for him, or they do it together.

Looks at her. On her back again, hands under her head this time, eyes closed. He looks at his mother. She’s looking at the trees behind her, then turns to him. “Oh, there you are; I didn’t want to disturb you. You seemed very deep in thought, almost troubled. Are you?” “No. And you were napping before and I didn’t want to disturb you. Feel okay?” “Of course, why shouldn’t I? Just because I’m an old lady who’s gone to pot and who should probably put an end to herself before she gets worse? But tell me; I was looking at those trees there. Why do you think they’re all painted black? It’s very unusual, isn’t it? Not just for the park but anywhere.” “They’re not painted. You asked me that same question before, Mom.” “And what did you say?” “You tell me.” “Please, dear, don’t make fun of me; it isn’t right.” “I’m not; this will help you concentrate better the next time you want to ask that question. What did I say before, after you asked me why do I think the trees are painted black?” “I don’t know and I won’t pretend I do. What did I say? That I was getting daffy and should be put in a home?” “I said they weren’t painted.” “They’re not? This one right behind me, for instance, isn’t painted black or some other dark color?” “No; it’s the natural bark color, and it’s nowhere near being black.” “Well, that’s odd. It has to be my eyes, then. One I can hardly see out of; the other one, everything I see through it is dark and dim.” “So that’s obviously the reason,” he says. “And we both know there’s an operation to correct it but that Dr. Brenken — your personal physician, not your eye one — doesn’t want you going through it: too many risks.” “I know,” she says, “because you already told me, right? It’s what I want to do, but you don’t want me taking chances.” “Both Brenken and I, yes.” “Who’s that?” “Your doctor, Brenken, the one you see for checkups and stuff. The eye surgeon’s leaving the decision up to him.” “But if I have a heart attack and die on the operating table, what of it? Living without seeing, and with everything else about to go on me too, what’s the point in life?” “Come on, for a woman your age you’re in remarkable health. And you can see, just not well.” She waves dismissively, looks away.

He looks at the woman. She’s sitting up, has sunglasses on, and seems to be staring at the ground between her legs. Sunglasses must have been in her pocket or in a case clipped to some part of her clothing he couldn’t see. Continues looking at her, wondering what she’ll do if she looks his way and catches him. Continue to look at him? Look at him angrily, if he can see that through the sunglasses, and then look away? Smile? Probably what she did before: give off no emotion, just look away. Stares at her legs. When they’re in that caret position, he’ll call it, they always look better than when they’re on the ground straight out or standing up. Women that age have the best-looking bodies. The ones in good shape, that is. Better than girls in their end teens or very early twenties, though for all he knows she could be twenty, twenty-one. So what’s he mean then? That usually women around twenty-five or so, which by her face and the very thing he’s talking of he thinks this one is, have the same flat stomachs and firm busts and so on of the teenagers and early twenty-year-olds but a roundness to their shapes the others don’t have, and that maybe mid-twenties is when a woman’s body peaks. Ah, he’s really not too informed on the subject, so best he keep that speculation to himself. He imagines making a pass again. She has sunglasses on this time. What would he say? Frisbee again. “Excuse me, miss, but I saw the Frisbee—noticed—and wondered if you’d like to toss it around a little. I haven’t played in a while, but my mind suddenly started going back when I saw it lying there—” She’s taken off her glasses and cuts him off with “I want to lie on the grass in peace; I got to be bothered every time by some guy?” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, but to be honest it’s partly because when I saw you looking at me before, I thought—” “Saw me looking where? Were you sitting someplace around here? Because if I was looking in your direction it was probably at the scenery behind or around you. That’s why I come to the park and to this particular part. Not only because it’s quieter and cooler but to see the trees, the birds, and to relax with none of the typical hassles.” “Well, you had a Frisbee—” “The Frisbee’s my business why I have it.” “Sure, of course, I misinterpreted it somehow, and I really did want to toss one back and forth—” She’s looking at him with the expression Will-you-please-get-lost-or-do-I-have-to-call-a-cop? and he goes. When he walks away he looks around to see if anyone nearby heard or saw him getting brushed off. Nobody on the benches closest to her is looking at either of them, so either they didn’t hear or are being discreet.

