by Paul Zindel
NewYorkTimes best-sellersortakeshimtoseeaBroadwaydramaonstudent discounttickets.Hekissesherandcomplimentsheronbeing aucourant,andat leastonceaweekhethanksherinfrontofmeforgivinghimagreatdaughter.
Ofcoursethatalwaysmakesmefeelwonderful.
Charming.
That’swhatmyparentsare.
Sincereand charming.
Ifinishedwiththestringbeansandstartedtosetthetableasmymotherbegan
cuttingupasalad.
“HowisHenry?”sheasked.
“Fine.”
I knew it wouldn’t take long before she’d know practically everything I did thatday.Sheasksmealotofquestions,butIdon’tmindbecausesheisreally
interested.Morethananything,Ifeelshedesperatelywantstosharemygrowing
upwithme.
“WebroughtabegoniaovertoMissApplebaum,”Isaidcasually.
Therewasabitofapauseasmymotherdicedacarrot.
“Thatwasveryniceofyou.”
Idetectedastrangetoneinhervoice.“Issomethingwrong?”
“No.”
“Areyousure,Mom?”
“Ijustheardthatshewasill,”shesaid.
“Howdidyouknow?”
“The nurse at my school knows the nurse at your school,” my mother said, soundingratherguarded,Ithought.Iforgothownetworkedmymomisthrough
most of the schools on the West Side. A lot of the teachers at her school are friendswithteachersatmyschool.Ontopofthat,mymom“schmoozes,”asshe
calls it, with all of my teachers during PTA meetings and neighborhood apartmentalliancemeetingsandeventslikethat.
“Issomethingwrong,Mom?”Iasked.
“No,”shesaid.
“Yes,thereis.”
“No,thereisn’t.”
“It’saboutMissApplebaum,isn’tit?”
“No,notreally.”
“Please tellme.”Icouldseeasadnesscreepintohereyes.
“Oh,honey,I’msorry....”
“You did hearsomething,didn’tyou,Mom?”
“Ishouldn’ttellyou.IknowhowmuchMissApplebaummeanttoyoualllast
year....”
“What?What’swrong?”Ipleaded.
Mymotherhasalmostneverliedtome.Sheoftenprotectsmefromthetruth
aboutcertainthingsorwaitsuntilshethinksI’moldenoughtounderstand.She
putherarmsaroundmeandgavemeahug.
“I heard Miss Applebaum’s very ill,” she finally said, sadly. “I’m sorry, honey.I’mverysorry,butthat’swhatIheard....”
IburstintotearsbecauseIknewwhatshemeant.AndIknewitwastrue.My
mom just let me cry in her arms as I told her about the horrible hypodermic needle and the doctor at Miss Applebaum’s. My mom told me everything she had heard from Miss Winters, the nurse at our high school, and she had even been told more details by someone who knew Mr. Kennedy, the assistant
principal, who had helped file Miss Applebaum’s medical retirement forms.
MissApplebaumhadretiredbecauseshewasterminallyillwithcancer.
“Buttheycantreatcancernow,”Isaid.
“ItmustbetoolateforMissApplebaum,”mymomsaidsoftly.
“Howcanitbe?”
“Sometimesitis,”mymomsaid.
Laterthatnight,Henrycalledme.Ihadn’tcalledhimbecauseIwantedtobe
alone and just try to sort things out in my mind. Henry knows whenever anything goes terribly wrong in my life and I’m completely overwhelmed. He
sensesitthroughtheairlikeESPandcallsorringsthedoorbell.AllIremember is telling him about Miss Applebaum, and for the first time, he didn’t have a snappyansweroracrazyideatofixeverything.
“Nowwe’ve got togoseeheragain.”
ThenextdaywasSaturdayandHenrymetmeinthelobbyofmybuildingat
9:30 A.M. He did look very tall and handsome, dressed in faded jeans and a sweatshirt that said: “KEEP AMERICA BEAUTIFUL: SWALLOW YOUR
BEER CANS!” He had already called Miss Applebaum and told me she was
thrilledthatwewantedtogototheparkwithher.Hesaidshesoundedperfectly
fineonthephoneanddidn’tbreathestrangelyatall.Infact,whenhehadoffered to stop by for her, she said she’d meet us at the 72nd Street park entrance becauseshehadalittleshoppingtodofirst.
