By Keith Keller

It was a small park in Brooklyn with shady tree lined walking paths.  The old Victorian houses that surrounded the park were mostly inhabited by the sons and daughters of Irish immigrants or their sons and daughters.

Jennifer had inherited a sizeable sum of money from her grandmother and had spent many sleepless nights wondering what to do with it. She had heard of people winning millions in the lottery and winding up broke in a year or two. She knew that she could never live with herself if that ever happened and that her grandmother would come back to haunt her.  So far, since the inheritance, she had bought a leather jacket, a pair of cowboy boots, and subscribed to National Geographic. She felt guilty about the boots, they were expensive and she in no way had needed a pair of cowboy boots.  On the subway she felt people were staring at her feet even though she wore her jeans outside her boots. She wore the boots Saturdays to flea markets and had worn them once to the movies with her friend Darleen from work. Darleen told her that people were looking at her feet but that she liked the boots a lot.

After the movie and over coffee Jennifer explained her situation to Darleen who in turn told Jennifer about a house in Brooklyn her cousin was selling. She described a beautiful Victorian house with hardwood floors and a big porch.  When Darleen got to the part about the park with the shady paths Jennifer was sold before she even saw the house.  She was a jogger and the idea that she could just walk across the street from her house to run instead of having to take the A train to Columbus Circle and back to run in Central Park was sheer heaven. Also the F train would take her straight to her job as manager of a boutique on Eighth Street that catered to second generation hippies whose taste fluctuated between S & M leather and studs outfits and big Mexican skirts. When Jennifer saw the house, a one hundred year old Victorian Folk, favored by the Victorian working class, with a Queen Anne porch and bay windows, she went nearly crazy with delight. She had enough money to pay cash for the house, which got her a big discount, and left her enough for furniture and that trip to San Miguel de Allende her grandmother had insisted she must one day take.

Albert lived a few blocks from the park.  He was odd, even for a fifteen year old. He preferred reading to sports except for  regular weight lifting sessions at the YMCA, had a wide but skeptical knowledge of UFO sightings, considered the possibility of an alien visitation a threat to earth, and thought all teenagers were jerk offs. He liked to come to the park to read. He was taking a break from Brendan Behan’s Island while he sat watching painters painting a house across the street purple with dark green trim. A woman exited the house and walked to the sidewalk where she paused to survey the painter’s progress. She wore cowboy boots and had an empty cloth shopping bag slung over her shoulder. Albert guessed she would be about thirty years old and thought she was very pretty. After a while she turned and headed in the direction of the subway. Albert sat for a while wondering what kind of person would paint their house purple and green. He decided such a person would be very interesting. Then he went back to Brendan.

The next morning, Sunday, Jennifer was luxuriating in her sunny new living room sitting cross-legged on the sofa when the doorbell rang. “Maybe it’s the welcome wagon, maybe the neighbors have calmed down about the paint job,” she thought.

“Hi, I’m Albert,” said Albert.

“Hello Albert,” said Jennifer, “what can I do for you?”

Albert explained that he was from the neighborhood, “Over on the avenue a few blocks from the park.”  He was wondering if she had some yard work or anything else he could do for a little extra money.

“I’m cheap,” he informed her.

Albert came by most weekends. He was a hard worker and together he and Jennifer turned the back yard lawn into a vegetable garden, painted her bedroom blue with white trim and made a beautiful studio in the attic where Jennifer could write and paint.  She was a fair painter and a good short story writer. One afternoon when Albert had stopped by after school she showed him several stories that had been published in magazines. This impressed him very much and he spent a few hours on Jennifer’s porch reading them. By the time he finished it was late afternoon. He found her in the garden picking tomatoes for all the neighbors. Albert watched the sweat run down the middle of her back soaking the t-shirt she wore.  It was hot and humid. There was the whine of insects in the air. He took off his clean white school shirt and joined her pulling tomatoes from their vines; a modern day living version of The Gleaners, the lower slung sun cast longer shadows than the original in that latter day light. When the basket was full they each took a wire handle and carried it to the back porch. Then they sat on the steps. While they let warm breezes dry them off, Albert filled Jennifer in on the latest bogus UFO sightings.

One Saturday Jennifer came home after a morning at the flea markets. Albert was mowing her front lawn and gave her a wave but continued mowing. On her kitchen table was a gift-wrapped package in simple brown paper and orange ribbon. It had a little tag that said ‘Jennifer.’

“How did you know?” asked Jennifer as she opened each box of Celestial Seasons tea to smell the contents.

“You people are easy,” answered Albert in a mater of fact tone, “cheese, tea, or macramé.”

“What?” asked Albert, as she stared at him.

“Just thinking,” she answered. “About what?”

“About what a handsome young man you are,” she answered truthfully, smiling. “No, really,” responded Albert as Jennifer put away the boxes of teabags.

“Really,” responded Jennifer.

It was late October and Albert had worked until after dark raking and bagging leaves. The night had turned chilly and it had rained a little. He was tired and cold. It was October and the heat was not on. Jennifer built a fire. I will leave to the reader the details of what followed, to his or her interpretation and discretion, that is, either in a positive or negative light.  But that question is for another story, not our story. Perhaps it is enough to say what happened began as a whisper and grew to the grace of a running racehorse and ended in a warm wet puddle in front of a fire of embers. Would that be too much to hope for?

They made love several times more in the purple and green Victorian house and then Jennifer came to her senses and called the whole thing off. It was best for Albert and besides she was pretty sure she was breaking the law. Albert threw a shit fit and had a full-blown tantrum. Then he turned to pleading. Jennifer became confused as to just what he was begging for. Finally she got Albert, between shuddering fits, to agree to not come to her house or even the park for a while. He lied and said he would not.

Every day Albert went to the park to catch a glimpse of Jennifer. One afternoon a man went up the path to Jennifer’s house, knocked, and was let in.  The following minutes provided Albert with a range off emotional experiences running from dark rage to the depths of despair, or so he felt. He had reached a point where he was imagining running into the house to confront Jennifer when she appeared wearing one of her big Mexican skirts from her boutique and holding the arm of the man as they made their way down the porch stairs of Jennifer’s house. She seemed very happy. He couldn’t believe it.

He followed her as close as he dared. It was fall and there were no leaves on the trees or bushes so he had to keep his distance. He had followed them for several minutes when he saw the man sweep Jennifer into his arms and spin her around. This was unbelievable. She seemed to be laughing quietly. He ran toward them, his eyes flushed with tears. He could barely see the path. He lost his balance and stumbled to his knees in front of her. Arms stretched wide, head down in supplication.

Sobbing, Albert proclaimed his love for her and told her she had ruined his life. He struggled to his feet in a futile effort to regain his dignity and confront her face. He wiped his tears and took a deep breath, searching for the words that might bring Jennifer back to him. This was not necessary, however, for the woman who stood before him in confused consternation was not Jennifer, but a woman he had never seen before.

Delirious, shaken and confused, Albert slumped back down the same path he had arrived on, barley registering the loud voices of the startled couple he left behind.

The End