“Look, that’s called a dog walker,” his mother says, pointing to a young woman walking a dog. “I never knew such people existed till someone told me of them. They get paid.” “Why do you think she’s a professional dog walker and not just a woman walking her dog? I always thought real dog walkers walked four or five dogs at a time, seven or eight, even, I’ve seen.” “No, she’s a dog walker who gets paid.” “But how can you be sure? I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just curious what you think distinguishes her from a regular person walking her dog.” “I’m sure, I’m sure,” she says, “but you don’t think she is? Maybe I am losing my mind if I can’t remember who told me or even now if anyone did. No, I’m sure someone did. I don’t make these things up.” “Listen, maybe you’re right. I’m in fact positive you are. I’ve heard of dog walkers but didn’t know that some walk only one dog. Now that you mentioned it, though, it makes perfect sense they would. Some people have so much money today, especially around here — Central Park West — that they can afford anything. A walker for each of their dogs if they have more than one? — you got it, whatever the fee.” “A dog for every walker?” she says. “I don’t get it. What are you saying?” “Listen closely, Mom. I’m saying that some people, if they have two dogs, will then get two dog walkers to walk those dogs individually, or the same dog walker to walk the dogs separately.” “Now I see,” she says, but it doesn’t seem she does by the down-in-the-dumps look she gives him, so he says, “You’re all right, right? My talk about dogs didn’t bother you?” “No, why would it? But what specifically were you saying? Oh, better we don’t talk about it. You’ll think I forget everything, when I don’t,” and she leans back in the wheelchair and slowly closes her eyes.

Looks at the woman. She’s lying mostly on her side and looking at him through the sunglasses. Or is looking his way, since all he sees are the dark lenses, no eyes. He imagines her coming over to him. He’s been sitting alone where he is now. She’s thinking, I see a guy who looks interesting, he seems by all his looking at me that he’s interested, then I can make a pass at him as well as him doing one to me. If I see right away once I talk to him or even when I get near him that he’s gay or a nut or not interested and that I’ve misinterpreted his glances and even the direction his looks went or find out he’s been playing some sort of flirty game with me and has nothing else in mind but fooling me into thinking he’s interested, I say, “Sorry, I thought you were someone I know; it must be my dark glasses,” or say nothing but just walk away. So she comes over. He sees her coming and doesn’t know what to make of it. She seems to be looking at him and heading his way, flicking the Frisbee against her leg, but maybe she’s going to go right past him. She stops beside his bench and says, “Excuse me, but bad as this introductory remark must sound, about as unartful and unimaginative as one could be, I just can’t think of a way of putting it different: don’t we know each other from someplace? And don’t crack up at what I said either, or I’m really going to be mad at you.” He says, “I won’t, and not to my recollection, our knowing each other. Because where do you think it was?” “Funny, but I thought someone introduced us in the park last week. At this Frisbee game over there where the kids are screaming, or you just came in on it and after we were playing awhile we got to talking. I think we were even on the same side.” “I know that’s not it. I like to play Frisbee a little, or did — last time must’ve been ten years ago. But I would you like to have a catch now? Is that what they say, ‘catch’?” “‘Throw it’ rather than ‘catch.’ Or ‘toss’ as the next best thing, if you get tired of saying ‘throw.’” “I meant as the noun, when you’re practicing or playing around with the Frisbee,” and she says, “That’s what I meant too. But yeah, I brought it out here hoping maybe I’d j get some exercise with it. So, you want to?” He asks if she knows a good spot to throw it and she says, “Follow me,” and he gets up, takes his book, and she leads him to an open area about fifty feet away from the nearest group playing or person sitting on the grass. “Okay,” he says, “what do we do, just throw? I think I remember how it’s done.” “Sure you do. No one forgets once they get the knack. Flick it like this,” and she demonstrates without releasing the ‘ Frisbee. “Now let’s step back about fifteen feet.” “Each?” “Each. We’ll start off nice and easy, and if we start clicking we’ll move back even farther. Now I’m not saying I’m great at it, I want you to know”—both stepping backward—“but I can throw it without a wobble most times and snatch most anything within reasonable reach, behind or front.” “So it’s all in the wrists, that it?” he yells, making the throwing motion with his hand, and she says, “No, I don’t think so,” and laughs. What’s funny? he thinks, nodding and opening his mouth as if he’s laughing. Sex? She’s out here primarily for that? Meets a guy through the phony line about knowing him from someplace but not having a better way of putting it at the moment, and the Frisbee’s to see if he’s athletic enough for her, isn’t too clumsy or something, and doesn’t drop after a few throws. “Ready?” she says, when they’re about thirty feet apart, or forty or so, and he says, “Let her rip.” She throws. It’s for him what would be a perfect toss, gliding smoothly and straight toward him but goes over his head by about two feet and lands some ten feet past him. “Sorry,” he says. “You should have leaped for it, or at least run back and got under it. I kept it up long enough.” “Thanks, but I’m no pro basketball center or cheetah.” He wants to get it right, practices flicking it a few times; she yells, “Come on, get rid of it!” and he lets it go. It wobbles from the start and flops about fifteen feet in front of her and rolls to the side on its end and down a hill a little so she has to chase after it. “Sorry.” She says, “Hey, who told you you can play? No throw or snatch. You’re getting old, man, old.” “Thanks,” and, under his breath, “Up yours, ballbreaker.” “Only kidding,” she says. “You’re okay, just a bit rusty. One’s coming to you; mind your head,” and throws another perfect one but right to his chest. He reaches out for it, and it bounces off his fingers—“Sorry again”—and picks it up angrily and sends it flying without concentrating on throwing it right. It spins well but too far to her left to give her any chance of reaching it. “Big improvement in the aerodynamics, but you’re not there yet,” she says, and flips it to him gently and he catches it. “Now we’re hot,” she says. Again he just lets it fly without thinking of how to throw it and it’s a graceful one a few feet over her head. She backs up, waits for it to drop, and turns her back to it and grabs it from behind. “Great, two in a row,” he says, “and fantastic catch.” “And good basic throw also. You had it hanging up there long enough for me to get creative.” They throw it around like that for about twenty minutes. Then, tired, he says, “Okay, I give up, you win,” and makes a calling-it-quits motion with his hands. She says, “A few more, but from much farther out. Let’s really strut our stuff.” She signals him to step back, which he does, till they’re about thirty to forty feet apart again, since they’d moved closer and closer to each other once they’d started. She flips it to him; he wants to let it sail past and fall to the ground but grabs it on the run and almost in the same motion whips it back to her; she makes another fancy catch, this one with her arm behind her neck. Back and forth a couple of dozen times or so and then she says, “Now I’m bushed and drenched; let’s get a cool drink and wipe ourselves off. You did good, my man, really good,” when he comes up to her. “What’s your name?”