“She didn’t sound like she was dying at all,” Henry said, although we both knew that people with cancer, even the most deadly kinds, usually don’t show symptomsintheearlystages.
We walked to the corner of 64th and Central Park West. From there, it was onlyeightblocksnorthtowhereweweresupposedtomeetMissApplebaum.
“Whatthey’resayingaboutherillnesscouldbejustamistake,”Isaid.
“Ofcourse,”Henryagreed,flippingashockofhairoutofhiseyes.
“Somebody could have mixed up medical records or glanced at the wrong
chart.”
“Doctorsmakeallkindsofmistakes,particularlywhentheyhaveeyeslikeDr.
Obitcheck’sandcomefromWeehawken,”Henryagreed.“Amaninmybuilding
knew someone who had a triple bypass and an X ray showed the surgeon had leftarubbergloveinwhenhesewedhimup.”
As we walked uptown, several blind people came tapping toward us with
white canes because there’s a school for the blind on 67th Street. On our right werealotofbenchesliningthelongstonewallthatmarksthewestboundaryon
Central Park; a number of derelicts and homeless people were still sleeping on them. A few were awake and staring at Henry’s sweatshirt and my long black hairasthough we werethepeculiarones.IfIeverdobecomeapsychologist,I wouldliketodoastudyonhomelesspeopleandwhatcanbedonetohelpthem.
It’sawfulhowtheyhavetolive!
Atsomepoints,theparklawnsrosehighenoughbeyondthewallsowecould
see other poor people who had built little shelters out of cardboard and rags
amidsttherocksandbushes.Andjusttotherightofthesidewalkweregratings coveringdeepsubwayairshafts.Everyfewminutes,thegroundwouldshakeas
a train rumbled by below, and stale air from the underground labyrinth would blowuplikeaMinotaurontheloose.Taxis,buses,trucks,andcarswerealready
honkingandbustlingupanddownthestreet.Kitchenworkerssatplayingpoker
outside the service entrance of Tavern on the Green restaurant. At one point I noticed for the first time a building on the left side of the street with dark archwaysthatlookedliketheentrancetoamausoleum.IknewIwasprojecting
allthefearIhadinsideofmeoverMissApplebaum.AsHenryandIapproached
72ndStreet,wecouldseethefamousDakotaapartmenthousewheremanyrich
celebritieslive.EverytimeHenryandIwalkbyit,webothgrowverysilentfor
anumberofreasons.Usually,oneofusmentionsthemoviefilmedtherewhere
Mia Farrow gives birth to Satan’s baby. And most of all, we can never forget thatJohnLennonwasmurderedinfrontofthehugeblackgates.Mymothertold
me Yoko Ono still lives there and owns five apartments, and there is a rumor thatoneofthepersonswhotriedtosaveJohnLennon’slifeoftengoestoparties andbragsthathekeptJohnLennon’sbloodstainedtie.Ithinkthatpersonmust
haveaverydeep-root
edpsychologicalproblemofhisown.
TherewasnosignofMissApplebaumaswecrossedtothepark.Atreewith
anenormoustrunkreacheditsbranchesupwardtothesky.Severalofitslimbs
had been cut off or shaved off by lightning, and although it was still only September, there was a crisp, cool smell of autumn in the air. Henry and I decidedtowaitbyasignthatproclaimedtherulesofthepark:
1) NOLOUDNOISESORDEFACINGOFPARKPROPERTY.
2) FAILURETOLEASHADOGISAPUNISHABLEOFFENSE.FINE
$50.
3) JOGGERSMUSTUSEDESIGNATEDLANES.
4) NOALCOHOL,DRUGS,ORROCKETLAUNCHINGS.
Afterwereadthesign,wenoticedabagladysleepingonabenchnearahot-
dog peddler. My heart practically broke just to look at her. She had ripped stockings and one leg hanging over the top rung of the bench, and half of her body was covered with newspapers. Three squirrels were looking at her as if theyknewsomethingwasverywrong.
“Theresheis!”Henryblurted.
