Issue 42 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

a bird had dropped it there, feels like walking into a heated house.
"You've been drinking," she snaps. "Stupid."
"Tardmuffin."
"You sound like thein. Nothing is worse," Hannah accuses.
"Do you really think sounding like the kids at school is worse
than dancing with that ding-head red-beard?"
"By a technochasm. By ten shades of termite."
"Okay, diggity dank," I say.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"Central Park"
"The duck pond?"
"Yeah, the sooner the quicker."
"All the swans and ducks are roosting, Dalloway."
"Doesn't matter."
At Trump Plaza, a blonde in a skimpy dress sways like Red Sea
hair coral. Guests slip out of the hotel and into silk limousines. Some
clamber into carriages. There are more horses in their pitiful blinders,
survivors of a magnificent line kidnapped from the grass. A carriage
driver holding a six-foot switch cries, "Twenty bucks for a romantic
tour of Central Park," and a girl and boy climb into his carriage.
Hannah hurries to hand the couple one of
her business cards. Hannah, we should
I think he and
Dr. Peeler like each
other. That makes
Daddy alesbian I
free the horse. She's far away giving out
her card, Prime FX Lip, to a girl with a man
at least twice her age.
"Come on, come on," I call out.
The couple has settled into their seat,
and the carriage driver lifts the reins. The
white horse struggles over the cobblestone
street. Hannah's false eye reminds
me of the horse's blinders. Do the hours of pulling the carriage pass
slowly for the horse? You can hear the answer in its step, one clop
and a hesitation, and then another clop. We follow the carriage into
the park, but the horse is picking up speed. It must smell the trees
and think there's rest here.
"Run," I shout. "We have to catch up."
"Dalloway, stop. We'll go to the pond, and then home. If we get
into trouble, your mother will never let you see Kim again."
If Mommy has her way I won't see Hannah much longer either.
There's mist in the trees and homeless men huddle next to each
other on stone benches. The streetlight throws smeary images of
their faces on the wet pathway. I almost don't see them because
they're always there. Like the static you used to hear between TV
channels. One of them wears a hooded sweatshirt and Kleenex boxes
on his feet. I reach for Hannah's arm. She offers me her jacket, but I
tell her no. Is she talking as we walk deeper into the park? I can't be
sure that I'm not hearing her thoughts. This, Dalloway, this misery is
what St. Petersburg feels like. They're sprucing up the palaces but
the city was built on a swamp by force, stone by stone, and workers
died like flies. It's still there, all the hell.
"I told Kim we'd take a cab," Hannah says. "I promised we'd go
straight home."
"I think he and Dr. Peeler like each other. That makes Daddy a lesbian."
"Big deal."
"Did I say it was? Let's go over there."
We plop down near the pond and wait for the swans. On the next
bench, a man sits in a flak jacket without an umbrella or hat. A grocery
cart filled with folded newspapers and Duane Reade sacks is
parked near him. I nudge Hannah. "That guy is sitting up so straight
he looks made out of stone."
Hannah shrugs. Rain is beginning to fall harder, the skinny drops
getting fat. I rest my head on her shoulder, and then she takes off her
jacket and covers me with it. "See, stupid, I told you swans sleep in
their nests at night. The only ones that swim in moonlight are the swan
maidens. When they take off their feather shirts the birds becOIne
beautiful women." She spreads her hair behind her so the rain can soak
it. "You brought us on a wild goose chase."
I study the brown surface of the pond. Empty. Then I close my
eyes and concentrate on making two graceful shapes appear, I think
swans, their necks together, talking in whistles. When I open myeyes
the water is still naked. The man in the flak jacket hasn't moved.
"I think that man is dead," I say.
Hannah snorts, "Dead drunk"
"Bet."
"Five dollars."
Hannah gets up and goes over to the man. "Hello? Would you like
a facial?" she asks, a hank of her hair falling against him, "I'll show
you, Dalloway. One touch and he'll grunt and maybe even wakeup.
Then you'll owe me five U.s. dollars." Her fingertips touch his cheek
like she is applying dots of foundation. "Oh, no," she whispers. Rings
of moisture drop from the streetlight over her shining head. "Come
here, Dalloway. Come," she says, quivering. "Give me your hand."
I let her press my hand against his cheek Her fingers stay wann
on top of mine, while under them the chill spreads. "Do you feel it?"