“Did it suddenly get cloudy?” his mother says. “No. Same blue sky, no clouds, pretty high humidity, temperature around eighty-five.” “Not going to rain? It looks like it, everything darker, as if a real storm.” “I told you, Mom, it’s only your eyes. The day’s clear and sunny.” “That hot?” “It could be worse, believe me. Eighty-five degrees is nothing,” and she says, “What I’ve become, I can’t believe it. What did I do wrong in life for my body to get so fouled up as this?” “All you have is an ophthalmological problem — you know, your eyes. Otherwise, you’re in relatively good shape.” “I know. And as for ophthalmology, remember: I once wanted to be a doctor. I should consider myself lucky. No cancer or major brain disconnections, and I still got an appetite and my hearing hasn’t gone completely kaput. But I don’t really care about my health, much as I talk of it. It’s you and your wife that — what’s her name again? I suddenly forgot.” “Sally.” “Sally, excuse me. What a doll. And your dear children. How are they?” “Fanny and Josephine. They’re fine. You saw them yesterday.” “I did? I forget. And your wife? There’s nothing to help her?” “The scientists are working on it.” “They’ll come up with something. When I was still able to read the papers, I read about it. A breakthrough any moment, they say, right? How’d she get what she’s got?” “Nobody knows.” “No signs when you first met her? It just came? They say if you work hard enough you get what you work for, but it’s not always true.” “What do you mean?” “I mean your wife, your children, your life. That she’s such a good person. That God isn’t always looking after us, and how can He? Not that I believe in Him after all I’ve seen.” She picks up the ginger ale can. “What should I do with this?” “You done with it?” “For now I am, but I don’t want it anymore. Are you permitted to just throw them away? You can’t get fined?” “The scavengers canvass through the trash cans here and get a nickel apiece for them, so I think it’s okay. By the time a cop comes over to arrest us, the evidence will be gone.” “What?” “Nothing. I’ll get rid of it.” He takes it to a trash can near the woman, though there’s one much closer to his bench, and drops it in and looks at her sitting on the grass, sunglasses off and somewhere, head arched back, eyes closed, facing the sun.