IturnedtoseeMissApplebaumwearingherblackhomburghatandmarching
towardusfromacrossthestreet.Shewasalreadywavingandsmiling,andIwas surprisedtoseeherdressedinafamiliarearth-coloredsuitandcarryingthesame big leather briefcase she used to lug to school. It wasn’t that she had a lot of clothes, but I had always noticed the things she did have were made of sturdy wooloftastefulcolors.
“Hi,” she said, beaming, and she lifted her hat for a moment and brushed a handthroughthebangsofherpixiehair.“IhopeIhaven’tkeptyouwaiting?”
“Oh,no,”Henrysaid.
“Notatall,”Isaid,thinkinghowmuchshelookedlikeshewasjustarrivingto
punchtheschooltimeclockandgotowork.
“Iseeyou’vealreadyfound Helen.”MissApplebaumsmiled.
“Helen?” Iinquired.
MissApplebaumtookawhitebakerybagoutofherbriefcaseandplacediton
thebenchnearthesleepingbaglady.
“Breakfast time, Helen! Here’s your bagel!” Miss Applebaum practically
sang. The bag lady, without opening her eyes, reached over her head and grabbed the white bag. Then she clutched it to her body, straightened her newspapers,andwentbacktosleep.
“Come,come,come,”MissApplebaumsaidtous,andsetoffintotheparkat
agoodclip.“Ihavesomanythingstoshowyou!”
HenryandIscootedafterherintothefirstareaofthepark,whichhadasign
announcing “Strawberry Fields” because Yoko Ono had donated the money to makeitamemorialtoJohnLennon.Wewalkedoveratiledcirclethathadthe
word“IMAGINE”onit;onanearbylawnwasagroupofpeoplesittingcross-
leggedinacircle,chantinganddoingyogaexercises.
“I just love the park!” Miss Applebaum bubbled, still keeping a good pace.
“It’ssoalive!Soalive!”MissApplebaumdidn’tsoundlikeshewasdyingatall.
Actually, Henry and I hadn’t come to this part of the park in a long time.
Whenwewereveryyoung,ourparentswouldbringustotheparkplaygrounds
andsandboxesandtheChildren’sZooandplaceslikethat,butweneverthought
aboutitthesedays.Theonlythingwe’dheardabouttheparkforyearsnowwas
thatitwasadangerousplacewiththingslikediplomatsgettingmuggedandall
sortsofawfulevents.
“That treeisjustbeautifulinthespring,”MissApplebaumsaid,wavingata magnolia.
“I’llbet,”Henrysaid.
“Isn’t it a gorgeous day? Gorgeous! Gorgeous! Gorgeous!” Miss
Applebaum’seyessparkled.
“Yes,”Iagreed,thankfultoseehowwellshewasstillbreathing.Justlooking
atherhappyfacemademequestiontherumormymotherhadheard.
Pigeonsmovedoutofourway.Ahorseandcarriagedrovebyinthedistance.
There were beautiful exotic bushes and white birch trees. Actually, Strawberry Fields was landscaped like no other part of the park. Mimosa trees. Shaped hedges.Berrybushes.Abagcouplestretchedoutsunningthemselvesonarock
slab.
“IwanttoshowyouGenius’sWalk,andmyfavoritestatues,and,ofcourse,
we’llgoforarideontheCentralParkrollercoaster,”shetwinkled.
Henry looked ready to blurt out again that there was no roller coaster in CentralPark,butIshothimadirtylookandheshuthismouthforachange.He
justkeptsaying,“Coo,coo,coo,”tothepigeons.
Miss Applebaum led us along the main path of asphalt lined with
cobblestones,asjoggerspassedus.Theyeachhadtheirownstyleofclothesand
motion. Then we came out of Strawberry Fields and crossed a roadway with dozens of bicyclists wearing all sorts of costumes. One man was riding in a purplesuitandwearingapanamahat.Awomanrodebydressedallinyellow.
Thentherewasaboywithaliveparrotonhisshoulder.Deeperintothepark,we
passedthefirststatue.
“Do you know Daniel Webster?” Miss Applebaum asked, indicating the
statue.
“No,notreally,”Isaid.
“Oh, he was a remarkable American statesman and a great orator. Great!
Good morning, Mr. Webster,” Miss Applebaum said, still keeping up a good pace.“Oh,HenryandZelda,Ihavesomuchlefttoteachyou!Somuch!”
