Iphigenia Murphy

by Sara Hosey

  I was okay. I’d made a plan and then I’d acted on it and I’d survived. It seemed to me that that first week in the park, even when I was in the middle of it, I knew I was doing something right and important.

  There was more to come. I had to take my next steps carefully. But I did take a moment to marvel, that morning, in the dawn, in my tent in the park.

  Part II:

  Angel

  Chapter 5

  I folded up the tent and covered it with leaves before tramping over to one of my holes to dig up a little store of food. What I’d been doing was burying stuff in various spots around the park. I had also stowed some stuff under that big old pine tree I’d slept under a couple of times. All this squirreling away of food and gear meant I could travel around and outside of the park without making it completely obvious I was homeless, showing up at the library pushing a shopping cart full of everything I owned. Or getting ripped off of all my worldly possessions.

  And all that work of digging and marking and moving and digging again had kept me real busy that first week. So, it wasn’t until around the second week that I started thinking seriously about how to find my mother.

  She had been gone for almost seven years. What made me think she was here, in Queens, in this park?

  There had been evidence, I thought.

  Clue number one: Forest Park was one of the places she’d taken me when I was small.

  She had grown up not far from here. We would come and she would meet up, secretly, with her cousin. She’d never said it, but I knew that her family did not like my father and that my father did not like her family. And that was why the meetings were a secret, why, when we went back to the apartment, I couldn’t tell my father where we’d been.

  There had been a fight with the cousin—a girl I could barely remember—but me and my mother still came to the park sometimes. We’d walk the trails and look at the turtles in the pond. I’d loved coming to the park with my mother. She loved this place more than anywhere else.

  But that wasn’t the only reason I thought she was here.

  Clue number two: Something my father had said to her when she showed up at the apartment that one time. “Get your junkie ass back to the park.” And then later that night, fighting with my stepmother in their bedroom, I’d heard him yell, “I can’t help it if that bitch gets out of the hospital,” and then she said something I couldn’t hear, but it ended with “… living in the park.”

  It seemed like some sort of hidden but acknowledged truth, something we all knew without saying it, the way you know that no matter how many times the exterminator comes, the roaches will always live in the walls, the way you know that the water that comes out of the faucet has traveled through hidden pipes, inside the walls and under the streets, all the way from some upstate Eden: we all knew that I had a mother, that she was probably homeless, that she probably lived in a park—Forest Park.

  And then, clue number three: Just a few weeks before I left, as though he was giving me a sign, as though he was giving me permission, even my stepbrother had brought it up. Buried in an otherwise unextraordinary barrage of insults was this: “Everybody already knows that you’re crazy like your crazy homeless slut mother.” He had laughed humorlessly and kept talking, although he had turned away from me and was looking at his Game Boy. “Runs in the family and all,” he’d muttered. But then he looked up sharply. “For real though. My mother should kick you the fuck out. And then you could go live with your mother in Forest Park. Mother-and-daughter bag ladies, yo. Put that on Jerry Springer!” And then he’d belted his affected laugh, “Hah hah!” like he thought he was on MTV or something.

  Despite his obnoxiousness, despite his silly, nasty laugh, I suddenly felt the way I did when I was younger and my father would make me go to church with him and they rang the bells to let you know that something important was happening. It was like that: it was like bells started ringing in my head because even though he was trying to hurt me, he was saying something crucial. Something I needed to hear.

  I knew it then in my bones.

  And once I’d come to live in the park, I could sense her all around.

  Sometimes, walking the trails, I imagined her walking them once upon a time, maybe years before, maybe the week before. I did so much walking in the park that I thought that the odds were, at least some of the time, I was walking on spots where she had once walked.

  A few days before, as I was sitting on a bench on the side of a trail, I saw woman coming toward me. She had long dark hair in a side ponytail and long tan legs. She was holding a man’s hand. My heart began to race because I thought, I really thought, it’s her, this has been so much easier than I ever imagined, and I rose from the bench I was sitting on and I walked straight to them but then just when they registered me, looking at me like, watch out this homeless girl is going to ask us for money, I realized the woman was young, maybe even still a teenager and that of course it wasn’t her, wasn’t anything like her after all.

  A part of me actually believed that, that we could actually run into each other. Or that some unseen irresistible umbilical cord would lead me right to her.

  But, of course I knew better. I knew that even if I looked for her day and night, I might never find her. She might not be there to be found. So, for what felt like a long time but was only a couple of weeks, I did nothing, in a standoff with myself, telling myself I was waiting-and-seeing but knowing that, really, I was unable to start.

  As a half measure, I forced myself to do surveillance on the other homeless people in the park. I’d already encountered some of them. More than once, napping on a bench in the daytime, I’d woken up blinking in the afternoon sun to see someone sleeping on the other end of my bench. If the person was awake, we’d nod at each other, maybe say hello, and then I’d scoot out of there.

  I was afraid of them, even though I knew I was technically one of them. They all seemed to already know each other, and when they saw me watching they eyed me suspiciously. But I knew I needed to talk to them eventually. I just had to figure out what to say.

