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Park Bench

Anne Turner Taub

    Rosalie Burns was tired and just wanted to die. She was 89 years old and it was time. She wasn’t suicidal. She wasn’t depressed, or unhappy with what life had dealt her. She was just tired. When the person who bored you most in the world was yourself, it was time to say sayonara to this mortal coil. Why couldn’t her daughter, Marjorie, understand? One got tired of all kinds of things in life—the same job, the same clothes, the same mate—why couldn’t she accept that just the daily chore of going through life was exhausting.
    “You haven’t been out of the house since you went to the doctor’s last year. You must get an interest, mother.”
    Rosalie gave an inaudible sigh. She did not want an interest. Her daughter, Marjorie, just didn’t understand. Marjorie was what one would call a success in life. She had one of these many high-powered jobs in the fashion world that had titles which existed nowhere else, but which usually ended in the word Coordinator. She had a good husband, also a go-getter, and two highly achieving children who, of course, would make the most of the American dream.
    Just getting up in the morning and putting on clothes exhausted Rosalie. She was tired of trying to care about anything, tired of a society that was endlessly striving for goals to be replaced on success by more goals. She was just tired. Why couldn’t her daughter believe her? Believe that she really wanted to die. It would almost be a relief to have Fate do something to take the decision out of her hands.
    Suddenly Marjorie was there before her, striding briskly through the door.
    “Mother,” I’m taking you to the park,” said Marjorie. “It’s only a block away. It’s time you got out of the house. Come on, let’s go.”
    “I can’t walk that far.”
    “Yes, you can. I’ll hold you up.” Marjorie pulled her up out of her chair.
    “Ouch, you’re hurting me.”
    “It’ll go away in a minute, come on.”
    In a series of small, catastrophic steps, Marjorie got her mother dressed for the outdoors and out on the sidewalk.
    “What a beautiful day,” said Marjorie, “aren’t we lucky!”
    I don’t give a good goddam, thought Rosalie. I want to be back in my own house where I belong.
    “You’ll enjoy the park,” Marjorie continued, “the fall flowers are up. I’ll seat you on a bench and come back for you in an hour. And, really, mother, you’ll be fine.”
    Rosalie sat on the bench with her hands folded and her feet together, annoyed, jerked out of her stoicness into fury. She didn’t want to enjoy the flowers, the beautiful. day, the fresh air. Why didn’t people believe her? Talk of denial—nobody should want to die, they said, but she did. She was tired of being old and of being tired of being old.
    She sat there almost comatose, not feeling, not thinking, waiting for her daughter to return. A little boy, about two years old, came by and stood in front of her and stared at her. She had noticed early on in life that this seemed to be a characteristic of very small children. They would pick out a person, and for some unaccountable reason, just stare unabashedly at them until they had had their fill or whatever it was they needed to decipher about the person. Then, satisfied, they would just as suddenly leave. But this little boy did not turn away. He just kept staring at her. She became annoyed. I am not going to stare back at you, thought Rosalie, and I am certainly not going to smile at you, which I know is a requirement of adults in this situation. Go away little boy, go away this minute, she said to herself.
    Rosalie looked around for the mother. She was several feet away walking slowly and thoroughly engrossed in talking to another woman, delighted to be able to be speaking to another adult in her long child-oriented days. Funny, thought Rosalie, you rarely see men talking to each other in this way, happily, excitedly, enthusiastically enjoying the very act of conversing.
    The child should have run to catch up with his mother who was still walking slowly away, but he did no such thing. He just stood there, thinking his child-thoughts, staring at Rosalie.
    Just then, a big, red, Irish setter, smiling joyously at his freedom, came dashing by, swishing his huge flowing tail in canine bliss, unaware that this same tail had just knocked the little boy to the ground.
    Rosalie looked at the little boy. Why didn’t he get up? His eyes were closed and he did not move. She should do something. She didn’t want to be involved in a crisis but she had no choice. He might have a concussion or even a fractured skull. Where was her daughter when she needed her? Rosalie creaked to a stand and tried to shout—nothing happened, finally a loud screech left her mouth and hurled itself into the air. The mother turned around, saw her child lying on the ground motionless, and, with her friend, began running to him, shouting, “My God, he’s dead, he’s dead.” Her companion, who had just come up, said, “Don’t lift him.” She had had one course in CPR. The little boy opened his eyes, and began to move his arms and legs, trying to get up. “I think he’ll be fine,” said the companion, “we’ll take him over to the clinic to be sure.”
