Chapter 18
18
Central Park
Some Park-goers are hopeless romantics, abstinent, transitioning. A Colombian nanny has millions of followers for her XXL nail-tapping ASMR content, the ex-NFL superstar for his thirteen engagements, the freshman for her underground erotic sonnets. A jeweler and his wife are celebrated for the longest marriage in city history. They will be wheeled in, despite the heat, and photographed by the Boathouse in their original wedding clothes. The economist is into electrostimulation. The lady who lunches: klismaphilia. The gym teacher just wants home-cooked meals every evening and sex twice a week; missionary is great. The sommelier from Per Se is entering at Columbus Circle in underwear that isn’t his. The Ayurvedic healer has yoni eggs shoved high up as she sloshes through the sleet. The accountant has just gotten his first wax for a younger lover. The poet in grad school is closed for business. No ands , ifs , or buts . She’s twenty-three but has known since the first time. The gymnast on her way to the University of Michigan has just lost her virginity. Can you tell? Can you see it in my face? Jaclyn rarely comes this far uptown, but it’s more convenient for her mother, who says that there is nothing a brisk winter walk amid nature can’t fix. The last time Jaclyn came to the Park, she walked the Bridle Path; it was a different season; she was falling in love with Max.
Some Park-goers are on the apps, in the films, filmers themselves. Some write love letters; some do it for a living. There are nuns and repeat offenders. There are sex therapists and love guides who rely on ayahuasca for recovery from sexual abuse. Check out my feature in Goop! There are those who have been traumatized and come to heal alone on the rocks when they’re warm. I feel safer here than I do at home. David brings his young lover and bumps into an ex–young lover and they all go for primavera and bruschetta at Sambuca. There is a divorced couple—they met at a NESCAC and married immediately after graduation—on far ends of the Park—southwest, mideast—with new partners, but they are texting each other. The kids would never believe it. They’ve moved out; the dust has settled; don’t they deserve a second chance?
Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday there is a Mommy and Me class in the Park near Safari Playground. It has the highest coupling success rate of all the classes in all the boroughs. Single mommies (I’d prefer to do it myself; he left me; she died) languish in the support of other mommies. Being here feels like being held up. Married mommies wonder if they’re in flux, confused, or just learning their true selves, finally. They are in dresses, incorrectly buttoned, pads, sweaters with lacy milk stains down the front. They schlep diaper bags full of quartered grapes and sunscreen. One forgot the sunscreen. One forgot a diaper. One forgot her words. Here, use mine! Some long to go back to careers in marketing, tech, retail. Some always wanted to be a mommy, but this is hard. Some want another three, ideally all girls, and soon. They sing “Five Little Hearts” and “Peekaboo, I Love You” and can’t stop staring at one another. Motherhood makes you more beautiful. This love makes you raw. This is just a phase. I’ll never go back. In the Park, mommies discover that kinship can also be wildly intimate. They didn’t know. They know now.
Dolly and Diller are fourteen-year-old bassets who have been walking the Lower Loop since they came to the city from Honey Brook, Pennsylvania, at ten weeks. They twist up their leashes so they can walk with their heads pressing into each other, velour ears, watery eyes, leather snouts. They make their way down past the Dairy Visitor Center and the Chess their pheromones are bitter. When their walker takes them off leash, they roll around in the fallen oak and maple leaves, green and brown, crunchy and crisp, arms around each other like pieces of a puzzle, united at long last. They have one million followers on Instagram, have been photographed for the Valentine’s Day issue of the Times , can slurp spaghetti like the Disney cartoon. Two days after Dolly dies, Diller’s heart gives out. He had been in great shape. We can’t believe it. The vet diagnoses him with takotsubo syndrome, after the fact. Also known as dying of a broken heart. Their ashes are scattered near Heckscher Ballfields, together, of course, where they loved to watch the games and howl at the catchers’ gray mitts; they look like a husky’s face.
After leaving the Park, the interior designer yells at her spouse over nothing: recycling, tea bags, something she didn’t say but wanted to. The immigration attorney loses it over a pair of shoes. Do you know what I see every day? And I have to come home to this? People look in the mirror, feel undesirable, undesiring. I used to be attractive. They are wan, lethargic, bloated from the holidays, long nights out, in, a broken heart. Some are spinning from so much time spent watching reruns. What did we even do all day? Some are still organizing drawers of socks.
In the Park, the couple will not fight in public, so they talk about their kids instead. The gynecologist’s third wife stops obsessing over when he’ll text back. Reception is spotty near the North Meadow anyway. There is nothing to do, I guess, but notice the baby bunnies, and breathe. The caretaker, Bernie, and her husband can’t help but sway to the tuba played by the man in a leopard costume. The husband hates Bernie’s hours and what the work requires of her (everything), but here they are. They stand apart, then they stand together. Soon, they hold hands and wave. The weatherwoman, who usually adheres to a list of indisputables, is heartened by the guy with freckles on the bench. He’s sharing a mixed-berry muffin with his corgi and trying the water fountain to refill his bottle, but it’s frozen; nothing comes out. He seems like a good guy. Maybe I don’t hate freckles after all.