Chapter 28
28
Central Park
Some people, though they haven’t been to the Park in decades, dream of the dogwoods, the carousel, the sun setting behind the towers of the San Remo. During sex, the winner of Texas’s most acclaimed peach pie contest must replay the moment her hat flew off and her husband ran into Terrace Drive to retrieve it. Aside from with the cattle, he is so rarely brave. Bethy in 7J dreams of fishing the Harlem Meer with Jason from 9E with a soda can, Christmas ribbon, and half a bag of sour cream and onion chips. He has the cutest mustache! Hundreds of thousands of people dream of childhoods spent in the Park, eating cherry Italian ices, feeding the chipmunks nuts, being barefoot for the only time in this city, the cold grass like wings between their toes. Some dream of first kisses at the Pool, white snow—for once it wasn’t brown—learning to ride a bike because it was the only place their mother let them. It is the only place a kid can be free. Some people dream of the man with no legs who plays love songs on the Promenade not because of his no legs but because of the yearning heartache of his horn. It was the first time that music matched their feelings. Perhaps the first time they understood what those feelings really were. Some people picture themselves in the Park as they’re on the subway, making a spreadsheet, flossing, standing at the foot of a ski slope in Denver, flying to Japan. It is as much a part of them as bone: critical and unchanging and knowable only by heart. The soap opera star who gets a lemonade in all her makeup and walks east thinks of the Park as she films. It is the reason she is so good: the longing, the melancholy, the blush.
Sometimes, leaving the Park feels like being stopped or stunned mid-pleasure, mid-sip, mid-step, mid-dream. It felt like a vacation inside. Why do all good things have to come to an end? Sometimes, for the first few blocks, one might shudder. The ESL teacher can’t hear his ballads over the jackhammers. The detectives wonder, Was the sky like that when we went in? What is all that hissing steam on Amsterdam? Some hold their breath before they cross the wide avenues. The bright lights, precipitous hail of traffic, reminds the sous chef of violence, of being violated—and she buttons up her coat farther, wraps the scarf more tightly around her neck. She has been through so much and it is a privilege, she knows, to be romanced by the Park. But is it better to have loved and lost or never to have visited the Park at all? Abe hails a cab immediately. Everything but Jane feels like too much. He longs for home, if not his bench, if not his bench with her. The longing makes him feel frayed, like letters in the wind.
The Park isn’t without its shortcomings. Some people consider the overt, ubiquitous PDA uncouth. The hot dogs are inedible; the mating calls of the yellowthroats are as cloying as the construction on Eighty-Third. He left bitemarks! She threw a shoe at my head! He read his breakup note out loud to me on my own parents’ anniversary bench! The squirrels are rabid near the Reservoir. Who left behind that trail of chocolate kisses? And people come here to relax?
And when, after a few weeks, there’s been not one single sighting of the Australian—let’s call him Luke—the assistant producer gets desperate. She takes the day off, sits at the start of the six-mile loop for hours. At home, things have flatlined. Again. Her friends say she’s in love with love. This is the fourth time this year. She doesn’t know where love goes. Soon, it starts to rain. The assistant producer is about to leave when the Australian runs in. Mind if I join? she asks. He smiles, nods. Come, he says. He isn’t Australian. Still, they run. They sprint in silence. They jog. They sprint again. Who is keeping up with whom? It doesn’t matter. They know what they’re doing. Eventually, they slow down. They talk about everything: running, family, the city. Turns out, they’re both keto, love Southern California, fruity red wines. The rain stops. There is a rainbow over Engineers’ Gate. They point to it at the same time. It feels like fate, doesn’t it? Divined, supported, ordained. How lucky are we?
When the doctor loses a special patient, he comes to the Park too. He takes off his shoes, walks barefoot, eyes shut, believing, praying, promising, through the cold grass at Cherry Hill. When the sanitation worker files for divorce, he comes, spies an elusive scarlet tanager in the crown of the trees so bright it’s a comet, igniting the leaves. When the unhoused throuple wakes up to three coats, folded, one hundred dollars in each, they jump around in a circle and embrace. When the sous chef meets someone at her meeting—she’s been hurt in the same way—she vows never to stray too far from this place that heartens. That heals.
Of course, there are heartaches that the Park cannot fix. That is obvious, elemental. For the vegan, the Holotropic Breathwork will only do so much. Time is the real workhorse. And Jane, despite all Abe’s diligence, cannot be made well again. The funnel of life for her, for everyone, but it’s different, faces in. The Park is rife with trauma: grief, war, hate crimes even. She called the cops on me! I was just watching the birds! And yet, just when it feels like the whole world has gone insane, loveless, lovelorn—and it is just getting worse—the cherry blossoms bloom in the Park. Does it feel better in here? It does. Does it cure anything? It does not. Still, see how the sun flickers on the water. It’s angelic, isn’t it? As in, angels do exist.
At Cedar Hill, at dusk, the housepainter—Edwin—lies on his back in Strawberry Fields, his shirt rolled up, crisp corners, under his head. He is anticipating the fireflies. They remind him of his wife and daughters back home. They would sit on the porch, wait for the show. At home here, in New York, his bed is stiff, music blares from below. It is about loneliness and love, but Edwin is the only one really listening. Here, in the Park, he can rest. He brings a pint of blueberries. He stays until it is dark, and when he begins the trek toward Central Park West, his body aches. The work is unyielding. He isn’t young anymore. But he is not scared or disappointed, fatigued or forlorn. The fireflies guide the way to the Park’s edge. They beam, and just before the darkness fills his bones, they beam for him again. He feels love then like it is a place. Is it not? It is. It is within him and also without. Thank God.