The Park

Alicia Method

In the center of Titusville, there is a park. It is the only park in Titusville because Titusville is merely one square mile. The nicest houses are around the park. These houses have balconies and driveways and beautiful gardens with geraniums and clay gnomes. The park is beautiful too. A creek splashes through and runs on down behind the road. A pebble trail stops by the swing set, pauses next to the see-saw, and concludes its journey at the picnic tables.

Anne is a new mother. She is also new to Titusville. She moved three months earlier when her husband left after sleeping with his boss’s wife. His name is Gary. He was an executive manager at a tax firm. He isn’t any longer.

Anne takes Deidre to the park every afternoon after lunch. It takes fifteen minutes to walk from their apartment on the perimeter of Titusville to the park. Deidre is two years old. She has scraggly white-blonde hair and dark eyes. Deidre almost never cries. She gurgles, chuckles, and screams but does not cry. Once, Anne took Deidre to the doctor because of this.

The doctor said, there is nothing wrong with her. Deidre is a healthy, happy toddler.

Then he asked for Anne’s number. Anne told him she was married. Anne is very attractive and also nearly invisible. She has light orange hair and white eyelashes. Many men ask for her number.

Deidre’s favorite activity at the park is swinging. Anne never helps her on the swings because Deidre is shockingly self-sufficient. She pulls herself up, plops on the swing, and pumps her little legs until she flies. Anne lets her fly. She knows that Deidre will never touch the ground except with great affection.

There is another woman at the park. She has short gray hair and is wearing a knitted green jacket. She is here to walk her dog, a teacup chihuahua. This woman watches Deidre flying.

Why are you letting your daughter fly? she asks.

Anne sniffs and looks away. Anne does this when she is irritated. When Gary told Anne about Adelaide, she sniffed. She looked out the window at the highway underneath and thought about all the people she would never know in the cars passing by. Anne wished to know those strangers in the cars.

The gray woman asks again, why are you letting your daughter fly?

Because I can, Anne says. Because I am her mother, and I can let her fly.

Well, all right.

The chihuahua barks at them as the gray woman walks away.

There is a man at the park doing jumping exercises. He is forty years old. He is wearing tight, short orange pants. When he jumps, he squats low and grunts. Then, he launches himself into the air. Not too far. This man cannot fly.

The man notices Anne and Deidre. He hopes that Anne notices him. He grunts louder when she looks his way. He pretends to watch the hickory trees across the lawn. There is a fat squirrel teetering on a high branch. Now he is really watching the hickory trees. The squirrel tries to jump to the next branch. It falls.

The man hears Deidre yell. He stops jumping. Deidre has reached the ground and is shouting with joy. Anne walks to her daughter and touches her cheek. They are leaving. When they are gone, the man misses them.

#

In the winter, the park is filled with dead leaves and ice. The hickory trees are silent and the creek is still. Only the swings squeak. They are brushed by a cold breeze.

Anne is pregnant. She has been pregnant for two months but only discovered this child, this other, a few weeks ago. The news is new, the story is not. Anne hopes that Deidre will not notice the pregnancy for a long while. She does not tell her or try to explain. She takes Deidre’s bundled hand to walk with her to the park.

Deidre is wearing a huge coat. It is frigid today but there is no snow. Deidre asks Anne for snow in the mornings: Give me snow, please, I want snow. She looks for snow in the cupboard. Deidre hopes if she dresses for snow, it will come. She wears a wool hat and mismatched mittens and clonking boots and a checker scarf that goes around and around and around her neck. She is ready. Anne tells Deidre, there will be no snow. As they walk, Deidre stomps her boots and frowns.

The park is filled with children. Anne wonders why there are so many today out in the cold. They do not seem to mind. They run with fervor and flushed cheeks.

Anne is resting on a bench. Her chest feels weak. There is a woman with bright blue hair sitting next to her on her left. This woman is applying black lipstick and listening to loud music. Anne does not like the music. She asks the woman to quiet it.

This is a public park, the woman says. This is America. I will play my music.

Anne sniffs. She thinks, it is my park too. 

The children look like bees swarming. Anne cannot find Deidre. Deidre is on the ground making snow angels. A black-haired boy who is drooling joins her. The others hop over Deidre and the boy. They are playing tag. Soon, all the children are making snow angels. They are spread out across the lawn in lines. The dirt, not covered by grass, is rubbing brown stains on their coats and poofy pants.

The parents are angry. Get off the ground, they say, there is no snow. Anne smiles. These parents do not understand; they do not see the snow. When Anne squints, she sees white. She feels it in her eardrums. Anne lets Deidre play a long while. They do not leave until Anne’s chest is strong again and Deidre is tired. It rains.

#

Deidre takes Birdie to the park. Birdie is four. Deidre is eight. Anne lets Deidre walk alone with Birdie. The walk is only five minutes. They have moved.

The first time Anne let Deidre and Birdie walk alone, she lied. Take Birdie to the park Deidre, Anne said. I will stay home.

As they walked out the door, Anne felt her throat burn. She went to the driveway and got in her car. Anne drove the streets until she found her daughters and went slowly behind them the whole way there. Deidre did not turn or see her. Anne parked the car and watched them play. Deidre pushed Birdie on the swings. She held her hand on the playground and caught her from the slide. In the car, Anne cried.

