Central Park Sundays(Jared Shipley) When he left Michigan he realized he would always be the one who fell in love. There had been maybe one or two times he got to be the chooser, but they were so greatly outnumbered by being the beggar, he’d forgotten it could be just as difficult to break a heart as it was to be heartbroken.

He lived in New York City now, for four years. It was the best place for him to live, where the fast pace gave him no time to think of himself and his regrets. He only thought of those at night sometimes, waiting to fall asleep, and it usually led to bad dreams and bitter mornings.

Every Sunday in the spring and summer months he went to Central Park and read. He read everything from Aristophones to Dostoevski to Stephen King, fiction and nonfiction, philosophy and history. His favorite spot was a bench under a gazebo by the lake. Another bench was set right across from his, but one of the legs was broken and it slumped to one side and no one ever sat there. The place was usually empty and quiet except for the muffled voices of passing tourists on the road above the bank, and the rowing of oars from people in rented boats, but he preferred the noise. It helped him focus and keep his mind from wandering.

This particular Sunday was the first he’d been back since the winter kept him indoors. It was early April, but the sun was so close to the city it felt like the middle of August. His space was just as he left it last fall, except the wood was darker from the absorption of melted snow.

He was reading a book about the Civil War, his favorite period in American history; about Colonel Chamberlain and the Battle of the Little Round Top. He was getting to the best part, Chamberlain’s company was out of ammo and were about to sweep down the hill on the Confederates armed with only their bayonets, when he was interrupted:

“This seat taken?”

The voice was a woman’s, a familiar woman’s. He looked up and she was already sitting down at the high end of the broken bench. He recognized her. Her brown hair, her pale skin, her eyes just a little further apart than average. The object of his regret, the catalyst to his bad dreams. To his great surprise, however, he did not feel shocked. Usually his blood would run blue and his hands would shake, but instead, he looked at her with calm eyes and un-trembling lips - almost as if he was expecting her.

“You’re supposed to be in Lansing,” he said.

She nodded. He put the book on the ground and noticed she was wearing gloves, dark black gloves that tucked away inside the cuff of her light brown jacket. They didn’t speak for a few minutes, only stared in calm amazement.

“I wrote you a letter,” he finally said.

“I know,” she said.

“Did you read it?”

“Of course.”

“You never said anything back. I assumed you threw it away or ripped it up and flushed it down the toilet.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Well…”

“Well what?”

“The letter.”

She looked down at her hands. She was rubbing them together and the fabric of the black gloves ruffled. “I thought it was very honest.”

“Honest.”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

She suggested they take a walk. Runners passed them and mothers with strollers. They walked side by side up the road and ended up back at Bethesda Fountain, where the weekend crowd filled the plaza.

“How’s your writing?” she asked him.

“Slow.”

“Is that bad?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Yes.” He actually didn’t. He wanted her to stay. He wanted to hold her. He wanted everything he wrote in the letter.

“Okay.”

He turned and she was gone. Disappeared into the crowd, he assumed, because he didn’t see her walking away, and his heart sank. Back at the bench by the lake he picked up where he left off, discounting the encounter as a daydream he just woke from.

By the next Sunday, he had almost forgotten about the week before. If he had completely forgotten it, he would have been surprised when she showed up again. The same time, the same manner as before. Still wearing the black gloves.

“Why are you here?” He asked.

“I’m not sure. I just sort of showed up.”

“What the hell does that mean? You just woke up and you’re a thousand miles from home? Just so happen to know exactly where I am and when?”
Her face was puzzled. Her lip trembled.

“...yes,” she said.

“You are so full of shit.”

“Please don’t be upset.”

He stormed away, so angry he almost threw his book into the river. She didn’t follow him. That night, he was restless. Memories of her, what she meant, the opportunities he missed or even threw away out of fear, and the anger in his heart kept him awake, and stayed that way all week.

