Lilian’s eyes shifted left again, away from him. She wished that just once she could walk somewhere without some guy deciding so small a woman would be easy to pick up. And this was an especially unsavory specimen. She shot him another quick look: he hadn’t shaved, he owned a potbelly which was putting an awful strain on that poor abused belt, and he further possessed a bald spot made all the more obvious by growing the hair long just below it.
Her nose wrinkled: the first mistake was consulting a doctor about her stress. “More fresh air”: look how that was working! It had torn her way from work waiting to be done and taken her here to suffer even more stress. She checked her watch to see how close she was to being finished with fresh air for today.
Schuyler licked his lips. She was moving as if to check the time again, but he wasn’t fooled. Lord, she’d looked at that watch four times in the last five minutes; no appointment in a park was that important, anyhow at this time of day. If she wanted to look at him, let her just DO it; he would find it less uncomfortable than all this kidding around.
Je knew he should have shaved. The stubble made him look like a nonconformist, and that was back in style. A stomach like this should make him ineligible for any woman’s interest, but some women were looking for variety, while others were desperate. This one was desperate. She wasn’t even as tall as the fence, it looked like, and she had those small, mean, concentrated features. Her face wasn’t particularly clean and, to judge by her clothes, the theme as continued elsewhere. He hoped she would not speak; he didn’t want to know what her voice sounded like.
He set his back against the bench and sighed. Lilian crossed her legs and looked away.
Behind them, Bluebell giggled. “She’s pretending not to see him. Isn’t that cute?”
“Promising, promising.” Meadow Saffron kicked at a dandelion. “But we have to do better than that. Maybe see if we can get them on the same bench.”
Bluebell nodded. “How do you want to do it? If it started to rain we might get them under an umbrella together.”
“Maybe.” Meadow Saffron pointed. “Get yonder while I ponder.”
Lilian risked another glance. If he made one move in her direction, the doctor could just mail fresh air to her apartment. Oh grand: he didn’t lack a single vice to make himself unattractive. He was reaching in his pocket for cigarettes.
Schuyler took the pen and folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He wondered whether the expert who recommended fresh air as a cure for writer’s block had ever seen this particular patch of struggling greenery. Why did all those professionals tell writers to get outside and describe a tree? He had never yet written a story in which any tree had had anything significant to do, and his characters couldn’t just walk around all day describing trees.
He tapped the butt of the pen against his lower lip. Might make a book, at that. “Describing Trees”, the tale of a distant island to which all free-lance fictioneers finally driven mad by writer’s block and low payments walked around describing trees to each other all the livelong day. There would be an annual Tree-Describing Competition, a tree-worshipping cult, and…and a mad villain who rode through the island swinging a chainsaw.
He looked up from the paper to consider the motives of the chainsaw killer or killers—escapees from a nearby island of insane editors?—And found the woman’s beady little eyes turned his direction again. Well, this business of describing trees might have something in it after all, but he could just as easily describe trees from home. Describing trees would be far easier without her constant supervision. Besides, it looked like rain.
Lilian supposed he was writing a note. That could be one way to get rid of him without having to speak to him. Should she crumple it up and throw it over one shoulder, or stride off with dignity and drop it in a trash can? Hard to stride off with dignity when you were four foot two. What if she decided, from her walk, that she was inviting him to follow, before she got a chance to show her real opinion at the garbage can. Crumple and toss: much more efficient.
What was taking so long? Was he writing her a poem or something? She tried another glance, met his eyes, and turned away again. Obviously, he was putting a lot of thought into this: pity he was wasting his time. What if this poem turned out to be completely obscene? She stuck her tongue up inside her upper lip. No, he was probably drawing a nude picture of her in some bizarre position: some men did consider that a rare compliment.
Tongue and lips came in. What if it was a good likeness? With that stubble, the guy might be an artist, selling his sketches for hundreds in a gallery. Could she crumple up a picture that was worth so much? If she didn’t, might someone who knew her recognize it one day, and assume she’d posed for it? Why couldn’t artists go infest some other park instead of complicating her life this way?
Schuyler was, in fact, sketching a map of the Isle of Described Trees. The Vale of Pencils would be here, while the bubbling spring of hot coffee could tumble down from the Mountain of Manuscripts. Among the waves of the ocean, he was writing “HERE BE AGENTS” when the wind, of which there had been none a second before, tore the paper from his hands.
Four eyes watched the folded page bounce along the ground, apparently making for Lilian’s ankles. Well, thought Lilian, not subtle, but ten points for accuracy.
Schuyler stuck his tongue behind his upper lip. This was trouble. Would it be better to go after his notes, or ask her to hand them back? Better go get them. If she touched the paper, she might read it, ask questions, and trap him into conversation.
Lilian drew back, setting one foot on the notes. “Excuse mem” said Schuyler, keeping his eyes on her as he reached for them. “Dropped this.”
“Oh, sorry.” She slid so far away that one thigh protruded over the edge of the seat.
“That’ all right.” The treasure back in his hands, Schuyler returned to his own bench.
Vivian glared after him. Had he been gawking down her blouse or up her skirt? More details for his masterpiece, she supposed.
Schuyler saw her face as he sat down. Angry because he hadn’t said more, she was now going to insist on sitting next to him to talk, he knew it. How was he supposed to write a best-seller if she insisted on playing games?
“Did you have to pick such thick-headed ones?” Bluebell demanded. “We’d better get the others or we’ll be here all day.”
