“It’s not. Call me curious. Call me intrigued.”
“Call you a weirdo,” she said.
He laughed. “Touché. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh, right. You’re being careful.” He smirked as he stretched the word out. “You’re afraid Mark-in-the-park might tempt you out of your comfort zone. Don’t worry,” he said with a dismissive wave, “I like knowing people’s names, is all. A quirk of mine. I thought you’d be someone who appreciated a little witty repartee.” He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “You don’t look uptight or fainthearted. Apparently, I made the clichéd mistake of…” He touched her book again. “Judging by a cover.”
She closed it with a thump. “I’m leaving now.”
“No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re waiting for something. Or someone. Am I close?”
“My reason for being here is none of your business.”
“How about this, then?” He patted the messenger bag. “You won’t leave because you want to know what I have in here.”
“Why would I care?”
“Let’s see.” He opened the bag slowly, grinning as he unbuckled the leather strap and peeled it back. Using his thumb and index finger, he reached inside, latched onto something solid, and gently eased it out.
“What are the chances?” he asked as he dropped a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland into her lap. Blue hardcover. Gold lettering. Identical to hers.
She jerked in surprise. “What’s going on? What are you trying to pull?”
“Whoa, sorry,” he said. “Just thought it was a fun coincidence. Nothing more. The only thing I’m trying to pull is a little conversation. Geez.”
“No way. What did you do? Run to the nearest bookstore and buy this? You really are a stalker.”
“Oh, come on.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Okay, even if I had gone to such drastic lengths, tell me: to what end? You’re streetsmart, you’re savvy. A little paranoid, perhaps, but this is New York, so that can be forgiven. What nefarious plan could possibly be served by my producing this book at this moment?”
She traced her fingers along its gold embossed title but didn’t answer.
“Now that you understand my reasons for chatting you up are completely benign, we can begin anew, can’t we? Hi, I’m Mark.”
She handed back the book. “I’m… Jane.”
He grinned. “Nice to meet you, Jane.” Opening the cover, he flipped pages until he reached an illustration of the Cheshire Cat. “He’s my favorite character.”
“He would be.”
Mark chuckled. “You see there? We’ve known each other for ten minutes and already we can share a joke. I’m not so terrible, am I?”
Jane didn’t answer. The father and two toddlers were gone, as were the photo-happy tourists. They’d been replaced by a dozen kids, all about five years old, who climbed and shouted and raced while two women in matching day-care-emblazoned sweatshirts supervised. On the bench directly opposite, three twenty-something professionals chatted, then raised paper coffee cups in an animated toast that was lost to the wind.
“May I?” Mark asked.
It took Jane a second to realize he was reaching for her book. She slammed both hands down. “Don’t touch it.”
“Sorry.” He shrugged as though it made no difference. “I thought I’d compare copyright dates. See which one is older. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“They’re exactly the same. Anyone can see that.”
At that moment an old, bearded man shuffled past. Wearing an overcoat with a frayed collar, he carried a grubby cup and a fragment of creased cardboard. He approached the day-care workers first, earning twin evil-eyed glares before getting shooed away. Unfazed, he turned and made his unsteady way toward Jane and Mark.
He shook his paper cup of change in front of her. The clumsily lettered cardboard sign he held read: Please share. Below that: In pain. Jane turned her head and murmured, “No, thank you.”
Mark pulled a wallet from the messenger bag, drew out a couple of singles, and stuffed them into the beggar’s cup. The old guy grunted, then shuffled away to take a seat behind the statue.
“You realize he’ll probably drink that donation,” Jane said.
Mark shrugged. He pushed up his glasses and resumed paging through his book, stopping to spend an extra second or two at each illustration. When he lifted his head again, he asked, “Why here?” He gestured at the bronze Alice sitting atop a giant mushroom, her cat Dinah in her lap. “And why the book? Any special significance?”
She bunched her sweater’s neckline. “Why do you care?”
“Sorry.” He lifted both hands. “Didn’t mean to touch a nerve. Again. Two adults, same time, same place, same book. Seems like one heck of a coincidence. I know why I’m here. I was curious about you.”
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Birthday, if you must know,” he said with a grin. “I took the day off from work to do something special for myself.”
“Happy birthday,” she said with little warmth.
He nodded.
“Is sitting in Central Park with Alice the best ‘something special’ you could come up with?” she asked.
“This year, it is.” He turned a few more pages. “I’m making myself a gift of good memories.”
“So you’re here to recapture your childhood?”
“Something like that. Can’t help thinking about my dad today. He didn’t always know how to connect with his children. But, man, give him a book to read aloud, and the guy turned into a Shakespearean actor with a deep baritone voice. Of course, as a kid, I didn’t know what a Shakespearean actor was or what baritone meant-but I can still hear him now.” He lifted his copy of Alice. “This book was his favorite.” Jane smoothed her pixie cut as though tucking it behind an ear. “Is your father… gone?”
“Late last year,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
Mark lifted his chin toward the statue where the day-care kids clambered and crawled. “He used to bring us here when we were kids. And read to us. I can’t help but associate this place with him.”
Jane remained quiet.
Still staring at the kids, Mark said, “This is the first birthday since-” He gave himself a quick shake. “Enough of my melancholy reflections. Tell me what brings you here. I hope your reason is happier than mine.”
Jane took her time before answering. “I don’t know why I’m here. Not really.” She glanced down at the book in her lap, then up at the statue, then at Mark. “I guess the best explanation I can give you is that I came here today for closure.”
“That doesn’t sound happy.”
She looked away. “You know how you always hear about criminals returning to the scene of the crime?”
“Yes.”
“How come you never hear about the victims? Nobody talks about their pain-their need to return.”
“Oh, I see,” he said in a breath. “I’m sorry to hear it. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened? Sometimes talking to a stranger can help.”
“I thought you said you weren’t strange.”
“Good catch.” He smiled. “So, maybe I lied about my pickup lines.”
“Not going to work on me, sorry.”
“Fair enough. Forget all that. No silly games. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I can talk your ear off. But I’m a good listener, too.”
Four times Jane smoothed the side of her pixie, tucking nonexistent hair behind her ear. She bit her lip.
Mark cleared his throat. “Central Park is pretty safe most of the time, and this spot tends to be busy with kids and tourists.” He waited a beat. “But obviously it isn’t safe enough. Not if you were injured… or hurt… here.”
“Not me.” She shook her head and ran her fingers up and down the book’s edges. “Do you remember the young woman who was murdered in the park a year ago?”