“Henrietta, Henrietta!” a man yells from the path and waves to her. “Gosh, where the heck were you?” she says. “I was getting set to leave.” The man sits beside her, fanning himself with his hand. He puts her sunglasses on, looks at her as if to say, How do I look? takes them off, grabs her Frisbee, and throws it up a few feet and catches it. “Where’s Jackson?” she says, and he says, “I decided to leave him home. I wanted to really get a workout this time. Whenever he’s with us he ruins it by leaping at the Frisbee and, if he gets it, hogging it, and you know he’s only going to tear it to pieces one day.” “I love it when he goes after it.” “Well, then get a dog.”

He goes back to the bench. “I’m feeling tired,” his mother says, “think we should go home?” “Anything you want.” “I don’t want to spoil it if you’re enjoying yourself here, but let’s leave. I hate falling asleep in public, with my mouth open and people staring inside.” “Don’t worry, nobody’s doing that. Looking and staring’s just one of the things — two of the things? — people do in the park, but I don’t think they do it too deeply and I’ve a feeling they forget what they see in seconds, because it’s always on to the next.” “What?” “It’s always on to the next thing they look and stare at not too deeply. Do you understand?” “I didn’t hear it.” “I’ll tell you at home.” He unlocks the wheelchair, looks over, and sees the woman and man talking animatedly, the man slapping his knee and finding something very funny. As he’s wheeling his mother, she says, “Those trees over there—” He leans over her and says, “Mom, why do you keep insisting the trees are painted black when I’ve told you a dozen times already—” “That isn’t what I was about to say.” “I’m sorry, what was it then?” and she says, “When do you go back?” “First week in September.” “September? That’s right around the corner. Before you know it, it’s over.” “Mom, it’s mid-June, two days or a day or three — whenever the first day is — before summer even begins. We have to go through more than two months till September. Till that time I have another two weeks here and then go to Maine. Then we come back to New York and see you for another five days or so, and then I head south back to my job.” “It’s not September? I can’t believe it. Why do I always think it is?”—shaking her head. “I got to get my head examined, but I know you’ll tell me I don’t have to.” A minute later, while he’s pushing her, she says, “Those trees over there. It’s so mysterious.” “Why? Because you think they’re painted black and you don’t know why?” “They’re not? I didn’t see how they could be, because what would be the reason? But that’s how they all look to me, as if someone came with a brush. It’s terrible getting so old and losing everything at once.” “But you haven’t, which is what I told you before. Listen”—bending over her from behind—“I want you to listen to me. Are you listening?” “Yes, but you’re not saying anything yet.” “I’m saying, which, as I said, I’ve said before, that regarding your health you at least haven’t got some horrible and painful and disabling illness, disease, or affliction. One not just where your walking’s affected, like now, but where you can’t walk at all. You were never really sick in your whole life, which is something for someone in her early nineties who smoked a lot and probably drank too much too. You’re going to be in reasonably good health till you’re past a hundred, I’m sure. Good genes, it must be, though they seem to have skipped over your siblings and folks. And just luck and I don’t know what else contributing to it. A certain vanity, a feeling of things due you, and so on: positive outlook, though you don’t have too much of that now, but you’ll bounce back. And just that: when things went truly bad for you, you didn’t dwell on them too long but quickly worked them out and bounced back. Though I can understand — I don’t want you to think I’m not sympathetic — what you mean about the little infirmities and things — your hearing, that you don’t have the energy you once had, and of course your eyes — that can make you feel much worse.” “Is that what you were saying before? I don’t believe it,” and she turns around and looks at him and laughs. “So you think what I said’s funny and maybe even everything I say is funny too? Well, that’s good and no doubt healthy for you too. And for the most part I agree with you,” and he laughs too.

