“How am I bothering you?”
“By talking to me and... and following me, for Pete’s sake.”
“Well, you look like someone I know,” Buddwing said.
“Who? Oh, never mind, don’t tell me. Doris.” She made an open-fingered gesture with her right hand, bringing the hand close to her face, her eyes opening wide, and then she rolled her eyes as if she would go out of her mind if she heard the name Doris one more time.
“Yeah,” he said, “Doris.”
“Doris, Doris, all right.”
“May I walk with you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
“Even if I don’t talk to you?”
“Look,” she said angrily, “it’s a free country, and I can’t stop you from walking wherever you want to.” The light changed, and she crossed the avenue. He walked beside her, but he did not speak to her. She still glanced at him occasionally, but made no other acknowledgment of his presence. They walked in silence all the way to Central Park West, past the Tavern-on-the-Green and then onto the 66th Street footpath.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I told you not to talk to me. Listen, you’d better not get funny,” she said. “This is Central Park, you know.”
“So?”
“So you get funny in Central Park, and boy! I’m telling you.”
“I slept here last night,” Buddwing said.
“Where? You mean here? In the park?”
“Yes.”
“You look it,” Janet said sourly. “You need a shave.” She glanced at him briefly, and turned away. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who needs a shave.” She glanced at him again and said, “My brother always needs a shave, too. His whole damn apartment needs a shave, if you ask me. Boy, what a rattrap. And I mean rattrap, believe me. I mean, he’s got brazen rats in that apartment who come right out and sit on their hind legs and stare at you, for Pete’s sake, actually stare you down. And I mean rats, not mice.”
“Missile mum, mice missing,” Buddwing said.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“I thought you said something.”
“No, I was just mumbling.”
“Oh.”
They were deep in the park now, deep in the midst of park noises: the joyous sound of shrieking children chasing each other in circles, climbing on the rocks, shooting imaginary guns; the imperious sound of Swedish governesses pushing polished baby buggies, shouting to sibling wards in Greta Garbo tones, tall and statuesque and blond like Nevada show girls; the impatient sound of taxicabs winding on the transverse road, the gunning of engines, the honking of horns; the sweet sound of gentle laughter, of lovers lying on the grass, a boy stretched back with his arm behind his head, one knee bent, a young redheaded girl leaning over him with her long hair falling loose, their shared laughter, the gentle touch of their hands; the distant sound of a baseball game somewhere, the excited voices of young boys in competition; the steady beating rhythm of a skip rope slapping against the path, and little girls’ voices in unison chanting, “Double-ee-Dutch, double-ee-Dutch”; the chattering sound of bulging women with knee-length silk stockings, sitting with widespread legs on sunwashed green benches; the sounds of an oasis.
“Well, we seem to be walking together after all,” Janet said, and she smiled such a radiantly lovely smile, shy and rare, dimpling the corners of her mouth, that he fell in love with her in that instant, and then immediately suspected he had been in love with her all along.
“Yes, I suppose we are,” Buddwing said.
“You’re not a degenerate or anything, are you?”
“No, no.”
“God, I can’t stand those spooks who rub up against you in the subway.”
“Neither can I.”
“They rub up against you, too?” she asked, astonished.
“No, no, I meant I can’t stand the ones who rub up against you. You, Janet.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, and gave a curious giggle. “Are you picking me up?” she asked.
“Would you like to be picked up?”
“Well, no, not particularly. But I don’t mind talking to you. You seem all right.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
“It’s a beautiful day,” he said, and added, “You’re a beautiful girl, Janet.”
“I’m not really,” she said. “My nose is too long, and my legs are too skinny. That’s why I’m wearing these black tights. They make your legs look better, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Well, they do. Thank you for saying so, anyway.”
“Saying what, Janet?”
“Well, what you said.”
“I’m sorry, what...”
“About my being...” She turned away from him shyly. Her voice dropped. “Beautiful,” she said.
“Where are you going now?” he asked.
“Oh, to my analyst,” she said. “He’s on Park and Sixty-fifth. I don’t have to be there until ten-thirty.”
“Well, that gives us a little time.”
“Yes,” she said. She turned to look at him, and he saw how very green her eyes were, reflecting the freshness of the spring grass all around them, glowing with sunshine. “Hey, you know, I really shouldn’t be doing this,” she said. “Talking to you like this. How do I know who you are?”
“Who do you think I am?”
“Oh, boy, you sound just like my analyst! He always wants to know what I think about something. I ask him something simple, like where he went to medical school, and he says, ‘Where do you think I went to medical school?’” Janet shrugged. “He went to Cornell, in case you’re interested.” She pulled a wry face and added, “I’m sure that’s very fascinating to you, the fact that my analyst went to Cornell.”
“I am fascinated,” Buddwing said.
“Ho-ho, I’ll just bet you are. How old are you, anyway?”
“How old do you think I am?”
“There you go again, you’d better watch it. Hey! You’re not an analyst, are you?”
“No, I think I’m a patient, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, welcome to the club. What’s your doctor’s name?”
Buddwing smiled and said, “Voegler, Dr. Edward Voegler.”
“Thank God we don’t have the same analyst,” Janet said.
“Voegler’s the resident psychiatrist at Central Islip State Hospital,” Buddwing said.
“Really? I know Central Islip.”
“How do you know it?”
“Oh, one of my instructors made a joke about it, in a Psych course. I’m really raw-ther well oriented psychologically, as you can see. Anyway, they first performed frontal lobotomies at Central Islip, and apparently they did a great many of them there because everyone in the profession began calling it Central Icepick. You know, they do a lobotomy with a long—”
“Yes,” Buddwing said.
“I wonder if your Dr. Voegler performs lobotomies.”
“I wonder.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I will, the next time I see him.”
“How often do you go?” Janet asked.
“How often do you go?”
“Four times a week.”
“Me, too,” Buddwing said.
“Been going long?”
“Oh, on and off.”
“How long?”
“How long have you been going?”
“Two years,” Janet said.
“Me, too,” Buddwing answered.
“Well,” Janet said. “Anyway, how old are you? You still haven’t told me.”