    “Oh, thank God,” said his mother, crying and holding him tightly. The little boy, suddenly aware that he was getting a lot of unusual and very animated attention, began to milk the situation for all it was worth, screaming as loudly as he could. They all began to walk away, when at that moment the mother turned around and said to Rosalie, “Thank you, oh, thank you. You saved my little boy’s life.”
     Suddenly, Rosalie felt a feeling she had not experienced in a long time. This feeling is pleasure, she thought. I like it. I haven’t felt it in a long time. She sat there enjoying the feeling, and she began to smile.
    Soon, her daughter came into the park, saw her mother sitting there just as she had left her. “She hasn’t moved a muscle since I left,” Marjorie thought bitterly, when suddenly she was in front of her mother and saw her face.
    She’s smiling, Marjorie was amazed, that’s the first time she has smiled in ages. She likes the park, we’ll have to come here often. With that she helped her mother up gently and started walking her home.
    Encouraged, the next day her daughter told her they were going to the park again, and to her surprise, her mother gave her no argument. In spite of herself, Rosalie wanted to see if the little boy would be there again and in good health.
    She sat in the same spot on the bench but the little boy and his mother didn’t seem to be in the park today. However, the big, red, Irish setter was there today, dashing around in seventh heaven. Why is it that he is so happy, she thought, and I don’t care at all what happens today, tomorrow, or next year. Rosalie began to wonder why she was even here.
    A young woman, about l8, sat down on the next bench and busily began working on what looked like a crossword puzzle. It was evidently hard going because she was biting on the end of her pencil furiously. Finally, she turned to Rosalie, “Excuse me,” she said, “could I ask you a question for my puzzle?”
    No, thought Rosalie, no, I don’t want to talk to anyone, I really want to go home. Because she didn’t answer, the young woman assumed she hadn’t heard and asked again in a louder voice, “Would you by any chance know what the fifth column was? I mean, was it, like, a column for an ancient Greek temple?”
    How stupid can anyone be? thought Rosalie. Then she said carefully and, hopefully dismissively, “No, it was a spy system during World War II.” She turned her head away; she did not want to elaborate on it. In her head, she begged the young woman to go away, far away.
    “Gee, thanks, I would never have gotten it”, she smiled gratefully, “it fits in beautifully.”
    The seat on the old wooden bench was getting hard. Rosalie wished her daughter would come. All of a sudden the little boy walked by. He was slowly kicking a small stone ahead of him, chasing it from side to side as it rolled away. His mother followed behind, talking animatedly to her friend. The little boy paid no attention to Rosalie this time. He was obviously all right, but Rosalie found herself a little disappointed that he did not stop to look at her. His eyes passed over her as if he did not see her at all.
    Rosalie was getting impatient. When was her daughter going to come? She could go home on her own, but then her daughter would not find her in the park and might begin to worry. Her mind went back to its favorite question: What is the purpose of all this anyway? We live, we die, that’s the end. Who cares if there is an afterlife? If there is, it will probably be just like this one. Rosalie went back into her usual slump of thinking life was all for nothing. As she sat there, the girl on the next bench said, “Excuse me, but since you seem to know so much, would you know Marilyn Monroe’s real name? I am sure you must have heard of her. She was a movie star in the olden days.”
    Rosalie couldn’t believe it. Had this child’s ignorance no bounds at all? “Her name was Norma Jean Baker.”
    The girl continued, “Every so often I read about her. I wonder what she was really like. They say she was really beautiful.”
    Rosalie thought wryly of what someone had once said about Marilyn Monroe, that she was the kind of person who walked around with a book of poetry with the title showing. Rosalie decided not to disillusion the girl. “I really thought she was a fine comedian, and should have stuck to that instead of trying to become a dramatic actress.”
    “Well, thanks,” said the girl, uninterested in Marilyn’s aspirations. “Norma fits perfectly.”
    After a few minutes, a young man came over and said to the girl, “Pardon me, are you doing today’s crossword puzzle?”
    He’s trying to pick you up, thought Rosalie, don’t pay any attention to him. He’ll go away.
    The girl looked at him, smiled, and said, “Yes, why, do you do it too?”
    “Yes,” he said, “would you know what the answer for fifth column is?”
    “Oh, sure,” she answered knowingly, “that’s simple. It was a spy group in World War II.”
    “Gee,” he said admiringly,” you know a lot, don’t you?”