He’s pushing his mother to the park entrance when he thinks of the young woman again. Jesus, what a body! He imagines lying beside her in bed, all their clothes off, and reaching out to touch her, but shakes the thought away. But she had to be somewhat interested in him to look over so often, isn’t he right? No, and for all the reasons he gave. Or she was a little interested, and just maybe, but after a while, no matter how many times she looked over, he should have stopped sneaking looks at her. Oh, well, gone now, and next time he takes his mother to the same spot — it’s her favorite because it’s so shaded, where they sit, and quieter and cooler than just about any other place in the park nearby, while still being safe and having a steady flow of people walking past to distract her — and if the woman’s there he’ll make a point of not looking at her once he first sees her. He’ll in fact sit on one of the opposing benches with his back to her and his mother facing her this time in her wheelchair.

As he’s leaving the park he imagines the woman rushing up to him. First he hears from behind, “Mister, say, mister!” and turns around and sees her coming. He stops and points to himself, and she says, “Yeah, you, could you hold it there a second?” “Yes?” he says when she reaches him. He doesn’t know what to expect, though it doesn’t look good; she seems solemn, a bit angry, and she says, “I want to ask you something. Before, when I was sitting on the grass back there, didn’t you have anything more interesting to look at than me? Because if you want to know, and I don’t care if you don’t, since I’m going to tell you anyway, your constant looks at me made me nervous and uneasy and, frankly, just plain pissed off. I mean, where do you come off doing that crap?” “What do you mean?” he says, and his mother turns around and says, “What is it, Gould? Do you know this young lady?” “No, and I don’t know what the heck she’s talking about, either.” “You damn well know what I’m talking about, so don’t try to worm your way out of it with that bullshit. It took all the courage I had in me to chase after you, for even my friend I was sitting with told me to forget it. But I had to tell you what I thought. And now I’m not going to be put off or made to feel confused or crazy or anything like that by your saying you know nothing about it and some other lame excuses you might be thinking up. I also don’t care if this woman’s your mother or the person you look after or whatever she might be to you. If she is someone like that, it’s about time she saw what you’re up to when you’re supposed to be taking care of her, if she already doesn’t know.” “What is she saying?” his mother says. “I didn’t quite get it.” “She’s saying nothing, believe me,” he says, and the woman says, “I’m saying something to you, all right, and that’s that from now on go ogle-eye the trees or rocks or people passing by or anything like that, but leave women like myself alone. We’re tired of having your eyes poring over us without stop and intentionally, really, trying to make us uneasy, when all we want to do here is relax and get away from that stuff like anybody else. So, I said what I had to and have always wanted to tell guys like you. Maybe, but I doubt it, it’ll keep you from repeating your behavior with other women in the future. If it doesn’t, you can be sure some other woman my age will say the same thing to you I did till you finally let the message sink in.” “Excuse me,” he says, “I can see how upsetting the whole thing is to you, and I understand why also, but you got the wrong guy, believe me, the wrong guy.” “Yeah, sure, you bet.” She starts walking back, every few seconds turning around and looking sharply at him, and then he faces forward and resumes pushing the wheelchair. “I still don’t know what that was all about,” his mother says, “but she seemed annoyed at you for something. Was she?” “It was a big mixup. She had to have me totally confused with another man. Or else she caught me looking at her when I was sitting on the bench before. You know, I was looking around as people tend to do when they’re sitting in a place awhile and the conversation, for instance, suddenly stops or the person you’re with drops off into a nap. And my eyes in their wandering happened to land on her for a few seconds and maybe stayed a few seconds more because she was fairly goodlooking, and she got it in her head I’d been gawking at her since I sat down. So like a lot of women today, and some not as young, she used it as an excuse to nail a man for looking lecherously at a woman, when it was nothing like that with me, nothing, but what could I do? When someone screams at you loud enough, you just shut up and hope they go away soon.” “For some reason I still don’t get what you’re saying now. Come in front and tell it to my face,” and he says, “It’s not worth stopping the chair and coming around and saying it to you or even repeating it from behind, so let’s forget it,” and pushes her out of the park.

He wheels her along Central Park West on the park side for two blocks. “I think we should cross here,” she says, when they reach the side street before hers. “The next block doesn’t have a curb cut on this side to get the chair down.” He says, “I can get it down without the curb cut, but okay, why not make it easier on myself and less bumpy for you?” He waits for the light to change, starts pushing her across the street. “Look both ways,” she says. “Even though there’s a crosswalk, the cars making a left out of that side street never seem to stop for pedestrians. I can’t see them well, so if one is coming I’m dependent on you to get me safely across.”