by A J Grayson
‘We will need time to consider. You’ll have a determination letter from the administrative office within two weeks.’
He signals to the stenographer, and at her flip of a switch the red lights on all their microphones go dark.
72
Friday – Two Weeks Later
I’m on my bench again this lunchtime. No surprises. The morning was the usual routine, but I’ve found my way back to my spot. To my perfect, ideal, sacred spot.
My bench is old, tainted from moisture. From it, I’m afforded the best view in the park. And in front of me, the pond. Not the blue-basined, sanitized sort of water feature too common in public spaces. The pond, though entirely manmade, is of a style au naturel. Just the right amount of vegetation colours its surface. A few stones peek up from the brown water, often serving as perches for birds. Surrounded by tall trees, the pond is generally hidden from the breeze, and so almost always the texture of glass – and just as reflective.
I sit on my bench, the poet in the midst of poetry. There is a poem here. I can feel it. Waiting to be found and spoken. One that will sing of something brighter than the dark world that gives it birth.
I’ve been coming here every day since I moved to San Francisco. Every day when I’m done with my morning shift selling herbal supplements that nobody wants and that I would certainly never take. So much nonsense, really.
But here a poet can come to sing his song to the greens and browns of nature, and witness it singing back.
There is a woman here, at my pond, today. There’s something vaguely familiar about her; something maternal, kind. I feel like I might have known her once, but I realize that’s silly, in a park with so many people in it and as socially reclusive as I generally am. So many women have that look. I’m sure she’s here for the same reasons I am, whoever she is. To see the beauty that a secret spot can hold. To be comforted by the extraordinary wonder of life.
I’m not writing any poetry today. I haven’t brought my notebook. I’m tired of that for now. I’ve learned that poems come when they will. Being a poet is mostly about the waiting.
But I am hoping for the one sight that fills me, that feeds me, here at this pond. Hoping it will come today, like it comes every day.
Of course it will come. He always does.
The birds are sitting on their stone in the middle of the shimmering water. Side by side. In love, I presume. That’s the way with birds. I can almost hear the heavens singing above them.
And then, there he is, at his spot in the distance. I see him. My heart speeds up, I’m so happy. The boy, at his spot on the muddy patch of shoreline just opposite. He wears faded denim overalls over a white shirt. He holds a stick in his right hand, with which he draws lazy figure eights in the surface of the water.
I breathe more easily at the sight of him. My boy, at his spot. Everything I’ve ever loved, everything I’ve ever hoped for or dreamed about or wanted, it’s all bound up in this boy. This boy who loves books and trains and castles and knights. This boy who is so singularly innocent and pure.
Then, to his left, the other visitor I knew I would see today. He is not as familiar to me as the boy, not so frequent a visitor here. I don’t really know when he started to appear. For the longest time, I don’t think he did. But he comes now, and he’s comfortable and welcome in his own way. He’s become a part of my experience of the park, and he steps out of the greenery where I sometimes spot college students sitting down to read or make out.
He’s a teenager, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Buzz cut. He hasn’t shaved today and has a shadow of a country goatee. His eyes are solid and a deep jade-green.
They’re both here. My two companions. For a moment, I’m lost in the presence of each of them.
The woman nearby is talking. I can’t hear what she’s saying, her voice is indistinct. Something about a Tom. And a Joseph. And a Dylan. It’s nonsense-speak, really. Some people are just confused. But everyone, however odd, has a right to sit in the park.
I don’t pay any attention to her. The young man is walking towards me. He’s a tough teenager, been through a lot by the looks of it. He walks right up to my bench. Stares me straight in the face, his jade-green eyes on fire. It’s the strangest thing. I look at him and I see myself. The perfect image. The mirror of me, down to the tiniest freckle.
‘It’s good to see you,’ is all he says, and the words emerge from his mouth with my voice. I think about answering, but there is really nothing to say. Nothing that matters. Nothing that warrants interrupting what has to happen next.
So the young man turns and sits on my bench, next to me. He gazes out over the pond with me, our eyes taking in the same sights. The Asian trees sway in arcs high above us, and in symphony we answer our own greeting with one voice: ‘Glad to be with you. Glad to know you.’
And now the boy is in front of me. He is so close I can see the sweat marks on his shirt, the scuff marks on the clasps of his overalls. I’m sure I used to have overalls like this as a kid – God, how I loved them back then.
He peers at me, intently. For a moment my mind is consumed with images, with memories of dreams that seemed so real I felt, once, that I could see blood on my arms. Yet the images fade. We’re together, friends, in the park; and the park is not a place for such memories.
I feel like I want to speak, like I want to pour out my heart to these two. But the poet for once is not the master of words. ‘I’m so sorry,’ is all that emerges, and I am not entirely sure why. The words come out of my throat in a teenage voice. More almost follow, but the boy holds up a small hand. Behind it, his face is the exact image of my own. For the first time I can remember, I see his features clearly. He has my eyes, my nose. His cheeks are the perfect, puffy images of what mine once had been. He is joyful and happy and innocent. The playful and pure boy I once had been. The boy in the park.