Fartheron,therewerelittlebriarpatchesandfirtreesandaverybigrockwith astatueofaboylettinglooseamagnificentbird.
“That’stheFalconer,”MissApplebaumsaid,smiling.“Isn’thebeautiful?”
It was very dramatic, I thought, and wondered why Henry and I had never noticedthatstatuebefore.Infact,thefartherwegotintotheparkandbeganto see it through Miss Applebaum’s eyes, the more we realized how much of the
parkwehadneverreallyknown.Ofcourse,wedidknowforcertaintherewas norollercoaster,andIdreadedthethoughtthatMissApplebaummightactually
trytoshowusone.
AcrossfromtheFalconerwasasideroadthatcurvedaroundinacircle,and
wesawalongvanandagroupofpeoplefilmingacommercial.Thatisasight
weoftenseealloverthecity.They’realwaysfilmingsomemodelinfrontofa
trendyJapaneserestaurantorclosingastreetsotheycandoacarchaseforaTV
show.HenryandIusedtostopandaskwhattheyweredoing,butnowwebarely
noticedthemanymore.EvenMissApplebaumdidn’tmentionthem.
“Oh,they’replaying bocci!”MissApplebaum exclaimedaswe walkedbya
fieldofoldmenandwomendressedinverycutewhitesportoutfitsandrolling
steelballs.“Theyplayeveryweekend,”MissApplebaumsaid.
SoonwewalkedbyParkDepartmentvehicles,amobofrollerskatersblasting
portable stereos, and a boy with a guitar. Then came a concession stand called theMineralSpringsHealthBar.
“WouldyoulikeaFudgsicle?”MissApplebaumasked.
“Oh,no,”Isaid.
“I would,”Henrysaid.
“Wonderful,” Miss Applebaum laughed, and she ordered one Fudgsicle and
fourteen hotdogs.
“Holdthis,please,”MissApplebaumasked,givingmeherbriefcase.Shepaid
for everything, gave Henry his ice cream, and had all the hot dogs put on a cardboardtray.
“Excuse me a moment
,” Miss Applebaum said, dashing to a row of benches whereshestartedpassingoutthehotdogstoagroupofhomelesspeoplelying
there.Shealsogavethemsomemoney,callingoverhershoulder,“Havesome
nicehotcoffeenow!”Aftershegaveeverythingaway,shecameboundingback
tous,takingherbriefcase.Shemarchedusonward.
“Somuchtodo,somuchtodo!”MissApplebaumdeclared.Wepassedafield
withasignthatsaid“THISAREARESERVEDFORQUIETRECREATION,”
andtherewerealotofpeopleflyingkites,picnicking,andthrowingFrisbees.
“Isn’titbeautiful?!”MissApplebaumcried,aswezippedbymotherspushing
babycarriagesandchildrenhoppingonpogosticks.Oneladywaspushingtwins
in a double stroller, and before the mother could stop her, Miss Applebaum boughtthemeachaheliumballoon.IfeltveryconcernedaboutMissApplebaum
spending so much money, but I was glad to see how energetic she was.
PsychologistsmightsayIwasexperiencingan“approach-avoidance”situation,
andmaybeIshouldhavesaidsomething,butIdidn’t.Henry,ontheotherhand,
was having a great time. There were all sorts of people all over the park. An Oriental woman was brushing a white poodle. Young boys and girls were
playinghopscotch.PeopleweretalkingSpanish,French,andGerman.Therewas
a police patrol in a blue truck. A statue of two eagles feasting on a dead goat with a date written as MDCCCLXIII. Then came a bust of Victor Herbert and peoplewithallsortsofballoonsincludingsilveronesshapedlikecrescentsand
stars.Atoneclearingwecouldseeinthedistancetheskylineofallthetowering apartmentsthatlinedtheparkandmarkeditsseparationfromtherestofthecity.
Streetlightsmadeofblackmetalandcurvedtoholdtranslucentglobeslinedthe
paths. Then we headed into a grove of very old giant trees, their branches shutting out most of the sun. A few leaves had begun to fall already and they spun around our feet like wisps of gold. There were huge maples. Oaks.
Sycamores. A girl walked by with her hair shaved except for a pigtail on the backofherhead.InosoonerheardthesoundofacalliopethanMissApplebaum
