Unfirom blinked. He could still see the survey crew, and the park. Now, though, there were new colors, paler shades of the real greens and blues he’d seen a moment ago. This alternate August N. Griese park always bothered his eyes. It was out of focus.
The grey-haired human costume had vanished, returning him to his natural form, providing the only sharp, clear colors in this universe. Unfirom was a tall, brilliant angel, his aura clearly defined, his wings perfectly defined, his robes falling in creases evenly spaced around his body, his face proving that it is possible to be both ageless and timeless, and yet immediately identifiable as an old fuddy-duddy.
He frowned at the pale browns and blues of the survey crew. They’d started early. Shrugging, he turned to the tennis players. The park was waking up. He sighed. That meant it was time to alert the phronik. It was time, in short, to get to work. He sighed again.
It was not that Unfirom disliked his assignment to Griese Park. Liking or disliking an assignment was alien to angelic dignity. That which was given him to bear, he would bear.
He did wish the phronik were less generous about giving him things to bear.
The place to start was the patch of weeds in that space too narrow to mow between the fence around the tennis courts and the sidewalk. His third step nearly came down on a tiny creature who sat cross-legged among the dandelions, weaving a necklace of grass.
“Good morning, Sweet Pea,” he called, drawing back his foot.
She paid no attention to the foot. “Good morning, Mr. Angel. Does this mean it’s daytime again?”
“The sun’s up.”
Sweet Pea, still weaving the necklace, rolled onto her stomach and set her chin on the sidewalk. Her toes wiggled thoughtfully. “Should I ask HIM, then?”
Sweet Pea was a small woman with a head out of proportion to her body, and eyes out of proportion to her head. A teeny pink skirt clung to her waist as an ornament only, as it offered no cover. She was a phron.
“Where are your sisters?” asked Unfirom, feeling a change of subject would improve the conversation.
“Oh, in the park somewhere.” She waved both hands up behind her.
“Let’s go find them.”
She kicked her feet behind her. “Why don’t we stay here and let them find us? I might be about to see a bunny.”
Unfirom considered pink toes. Angelic faces lack the ability to show slyness, so his expression did not change as he inquired, “What if Primrose is about to see a bunny?”
Sweet Pea rolled over, planting her palms on the ground. “It’s not her turn! She saw six yesterday!” She frowned, setting her left index finger on her chin. “Or did she see the same bunny six times?”
“Let’s go ask her.” Unfirom waved to the park. Rising on invisible wings, Sweet Pea flew as far as his right shoulder, and sprawled out. His upper lip twitched, but he did not shake her off.
Unfirom knew from experience that there was no hope of success in hunting for a phron. Even in a park as small as this, there were simply too many places to hide. The easiest, if most abhorrent to an angel, method to finding a phron was to wander without direction. So Unfirom looked around, chose the direction most likely to lead him to a phron, turned his back on it, and strode away. An easy amble would have worked better, but there was a limit to Unfirom’s adaptabilities.
“How come we can’t watch bunnies instead of people?” the phron on his shoulder asked him.
“I’ll explain when you’re older,” the angel replied. “Aha!”
“Aha!” echoed Sweet Pea, rising. “What is it?”
A small white paper bag was rolling in the grass. Griese Park sat within three blocks of no fewer than seven fast food joints, for which reason its detractors on the City Council referred to it as Greasy Park. Stooping, Unfirom snatched up the bag, giving it a little squeeze.
“Ah, get out!” snarled a voice from within.
“You get out,” the angel replied, rolling the bag up from the bottom. A pair of legs emerged, and a brilliant blue skirt, followed soon after by matching blue eyes in a large head.
A mouth was included. “I thought all you guys were supposed to do was kiss sleeping babies and pull little kids out of frozen rivers.”
“I scored poorly in baby-kissing.” Unfirom bounced the rolled bag on the ground. It swung as if caught by a wayward breeze, and twirled into one of the dented oil drums which served the park as garbage cans. “Have you seen your sisters?”
“Lots of times.” Bluebell wrinkled her nose.
Angelic noses do not wrinkle. Unfirom did raise an eyebrow. “Recently? It’s time to go to work.”
“We think Primrose is going to see a bunny,” Sweet Pea put in.
“That twitch?” Bluebell snorted. “She wouldn’t even look at a bunny unless it was one she cut out with one of her bunny cookie cutters.”
“Ooh, that’s right: she can make her own bunnies!” Sweet Pea slapped her palms against the soles of her feet.
“Almost as fast as the bunnies do,” yawned Bluebell.
“To work,” said Unfirom. “The morning’s first target is within reach.”
“Well, those loafers should help, if we have to,” Bluebell declared. “They probably found an ice cream….”
“Wait!” Unfirom raised a hand. He had heard the start of a duet.
“Percolator, coffeemaker,
Subaru and Studebaker:
All you got is all you’re gonna get:
Waddya bet?”
Beneath empty swings sat Primrose and Meadow Saffron, the remaining pair of Unfirom’s tribulations, singing as they played an elaborate form of pattycake, using hands, feet, and any other body part within reach.
“Mamma made her money with a shake of her hips
And bought a place that manufactured buggy whips;
They made so many dollars she was getting bored:
Along game a joker name of Henry Ford!
“Percolator, coffeemaker,
Subaru and Studebaker:
All you got is all you’re gonna get:
Waddya bet?”
“Is anyone ready for work?” Unfirom inquired. The first two phronik were swinging on the hem of his robe.
“He’s giving us a choice,” said Primrose, continuing the game without looking up.