    “Not really,” she said modestly, looking at Rosalie with a grin on her face.
    All Rosalie could think of was, he is trying to pick you up, you don’t know anything about him except he does crossword puzzles and isn’t too good at them. Be aware. But the girl apparently had no fear of strangers, and said, “I have another hard one. Do you know what Marilyn Monroe’s first name really was?”
    “Yeah, it started with an N I think—Naomi?”
    “No, take another guess.”
    This is getting ridiculous, thought Rosalie. He is going to ask her for a date and she is going to go with him. Who knows what will happen to her. Beware, she pleaded silently, beware.
    Just then, Rosalie’s daughter came to pick her up and saw the two young people so near her, and thought this is a really good experience for my mom, being around other people. Just then the young woman spoke to her, “Hi, you must be this lady’s daughter.”
    As Marjorie nodded, she continued “She has been so helpful to me in doing my crossword puzzle. She must be very smart; she seems to know everything.”
    Inside herself, Rosalie cringed. What was this latest generation coming to if they thought the height of knowledge was knowing a movie star’s real name.
    The girl had obviously been taught to be polite to older people and she began to introduce herself, “I am Charlotte Jamison. I would very much like to know your mother’s name, if she doesn’t mind.”
    “Oh, of course,” said Margaret, brimming over with pleasure that her mother had actually made a real acquaintance, “my mother is Rosalie Burns. We live a block away.”
    “I am so glad to have met you, Mrs. Burns” said Charlotte. She turned to the young man, “and this is—oh, my goodness”, she said, “I don’t know your name so I can’t introduce you.”
    “That’s okay. I’ll be glad to introduce myself. I am Robert Scott,” and turning to Rosalie, “I think it’s great that you do crossword puzzles. I love doing them.”
    Rosalie said nothing and tried not to show her exasperation. She had never done a crossword puzzle in her life.
    After all this, Rosalie was delighted when she finally got home. She made a silent vow never to go to that park again. What was the point of all this togetherness when they probably were never to see each other again.
    As it happened, because it was late fall, the weather turned to cold days with lots of rain. Her daughter did not try to get her to go to the park again. So Rosalie was back to staying in her apartment alone, day after day. But, in spite of herself, once in a while she thought of the young lady in the park and the young man whom, she was sure, had tried to pick the girl up. Did she ever see him again, go out on a date with him? How could she, a pickup in the park. Who knew what dark secrets lay in his background?
    One day, about seven months later, Marjorie, with a puzzled look on her face, came in with an envelope in her hand. “Mother,” she said, “do you know anyone by the name of Charlotte Jamison?”
    “That’s the young woman who did crossword puzzles in the park. What does she want” I hope she doesn’t want to know a synonym for Santa Claus.”
    “She has sent us both an wedding invitation. She is getting married to a Robert Scott. Is that the young man she was with that day?”
    “Oh, no,” Rosalie groaned, “she is marrying the pickup she met in the park. I do hope he is not an axe murderer.”
    Marjorie grinned. “If he were an axe murderer, I doubt that he would wait seven months to do his dirty work. Anyway, I don’t think I ever heard of an axe murderer who loved to do crossword puzzles.”
    Marjorie looked down at the invitation again. “She wrote you a very nice note. She is asking you to please come to their wedding because if you had not been there when she first met Robert, she would not have known the answers to the puzzle and he might just have gone away. And anyway, she will always remember you because you were there the day she met him in the park. Isn’t that sweet, mom?”
    “Well, I am not going. I want to stay here where I belong.”
    “Mom, you can’t disappoint them. Your presence there will mean a great deal to both of them.”
    “I am not going.”
    “They might take it as a bad sign for the success of their marriage.” Marjorie thought a bit. “After all, both times you went to the park, you changed people’s lives.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Well, his mother thinks you saved that little boy’s life. And Charlotte thinks you are the lucky chance that resulted in this marriage. Mom, you are the good luck charm for both these people.”
    “Marjorie, you know this is nonsense. Have you become superstitious all of a sudden?”
    “Maybe, but will you go anyway—they really want you.”
    Rosalie looked at the four walls of her room for the first time, at the two windows gazing out at two windows across the street brazenly staring back at them. And she decided that she might be willing to go after all. But, she wasn’t going to give in that easily. “Okay, but if her fiancé turns out to be an axe murderer, don’t blame me.”
    Marjorie smiled and kissed her mother. That park was worth its weight in gold and they would go back there as soon as the weather got better.

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