Birdie wants to play hide-and-seek. Hide-and-seek is Birdie’s favorite game. Birdie hides and Deidre seeks. Deidre always knows where Birdie is, the game is in pretending she does not. Where is Birdie? Under the bench? Behind a tree? On top of the monkey bars? No, Birdie is not there. Birdie is crouched inside the slide, babbling and shrieking, covering her mouth with her tiny hands.

There is a painter drawing pictures underneath the hickory trees. The gray woman strolls by, her chihuahua throttled by a red leash. It spots another dog, a mastiff, at the edge of the park. The chihuahua yaps. The mastiff is off its chain. It lopes the lawn in circles.

Birdie is scared. She does not like dogs and the mastiff is especially frightening. It has a hanging, drooling mouth and powerful, thumping paws. Birdie hides. She runs behind Deidre’s legs and holds tight.

The mastiff’s owner is a tall, skinny teenager. He has thick hair pulled back by a headband and is holding a basketball.

Don’t be scared, says Deidre. It is just a dog.

DOG! Birdie cries. 

The mastiff is approaching them, running closer and closer. Through the gap in her sister’s legs, Birdie sees the snout, the teeth, the drool. It is too much for her. Birdie bolts. She runs into the road outside the boundaries of the park. There is a car driving down the road. Deidre sees the car and yells for Birdie to stop. She can’t breathe. The tall teenager is running into the road in front of the car. He launches himself into the air, snatches Birdie, and lands on the other side of the street. They are safe.

The teenager ties up the mastiff and holds out his hand to Deidre. Deidre smiles and thanks him for saving her sister. Birdie whimpers. It is time to go home.

#

At night, the park is smoky and lonely. Leaves crackle and bugs crowd the streetlamps. A man lights a cigarette and stares up at the sky.

Deidre is wearing jeans that do not reach her belly button and a long-sleeved shirt with a cami. She wishes her breasts were bigger. She is straddling the top of the slide and tapping her heels against its sides. Two boys stand on the playground walkway and pull out cigarettes. There is another girl with them. She has blonde hair and bright blue braces. Her name is Sadie. Deidre watches the boys smoke.

You should not smoke, Deidre says. Children play here.

There are no children around, the boys snicker.

You are a child. We are children.

No, we are not. We are grown, they insist, dragging deep and coughing.

Sadie has a bag filled with spray paint cans. The boys toss their cigarette butts onto the wood chips and dive for the bag. Emmanuel, who has thick black hair and soulful eyes, takes the color green. Where to begin? The stairs? The benches? The slide?

Do we need to do this? Could we get in trouble? Deidre asks.

Emmanuel sprays green around the outline of Deidre’s splayed legs. Don’t be such a pussy, he says. He punches her shoulder. He is in love with her.

Deidre takes white. She stands over the swing seats and shoots down onto the black crescent curve that sags two and a half feet above the ground. Some of it misses the seat and splatters the dirt. In the end, it is not pretty or artistic. It is just a mess of color.

#

Deidre has brought home friends from college. Anne stands in the kitchen watching her daughter’s friends talk. She has made them oatmeal raisin cookies and they pick at them with dirty, fumbling fingers. Deidre has lovely large teeth and laughs as she sprinkles the cookies into her mouth. Anne remembers Deidre’s sobs when she had no teeth and her gums were on fire, and Anne fed her mushed apples. Anne feels the weight of her breasts, the tiredness of her feet.

I am off to take a walk, she says, and leaves them. Anne walks to the park. She has not walked to the park in many months. She is busy, she works.

Today, the park looks different. Growing weeds have pushed up between the wood chips. The paint is cracked and hidden by graffiti. The benches wobble on broken nails. The grass is tall. There are no children playing, no dogs barking. No balls, no kites, no half-eaten sandwiches.

Anne sits curled by the creek. She watches the water and lets her mind leave. In time, she sees the gray woman. The gray woman appears with her chihuahua on its leash. She sits down next to Anne and the chihuahua rests with them. Anne looks at the gray woman, her wrinkles, her veins, her brown spots.

What has happened here? she asks. What has happened to the park?

This is not a park, the gray woman answers. This is the place where our children play, and we stand watching them turn into our faces and fly away.

Anne holds the gray woman’s hand. It is cold and trembling. She looks down the stream where the water goes and goes and disappears.

#

Let us take Anne to the park. Do you want to go to the park, Mom? Let us help you into your chair, wrap you in blankets, and push you to the park. It is nice out. It will help you. Do you see the squirrels? How about those dandelions? Beautiful yellow, aren’t they? Do you see the toddlers on scooters, all racing? They are going where we are. We are going to the park. Here is the bench. Why don’t you rest.

Anne sits in the shade and looks at a miniature boy sprinting in circles. He is Gerald, Deidre’s son. Anne is agitated. She raises her fingers and gestures. She looks at the swing-set, the grass, the road. Her daughters gather around her. They watch her face.

Anne speaks quietly. This is where you flew, Deidre. This is where you made snow angels. This is where Birdie ran.

Mother, mother. What are you saying?

You flew, you flew, you made snow, you created your sister. Don’t take my trembling hand, I know these things are true.

There was no flying. There was no snow. This is just a park. Don’t you see? There is only you here and me.



Alicia Method is a writer and musician from New Jersey. She received her MFA in Creative Writing at Boston University and is a Leslie Epstein Global Fellow. Her work was chosen as first runner-up for the Barry Hannah Prize in Fiction. “The Park” is a work of fiction.