And he doesn’t want me to say anything else. My own eyes gaze thoughtfully at me, and in a single breath I exhale a world of grief and agony from somewhere deep in my belly. And the little boy looks hopeful, even looks content. As a little boy should.
He turns to face the pond with me, and sits on my bench. And we remain there, the three of us side by side, forever lost and yet strangely at peace, as leaves dance on the trees and the world speaks to us of beauty.
I have a stick in my hand. My overalls are done up tight. I can feel my hair flop on my forehead. The tip of my stick pierces the water, and I watch the ripples dance in the sunlight. And for an instant, for a blessed instant, there is no pain. No grief. No fear.
There is only this beautiful scene. Almost perfect. Almost free.
Note
There really is a bench, and a pond, and a secret escape in the Temperate Asia section of the San Francisco Botanical Gardens – perfectly majestic and surreal – on which I sat every day during a much-appreciated retreat, and wrote this novel.
And there really are children who are so tortured in their youth that they become what they wouldn’t and shouldn’t become, whose lives are torn away from them. I am not one of those, but to all who are the sympathy of this book is dedicated.
The Boy in the Park
1.
Little boy in the park,
Little boy standing, lost.
The waters quiet, the tree-wings
dance
For the little boy still, unmoving.
The little boy with stick in hand;
Little boy weeping …
Little boy weeping …
2.
The evening is coming,
The morning is gone;
Little boy with his playful heart
And castle and crozier and soldier.
Leaps, not knowing
where they shall land –
How little boys do play until
The day of youth is done.
3.
Little boy weeping, blood on your arm
Trees bow and hollow;
The games we sing, the
songs
we play –
The crying wind, the fighting day.
The waters burn, the quiet flees
The blood on your arm …
The blood on your arm …
4.
A lingering stain
When the play is gone;
A home unkept, unwanted.
Where fire burns at timber’s edge,
Stretch townsfolk’s grasp
past neighbour’s reach –
Where games are ended
And rage alone can find you.
5.
Little boy longing, eyes in the dark,
No tears – no silent beckon.
In night a deeper darkness
falls
Till vengeance comes with mounted wings
And creeping heart and passion
For the little boy longing …
The little boy longing …
6.
Then comes the play,
The light returns:
Day is not forever hid.
There comes the voice, touch is felt
In tender caresses to
Too-torn flesh
And a heart that cries, that
Mourns its burial within.
7.
But how long stay the buried down
In darkness cold and unknowing?
Until the prey becomes
the beast
And tigers roar with claws unfurled;
Killing hope yet ending the tears,
Of the little boy weeping …
The little boy weeping …
Acknowledgements
There are many people to thank for the fact that a book I wrote in solitude has found its way into your hands, and the hands of so many others. The book’s two fiercest champions have unquestionably been Luigi Bonomi, my extraordinary literary agent, who was the first to lay eyes on the manuscript and then championed it with incredible zeal; and Kate Bradley of HarperCollins, whose fierce enthusiasm for the story, the book and my entrance into the HarperCollins world has been unmatchable. Both are wonderful people, whose love for books and mastery of the literary ethos makes it a superlative joy to work with them. They are each parts of extraordinary teams as well, and I owe profound gratitude to Kate Elton, Kimberley Young and Charlotte Ledger at HarperCollins, all of whom have helped shape this book into what you have in your hands; together with Alison Bonomi, Dani Zigner and the team at LBA Books. I am represented by the finest agent in the business and publishing this book with the finest of publishers: an author could not be happier.
The fact that The Boy in the Park has launched in multiple languages, and is appearing in more all the time, is due to the tireless work of my international rights agents at ILA: Nicki Kennedy, Sam Edenborough, Simone Smith, Alice Natali and all their colleagues. The fact that the cover is so beautifully haunting is the result of the work of its designer, the talented Stuart Bache.
Finally, my thanks to the Trustees of the San Francisco Botanical Gardens for the luxury of spending so much time in that wonderful place, writing these pages; and to the owner, staff and ‘the regulars’ at the Beanery coffee shop in San Francisco’s Inner Sunset, just near the entrance to the park. The casual mention of the place in the novel belies the fact that, during the writing of the book, it was almost a second home.
And to the many, many people I have talked to, over the years, about what haunts, what disturbs, what frightens, and what brings peace. It is an honour to know all of you.
About the Author
A J Grayson drinks extraordinary amounts of coffee and likes to write on an old Corona Standard typewriter, though is enough of a technical enthusiast to buy whatever Apple dangles from its latest stick. Time not spent writing books is spent reading them, walking (perhaps unsurprisingly, in parks), working with youth and adults in various counselling settings, and teaching.
Please be in touch with AJ Grayson on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram @GraysonForReal.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
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Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
http://www.harpercollins.com