Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,86

I told her she was smart, & that I’d hire someone.

In all the house looked happier than what I remembered. It looked noble & stately.

“Ready?” Yolanda asked, & she began putting one foot in front of the other very slowly, & I too put one foot in front of the other.

After five steps I was already breathing very hard, but fortunately Yolanda said she had better stop because her back was hurting her, so together we stood outside the neighbors’ house for a moment, until we had caught our breath. & then we continued up the hill of 5th Street.

I believe it took us close to half an hour to walk as far as Prospect Park West, and crossing it proved to be the most difficult feat of all—for the first time there was a need to rush. Somebody honked at me and that was a very bad feeling but Yolanda said to him, “I’m pregnant, assh-le!” and the man behind the wheel raised his hands in apology.

By the time we had gotten across the street I had sweated through my shirt. It was one shade darker all over. I could feel small rivulets forming in the creases of my back. I stumbled once, terrifyingly, & thought for certain I would fall down hard on my knees, but Yolanda put a steadying hand on my arm & somehow I regained my balance. I waited for her to retract her hand in disgust but she did not, just said, “Careful,” and only took it away when I was walking straight again.

I was worried about myself. I could barely speak in between breaths. & I had the whole way back to walk.

“Look how pretty,” said Yolanda, & for the first time I noticed the outside of the park.

It was true. There was a barren kind of prettiness to it & I thought of my favorite of Shakespeare’s sonnets, which I believe was my father’s favorite too—I once found it typed amongst his things. Almost all of the trees were bare except for certain ones that clutched their leaves to them dearly. The Litchfield Villa was bright against the darkness of the trees & the cars in its parking lot reminded me of families. The sun was shining brightly & illuminating what it had selected for its focus. I put one hand against the stone wall that runs the perimeter of the park & waited there for a while.

“We could go back now,” said Yolanda. “I wouldn’t mind.”

But suddenly I wanted to see inside it: Prospect Park is like a geode, hidden by a ring of ample trees, a jewel inside it. It was the inside that I remembered best.

This meant walking almost as far as I had already come, but a second wind was gusting in my sails, & so I asked Yolanda if we could go a bit farther. “Are you all right?” I asked her, and she said she was.

Perhaps because it was a nice day, there were more cyclists & runners than I had ever seen. In the 90s the park was not a place to go except for on bright summer days or weekends or peak times of the day. One would not go there close to dusk, which was what we were approaching by that time we were under a darkening sky. Now, crossing the interior road was as difficult as crossing Prospect Park West. I had a near-collision with a cyclist who screeched to an angry halt. & again Yolanda was my protector, cursing at him & saying to watch where he was going, though in this case I believe he was in the right.

At last we reached a place where I could see the meadow. & I breathed in deeply. & Yolanda did too. It felt as if we were off in the country someplace or even in England, & I told her so, & she said I never knew you were from England, & I told her O I am not, but my parents were.

There were whole families gathered together under the winter sky. They were bundled up well and the little ones in strollers had hats on and mittens. It seemed to me that everyone was wearing brighter colors than I had remembered.

“You wanna sit down?” asked Yolanda, indicating a bench. “Because I do.”

I said all right, tho when I sat I took up most of the space between the wrought-iron armrests & Yolanda had to squeeze herself in to my right.

I thought