  What a joke. I didn’t even know how to talk to people I knew. I didn’t even talk to Lizette—what made me think I was all of a sudden going to be able to go up to some homeless strangers?

  “I’m not ready,” I’d say to myself, setting up the tent. Just not ready yet, I’d think, walking a path. Instead of approaching anyone, I spent time wandering in the woods.

  When it was sunny and I felt safe, I’d put on my Walkman and listen to the tape I’d made off the radio. I’d just walk around or I’d watch ants climbing over each other to collect some crumbs or a piece of chip I’d put down. Setting their little ant lives to music changed everything: if it was the Ramones or the Violent Femmes they seemed angry and frantic and if it was Morrissey or the Cure they seemed romantic and epic. Sometimes I watched bees. Headphones on, I’d try to follow one, to see where it was going. I couldn’t ever keep track of them, follow them all the way back to their hidden home. I watched birds too, choosing one to keep an eye on as it hopped and fluttered from bench to grass to branch. Once I saw a flash of color in the trees and I thought it must have been the parakeet. I tried to follow it, but it was too far away and it flitted off. I lost it in the high branches.

  Watching, I would let my mind wander and I would lose myself, thinking about my mother. I’d think about what I’d say when I found her. In my fantasy, she would be so proud of me for what I’d done. She’d be amazed that I’d figured out how to live in the park. She would think I was very brave. And we’d talk about how it was when I was still little and she lived with us. And we’d talk about what we would do next. She might have to go to rehab or something; I knew that. I knew she’d probably be pretty messed up. I wasn’t kidding myself. But maybe, who knew? Maybe she could get custody of me. I wouldn’t even mind living in a shelter if I could be with her. As long as we were together.

>   Once the batteries in my Walkman ran out I could still do it, just lose myself in thinking about her, spinning out elaborate stories. In one of my admittedly more ridiculous daydreams we bought a restaurant—in my imagination it looked a lot like the bar in Cheers—where I cooked and mom waitressed. I imagined telling off a customer that gave her a hard time and her being so grateful. I imagined us sitting at the empty bar, having our dinner after a long day’s work. A couple of times, I caught myself moving my lips, like I was really saying the things I was thinking about saying. Of course no one was around, but I felt embarrassed anyway.

  Sometimes it didn’t work; I couldn’t get into the story ’cause I was feeling too nervous or sick or distracted. So, I’d try to read. I’d checked out—indefinitely—a bunch of books from the library, including a book from the “recommended” shelf, Anne of Green Gables, a weird book called The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy that the skateboarding guys were always talking about, and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  I was sucking the tip of my thumb and reading Alice the day I met Angel.

  Summer was pouring in, and each day was just a little fuller with sunlight. I was sitting on a bench set along one of the trails deep in the park. It was one of those quiet, eternal spring evenings, full of birds singing and the far-off noises of kids in a playground.

  I was reading the words, “A mouse—of a mouse—to a mouse—a mouse—O mouse!” when all of a sudden, a big black dog flew right by me. I had to wonder if I was hallucinating. It seemed almost magical, like a reverse–white rabbit had leapt right out of the book or something. I stood up, my book in one hand and my reading glasses in the other, and looked after it, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. I called “Here, boy!” weakly into the trees, almost embarrassed, feeling that if someone was watching me they’d think I was crazy.

  I really thought it was possible I had fallen asleep reading and dreamed it. But we must’ve both been circulating around the same territory, because a few days later I was moving my camp and I came across the same dog eating somebody’s garbage out of a Styrofoam container half buried in leaves. A mangy-looking, dirty, skinny mutt. I could tell she was a girl. She was tough looking, but she also had this enormous, curly, puffy tail. Like they ran out of tails when they were putting that dog together and so they went ahead and slapped on whatever was lying around. Just the silliest tail you ever saw.

  I’d never had a dog. I had a kitten for a little while once.

  “Hey,” I called. The dog raised her boxy head and looked at me warily, warningly, and then stuck her snout back in the food.

  Seeing that ugly dog made something inside me ache. I wanted her to look at me, to come over to me. I hadn’t paid much attention to dogs before, but this felt different.

  God, I was lonely.

  I squatted down and watched the dog out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t want her to think I was after her food. I got some jerky from my pocket and slowly held it out, still not looking straight at her.

  The dog ignored me. She finished what she was eating and then started licking the Styrofoam so hard the whole container would turn over, and then she would have to paw it right side up again, and only when that was spotless did she finally deign to notice me again. She approached slowly, sniffing at the air.

  Her hair was sticking up all down her spine, and I started getting scared. I was excited she was coming over, but I kind of wished I had kept on walking too.

  So, there we were, facing each other among the trees, neither of us moving any closer.

  Squatting started to hurt my legs, but I didn’t want to stand up and startle her, and I didn’t want to sit down because then I wouldn’t be able to run if the dog attacked me. So, I stayed awkwardly in a crouch, more and more uncomfortable and miserable by the minute.