Meadow Saffron slapped her own right shoulder twice with her left hand, and then Primrose’s left shoulder. “No, he’s not. I can tell. It’s the way those lines at the sides of his eyes squinch up.”
Primrose slapped each of her own knees, and then Meadow Saffron’s elbows. “I really ought to work on my cookbook, you know. There are only twelve recipes ready.”
Meadow Saffron’s palm bounced off her own ears and then Primrose’s nose. “You do know all your recipes are pretty much the same, don’t you?”
Primrose punched Meadow Saffron in the mouth and then kicked her in the stomach. “What do you know about research? Or cooking? And how am I supposed to do any real work with that itty-bitty kitchen in the park lodge? She stamped both feet together on an already flattened cigarette butt. “AND ants all over the place?”
Meadow Saffron dove down to snatch the cigarette butt from under her opponent’s feet. Sweet Pea sped down between the two combatants, the game having obviously moved beyond pattycake.
“Spoilsport,” grunted Bluebell, as Primrose and Meadow Saffron slapped the intruder’s arms and thighs in agreement.
“There is work to be done,” said Unfirom, with no change of expression.
“Keep spanking me and we won’t have to,” whispered Sweet Pea. She looked over her shoulder as Primrose, and spotted something farther back. “Ooh, those men are back with their sticks and bracelets! What do they want this time?”
“I told you.” Unfirom’s voice lowered a bit under the weight of frustration. “They are surveying this park to show whether it would be economically viable to make changes the city has in mind.”
Primrose slapped her hands to her hips. “Well, tell them we need a better kitchen!”
“Oh, oh, and new benches!” said Bluebell. “Because people can’t sit on the broken ones and drop their ice cream bars for us.”
“We could use a band shell,” meadow Saffron suggested. “So we could sing along.”
“Or a gazebo,” sighed Bluebell, falling over on her back and floating along a breeze, crossing and uncrossing her feet.
“And paint the horsey swings!” cried Sweet Pea.
“And a newsstand on the corner!” shouted Primrose, kicking herself in the forehead. “There used to be one!”
“Actually,” said Unfirom, “As I have mentioned, the museum people would like to turn this into a passive park, which would set off their new building and attract the right sort of people.”
“What’s a passive park?” Meadow Saffron tossed herself onto her stomach in the grass, examining the handle of a broken plastic spoon.
“Fountains and flower beds, primarily,” the angel said. “People walk through it and take pictures in it. There are signs to keep people off the grass, and sometimes a guard to make sure no one picks the flowers. Dogs are not allowed. It will be peaceful and decorative and very appropriate when the new museum building goes up across the street.”
The phronik flew back from his face to make sure he wasn’t joking. “No track?” Primrose demanded. “What about the gorgeous guys running around it in their teeny teeny shorts?”
“No more puppies being walked on strings?” squeaked Sweet Pea.
“No more bottoms in white tennis panties?”
“What about the playground and all the ice cream those little kidleys drop?”
The angel shook his head. “That is all wrong for a passive park.”
“Let’s drop something on them!”
Bluebell and Primrose shot into the air. “Something sharp and heavy!”
With skill born of much practice, Unfirom caught all four pairs of wings as the phronik rose to the assault. “That will do no good.”
“They’d just send more, right?” sighed Meadow Saffron.
“The park is not our assignment,” the angel intoned. “If this must become a passive park, we shall work as we always have. There is a target for us now.”
“Two more?” demanded Meadow Saffron. “Already? This IS an active park!”
Unfirom strode forward, releasing the phronik one at a time to flutter alongside. “This way. Quickly, before others arrive.”
He stopped five yards from a bench constructed of L-shaped concrete blocks with boards bolted to them. A young woman with masses of hair of an indeterminate shade sat there reading a book on Ostrogoths. She was doing so through very thick eyeglasses.
“Her?” demanded Blubell. “Never!”
“Look.” Unfirom did not need to point. His voice compelled their eyes toward the concrete path that ran parallel to the cinder track.
A smallish young man with a prominent Adam’s apple, clear complexion, and what might almost be described as a red pompadour was moving in long, easy strides along the path, swinging a canvas bag. Bright, wide eyes turned left and right, nostrils widened and narrowed as he took in deep breaths of the morning air.
“Well, okay,” said Bluebell. “He might be that desperate.”
“Aw, I think he’s cute.” Sweet Pea rose a little in the air for a better view.
“His name,” Unfirom informed them, “Is Arthur. Her name is Julia. They are sophomores at Mershon College, but they have not yet met. They will meet next semester, in their Political Science 203 course.”
Meadow Saffron yawned and stretched her toes. “Yes. But when are they going to DO It?”
“Next May,” the angel replied. “Because she feels sorry for him.”
Four pairs of eyes turned to Julia. “Ooh, I could just bite her!” cried Sweet Pea, curling tiny fists.
“He will be so shocked when he finds out about this, three weeks later,” Unfirom went on, “That he will never ‘DO It’ again.”
“Oh no oh no oh no oh no,” said Primrose, her hands to her throat.
Meadow Saffron showed no signs of yawning now. “We have to help!”
“You know what to do,” said the angel. “If you can force them to meet now, and make sure they are attracted to each other, you can change the outcome.”
The phronik swirled into the air, taking up positions in the tree behind Julia’s bench. Each tucked herself into a hiding place among the leaves.
Unfirom strolled over to stand under the tree, his hands folded back under his wings. “You do remember that they can’t see or hear us?”
Primrose sniffed. “You do your job. We’ll do ours.”
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