“I guess we can go to Uncle Edgar’s now,” she said when she’d finished.
“We’re not supposed to be there until the afternoon,” Corman reminded her.
Lucy pivoted one of her hips out melodramatically. “Well, can we at least go to the park before that?”
“It’s not a very nice day.”
“It’s not raining now,” Lucy said. “We could try it. We could meet them there.”
“Okay,” Corman said, giving in. “Get your bike.”
It was the usual time-consuming struggle getting the two bikes out of the basement storeroom and into the elevator. They were rickety affairs, with nearly treadless tires, rusty chains, handlebars that were slightly off center. They looked old the way people looked old, used beyond their days. Corman had hoped to buy Lucy a new one by summer, but now that seemed unlikely, and as he finally managed to wheel his own bike into the elevator, the pinched quality of his life overtook him once again. He thought of Pike, Groton, the kind of work that made your nights better because your days were worse.
Once on the street, they turned west, rode quickly to Tenth Avenue, then swung north toward the park, with Corman in the lead, Lucy close behind. The whole distance was a worry for him. Traffic sped by at high speed, half-clipping bikers as they passed, a far cry from the old city, when taxis had been electric, and all other cars had been limited to nine miles an hour and forced to warn pedestrians with a gong. And yet Corman had long ago realized that despite the danger, he didn’t have the patience to walk, dragging the bike beside him, and he knew Lucy didn’t either.
They reached 59th Street in less than fifteen minutes. From there it was only a short pull eastward to Columbus Circle. The air was still very heavy, and the fall chill had not lifted. A spectral haze clung to the upper reaches of the trees, floating through their dark leafless branches, giving the whole area an eerie, moorish look that Corman found vaguely unsettling. He stopped dead and stared out toward a particular line of trees. Only a few days before, a woman had been raped and murdered beneath them, and during the last minutes of her life, she had probably lain on her back and stared helplessly at the same bare branches that spread out before him now. As his eyes lingered on the trees, Corman suspected that every inch of earth contained similarly wrenching ironies, and that a thorough knowledge of them would inevitably create a different way of seeing.
“What are you looking at?”
Lucy had come up beside him and was busily zipping her dark blue parka more tightly against her throat.
“Nothing,” he told her.
“It’s colder than I thought,” she said when she’d finished.
“Put up your hood.”
She looked at him sourly. “I don’t like hoods. You know that.” Corman shrugged. “Okay, you ready?”
“I’ve been ready,” Lucy said.
She pressed down on the pedal, shot forward instantly, then headed down the gently curved road that led into the park. Corman followed along after her, pedaling slowly, careful to keep his distance so that she wouldn’t feel surveilled.
Within a few seconds she was almost out of sight. It was her favorite trick, and he began pedaling a bit more rapidly to stay closer to her. He could see her parka billowing out slightly as she raced ahead, but it was little more than a blur which darted in and out from behind the other riders. Once again, he speeded up until he was near enough to see her glance back at him with one of her teasing, “gotcha” smiles.
They made two complete rounds of the park, then glided into the large esplanade that surrounded a white band shell which the city had erected for some of its outdoor concerts. Green wooden benches lined the area, and Lucy quickly plopped down on one.
“I went fast,” she said as she unzipped her parka.
“Yeah,” Corman told her as he pulled up behind.
“It gets you hot,” she said. “Can I take it off?”
“You’ll forget and leave it on the bench,” Corman said. “You’ve done that before.”
“No, I won’t,” Lucy said. “Please?”
“Okay,” Corman told her. “Just make sure you remember it when we leave.”
“I’ll put it in my basket,” Lucy said. Then she quickly stripped it off and crammed it into the small wicker basket which hung from the handlebars.
“Can I get a hot dog?” she asked as she returned to the bench.
“Why don’t we wait for Giselle?”
“She’s probably already eaten.”
“I doubt that.”
“How about a pretzel, then?”
“All right,” Corman said. He fished a dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to her.
“Be right back,” Lucy said as she dashed toward the hot dog wagon at the other end of the esplanade.
Corman leaned back and stretched his long, slender legs out in front of him. Here and there other people lounged on the benches or walked quietly across the brick-covered ground. From time to time a lone bicyclist would glide nonchalantly by, sometimes nodding quickly, but usually offering only a brief, apprehensive glance.
Lucy came bounding toward him, a huge salted pretzel dangling like a bridle bit from her mouth.
“It’s a good one,” she said. She stretched her hand toward him. “Want the change?”
“You keep it.”
She smiled brightly. “Thanks.”
For the next few minutes they sat together silently while Lucy finished off the pretzel. Some sort of band was beginning to set up on the orchestra shell. They were all dressed in black shirts and trousers. From the look of their instruments, it was going to be a fully electrified performance. Tangles of thick black wire hung over the side of the platform or spread out in ever-widening coils along the stage itself.
“It’s the Heebee-Jeebees,” Lucy informed him. “It’s heavy metal.”
“I see.”
“You wouldn’t like it.”
“I might.”
Lucy shook her head determinedly. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“I like all kinds of music,” Corman insisted.
“Not this,” Lucy said. She got to her feet. “Let’s go.”
She was pedaled away in an instant. Corman trailed after her, following her out of the esplanade then around the park again. He thought she might wheel back around the band shell, but she continued on, past the wide wet expanse of the Sheep Meadow, then to the whirling carousel, and still onward around the park, circling it again and again, stopping only once, briefly, near the exit at 72nd Street, where a lone troubadour stood almost within the dark shadow of the Dakota, crooning one John Lennon song after another, as if in perpetual reverence for the things he had imagined.
Toward early afternoon, Corman called Edgar and told him to bring Giselle to the large playground near the southern end of the park. They arrived a few minutes later, Giselle bounding happily ahead while her father lumbered behind, his somewhat portly body wrapped in a Humphrey Bogart-style trenchcoat and floppy hat.
Edgar glanced doubtfully at the bench as he came toward it. “Is this thing dry?”
“As much as it’s going to get,” Corman said.
“Okay,” Edgar said as he sat down. He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his knee, then abruptly stopped himself. “Christ, Dad used to do that.”
Corman said nothing.
“It’s weird,” Edgar added. “The stuff we pick up.”
Lucy and Giselle rushed up to the bench, hand in hand.
“Can we climb the rock?” Lucy asked.
Edgar looked hesitant. “That’s pretty high.” He cast an evaluating glance at Giselle. “You sure you won’t fall?”
Lucy squeezed her cousin’s hand. “I’ll watch her.”
“Let Giselle watch after herself,” Corman said.