  And then the dog got closer and took the jerky real gently with her front teeth before trotting a few yards away, looking up at me with sad eyes as she tossed her head back two or three times, gulping down the meat.

  I smiled and sat down on my butt. If she was gonna bite me, I figured she would have done it already. I held out more jerky and the dog was more confident the second time—she came over, took it, and trotted away. I fed her about three strips before putting what was left back in my pack. I wasn’t even sure if dogs should eat jerky, although I figured it was just as good, or as bad, as anything else she might find to eat in the park.

  Then the dog approached, sniffing.

  My heart was beating hard, but in a good way.

  I tried to keep playing it cool. I slowly held out an empty hand. She paused and then approached again, her snout aimed at my hand. I tried to touch her when she got close, but she pulled back and out of reach again.

  And then we looked at each other, into each other’s eyes. Her eyes were brown, flecked with green. They were familiar, a lot like human eyes. It was, I thought, maybe like falling in love.

  The two of us, black-haired and skinny and lonely. And scared. Like, maybe we were supposed to find each other.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you,” I murmured, holding out my hand again.

  She looked at me as though she understood. She didn’t, like, jump into my lap or anything. But she started to gradually inch closer and closer, sniffing at the air and then my outstretched fingers until, finally, she bumped her wet nose against my palm, pushing my hand up so that it would fall gently on her head.

  “Hey,” I said, softly. “Hey there.”

  We regarded each other. “What’s your story?” I asked, my voice choking in my throat. “Why are you all alone? Huh?” I wanted to draw the dog to my chest, but I knew that wouldn’t be wise.

  Instead, I shifted to reach in my bag and the dog startled, backed away. I took out my water, poured some in a cooking pot. “Here you go … That jerky always makes me thirsty.”

  She watched and waited, then eventually, slowly, came over and tentatively drank, looking up at me after every other slurp.

  “Well. You want to stick with me?”

  She slurped, looked, slurped.

  And then something wonderful happened. That big, mismatched, fluffy tail started to wag.

  Chapter 6

  I was pretty sure that the dog was lurking in the deep bushes somewhere behind me as I sat on the park bench, regarding a group clustered around a picnic table. She’d been following me around, only coming close when I had food out and ready to share with her, but always nearby for the past few days. She’s smart to stay hidden, I thought. I wish I could.

  It was my third week in the park when I forced myself to linger near two men and a woman and a telltale shopping cart full of crap. The woman sat on a picnic table and the men on its bench. I sat at a nearby table, pretending to pick at something on the top of my hand, building up courage, going over what I would say. I was so nervous; my heart was pounding in my temples and my breath felt shallow. I didn’t know why I was so worked up. I told myself that they weren’t monsters. They were just people.

  I rubbed my eye and looked at my hand. There was an eyelash there. I blew it away and made a wish: I want to find my mother.

  It wasn’t like I really thought that if I found her, everything would magically be fine, like suddenly my life would be awesome. Or, okay … maybe I did think that a little bit. It was just that that without her all these years I had been lost, unanchored. I’d been waiting. Because she might come back. She might come and rescue me.

  Now, I thought, I might rescue her. And finding her, saving her, might mean saving myself.

  Finally, I took a deep breath and rose and approached their table tentatively, thinking I might hang back a bit until someone noticed me. But they had seen me looking at them and they watched me as I walked over.

  “What’s up, mami?” one of the guys called.

  I shrugged, kicked at the dirt. “Looking for someone.”


  “Come on over a little closer,” the same guy said. “We don’t bite. At least, most of us don’t.”

  They all sort of chuckled. The white lady spit. I took a few steps closer.

  “You got any cigarettes?” the other guy, a small man with a shaved head, asked. I looked at him. He was the kind of gross-looking, grayish, crazy-eyed man that you instinctively don’t sit next to on the subway.

  “Nah,” I said, looking back at the ground.

  “It’s a good idea to have some,” the first guy offered. He was olive-skinned, probably Spanish. Young. Twenties, maybe. “You know, if you’re looking for favors or whatever.”

  “I’m just,” I began again, taking a step closer, “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that,” the first guy said.

  I drew a photo from my pocket and held it out. “You ever seen this lady?”

  It was a picture of my mom, sitting on the floor next to a small Christmas tree, all lit up and decorated. She was smiling: big red lips, long black hair. She was wearing a tight red leotard and jeans and a Santa hat.

  The first guy took the photo and looked at it, hard. He grunted appreciation and then raised an eyebrow. “You’re looking for Mrs. Claus?” he joked. His friends looked over at the picture in his hand and snorted. “No, really, who is she?”

  “My sister,” I lied.

  He looked at the photo again. “Yeah, I see the resemblance. What are you? You Spanish?”

  “No,” I shook my head. “Just Italian and Irish and some other stuff.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s the other stuff?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, like Hungarian or something,” I answered. I shook my head again, trying to clear away the distractions. “But have you seen her?” I pressed.