Expecting her now, he was back in his usual place the next Sunday. Reading was secondary. His eyes continually popped off the page to the broken bench in front of him. Passing pedestrians caused his neck to turn. But she never appeared. Good, he thought.

Three weeks passed. She didn’t come back and he stopped thinking about her after a few days. Things were back to normal and he was happy about it. He had finished two other books by that time and was now on to D.H. Lawrence.

“I like that one,” said a familiar voice.

There she was, back on the high end of the broken bench. Brown jacket, black gloves in all.

“I don’t think you’re real. I think I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not crazy.”

“So you’re real?”

“As real as you are.”

“Prove it.”

Her eyes softened, as if she was looking at a young child whom she pitied. She rose from the bench and approached him. Her hand raised gently onto his cheek and sent goose bumps down to his toes.

“Do you feel that?”

He nodded, too moved to speak, but hiding it with an angry face.

“I know why I’m here now,” she said. “I didn’t know the first time I saw you, but I know now.”

“And what’s that?”

“To tell you you were wrong.”

“Oh, gee, thanks.”

“No. Listen...I didn’t...”

“I’ve heard all the excuses already.”

“They weren’t excuses.”

“They were bullshit!”

“I never had some secret agenda to hurt you.”

“No, you just didn’t care.”

She looked to the water. She touched her gloves and traced her finger down the inside of her wrist. “I was afraid...”

“I put myself on the line and you abandoned me.”

“...But I did care.”

“You’re the reason I left.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“What, to bring me back?”

“No.” She turned back to the water. She couldn’t say what she was about to say while looking him in the eyes. “I need you to forgive me.”

“Just like that?”

“I never forgot about you. I always regretted what I did. And I need you to forgive me. Because I’m never going to see you again after today.” She was crying. “Please forgive me,” she said.

He stood up to leave, but his feet were nailed to the pavement and couldn’t move. Now he was trembling. “Tell me something good about us. I need to hear it. All I remember now is the heartbreak and darkness, and I need to know there was a reason why.”

She stood up and kissed him. His insides went limp. His eyes closed and he saw a place; a bright place with purple skies and floating stars. The place that inspiration comes from. Then their lips disconnected and he was back. They were silent. She wrapped her arms around him. “I couldn’t see it before. I was sent to you, because we have to earn it.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant. He only took her in his arms and closed his eyes again. The place was gone and he saw only blackness, but he didn’t care.

“I still love you,” he said.

When he opened his eyes again, she was gone and he was hugging air. He sat on the bench and cried.

That night, in his apartment, he sat alone, still wondering if he had been dreaming. He grabbed his cell phone from the bedroom and called a number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mrs. Richie?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, it’s Brian Sanford.”

“Brian! Oh my God, how are you? How’s the city?”

“It’s fine. Everything is great, thank you.”

“We all miss you out here. Your mom takes every chance she gets to talk about you. How you’re gonna be a great writer some day.”

He laughed a little out of embarrassment. “I’m trying.” He licked his lips. He always licked his lips in uncomfortable moments. “Well, I’m calling because, um...I was hoping I could talk to Maggie.”
There was a silence.

“Maggie...” said the other voice.

“Is she there?”

Mrs. Richie was crying. Sniffles and sobs echoed through the receiver.

“Mrs. Richie? Are you okay?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t know...” She said in a high pitched effort to force the words out.

“Know what?”

“Brian...Maggie killed herself two years ago.”

His blood ran blue and his hands started shaking. The street noise outside his window suddenly silenced and he could feel the earth stop dead on its axis. Amid the shock, he squeezed out, “I’m sorry.”

“I have to go now, Brian.”

There was a beep on the cell phone and Mrs. Richie was gone. He went to his room and sat on his bed for a long time, but didn’t cry. Too shocked to cry. He didn’t ask why she did it. It didn’t matter.

“I forgive you, Maggie.” he whispered, then laid down on the bed and fell asleep, only hoping she could hear him. Just before he drifted off, he thought it was strange she was wearing black gloves on such a hot day.

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