, “Obviously, we’ve got two who are just right for each other.” Meadow Saffron tapped one foot. “All we have to do is make them figure that out. Hey, here we go!”
Great: Lilian felt a muscle in her forehead twitch, just the sort of thing she’d come out here to cure. Her right eyebrow quivered. She’d promised Dr. Coath she’d try to stay out an hour each day; he’d never believe her excuse for going back inside.
Oh, now she was winking at him! This was too much. He started to rise, but then the idea of a tribe of cheap little dark-eyed female cannibals on the island struck him. He could see their gruesome eyes peeking out at the writers from the undergrowth, distracting the poor souls from their leaf-by-leaf epics. Ah, no doubt they were employed by the editors, and when not working as cannibals were inept proofreaders.
A red piece of candy bounced along the ground. Neither Lilian nor Schuyler, concerned with other obsessions, noticed it, but smaller eyes saw it. First one ant, and then a dozen, followed the bouncing sweetness.
Lilian checked her watch. Forty-five minutes yet to go? She was going to be so healthy she’d need private duty nurses and restraints on the bed. Would he follow her if she just got up and found another bench? If only the rain would start, the doctor would have to….
“Ooh!” She jumped as an ant crawled across her thigh. Ants were swarming along the bench. Lilian could not stand tiny wildlife.
Schuyler shrank to the farthest end of his own bench. The woman was pointed at him, shaking her tiny skirt well above the safety point. She was more desperate than he’d thought.
Lilian shook away ants and glared t the man, who was obviously making room for her on his bench. This was too much. He was probably the one who had planted ant bait under her place. Time to go home: this fresh air was getting more and more complex.
“Hey, get back here!” Meadow Saffron shouted. “Come back!”
Lilian stepped off the curb just before the phronik reached her. “Oh, I hate when that happens,” growled Bluebell, rubbing her nose where she’d banged it on the unseen barrier which kept the phronik restricted to Griese Park. “Look! The other one’s getting away!”
“Hey!” Meadow Saffron bellowed after Schuyler, “You’re supposed to be in love, you lummox!”
Bluebell followed, but pulled up short as Schuyler, too, stepped off the curb and out of the park. “Owwwww!” cried Meadow Saffron, rubbing her own nose as she turned around.
“Now what?” demanded Bluebell.
“Ah, they’ll e back,” said Meadow Saffron, “They’ll realize how much they liked it here and…..”
Looking up to where she had expected to see Bluebell, she saw Bluebell, Sweet Pea, Primrose, and an annoyingly serene angel. “Well,” said Primrose, her arms folded behind her back, “If it isn’t Mac and Tush!”
Sweet Pea fluttered overhead and let two little candy wrapper dunce caps drop onto the heads of her sisters. “Oooh, that’s cute!”
“Aw, what do you toenail biters want?” demanded Meadow Saffron, pushing the cap above her eyes.
Primrose shook a finger at her. “You been showing off again. See what happens?”
“They were supposed to fall in love,” muttered Meadow Saffron, pulling the dunce cap back down. “Between deep love and mature love, they should have fallen too hard to ever ever get up again!”
Unfirom shook his head. “Not without the initial rush of shallow love. Consider a broken leg: shallow love is the splint while deep love is the knitting of the bones.”
Bluebell tipped her dunce cap back and clapped her hands. “Isn’t he sweet when he gets all mystic?”
“Did it mean anything?” Primrose agreed, nodding. “Or was it just angeltalk?”
The angel’s eyes were half-closed. “The work requires the four of you. With an angel to identify your proper targets.”
“Some people like improper targets,” Primrose noted, poking Meadow Saffron from behind.
“Why couldn’t they be a target” Meadow Saffron demanded, kicking one leg up behind her and missing Primrose by a good margin. “They could be going to Do It.”
“It was a remote possibility, depending on circumstances outside the park.” The angel blinked. “You have actually improved the chances and, in their new courses, they will meet again in this park one day.”
“And so they WILL….”
Unfirom shook his head. “It depends on too many other matters; I cannot see it clearly.”
Meadow Saffron balanced her dunce cap on her nose. “And what if we’d succeeded?”
“I cannot see that at all.”
“Well, anyway…..” Bluebell put the tip of her dunce cap to one eye and peered through it. “What should we do now for fun?”
“How about some work?” replied the angel. “Now that we’re all together again, we’re here, we’re here, there is another couple.”
“Where? Where?” demanded Sweet Pea.
“This way,” he said, starting toward the fieldhouse. Not far.” He pointed at two people holding hands.
“They look nice,” said Meadow Saffron. “When are they going to Do It?”
“In about fifteen minutes, if you don’t get a move on.”
All four phronik clustered above the young man’s tousled hair. “Right here?” demanded Sweet Pea. “Ooh, it’s been almost a week!”
“They’re sweet together,” said Primrose. “Are you sure they’re not in love?”
“He’s keeping score,” the angel said.
“One of those, is he?” sniffed Primrose.
Sweet Pea followed as the two slid into the narrow gap between a row of bushes and the wall of the fieldhouse. “Has he got any rubber thingies with him?”
“No,” said Unfirom. “That’s part of the problem.”
Bluebell stared at the angel. “Oh, I get it. You mean we have to stop them?”
“If you would, please.”
Meadow Saffron wrinkled her nose. “Huh. Some job we got.”
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