Sunlight pours through the second-story window. Pushing the sash up, I kneel before the window and fold my arms against the white-painted sill to peer outside. A slight breeze stirs, carries the perfume of summer fading toward crisp autumn. The scene is familiar – putty-colored sidewalks trundle alongside the grid of intersecting roads; neatly-tended lawns are bound, here and there, by gloss-leafed privet hedges; a scarlet stop sign pins down the corner. But, looking into the yard below, a surprise – a slim tree lifts its branches skyward where no tree has been before. Seemingly overnight, a straight-trunked dogwood has grown, or a cherry, perhaps. It is a glorious sight; more so for the peculiar fruit it bears. Depending from the tree’s arching branches, in an array of bright colors – scarlet, lemon-yellow, orange, cobalt blue, and hyacinth – sprout dozens of reading glasses.
April tangles her infant fingers in my hair, and I shift her on my hip to secure my hold about her. The air is cool and crisp. I cross the broad street, enter the park. Though I hurry, the two men – still deep in discussion – quickly outdistance me.
Brightly colored tents crowd the park’s perimeter. I duck and weave quickly along the sandy gravel path, through jugglers, musicians, tight-rope walkers and performers of all kinds, but the two men I pursue are soon swallowed by the crowd. I can no longer see them, doubt I can catch up with them. I slow my hectic pace, catch my breath within fluttering, tree-dappled shade, and coo in April’s ear.
Just ahead, I see a beautiful young woman dressed in green silk gown. A breeze plucks at her sleeve as she dips and arches to extend her arm, to release Tarot cards into the air, one after another. Improbably, the cards revolve above, suspended with their brethren. Craning my neck, I observe the cards – overlarge, nearly the size of placemats, their backs are decorated in Art Nouveau style, edged in gold and twined with vines and bright flowers. They are lovely, seemingly magic as they float overhead, catching light and stirring with breeze. Entranced, I turn slowly in place. I can only see the cards’ backs, not their faces. But as I continue to stare, I realize the cards hang from the surrounding trees by clear, filament threads. In no way does this realization diminish the magic of their effect.
Shut the car’s door. Leave it. Walk away. Cross the wide street, dodging traffic, darting between parked cars. Hands upon the door – glass cool beneath fingers’ touch. Enter the café. Pause to scan the interior from the threshold. Pendant lights shed a warm, welcoming glow over booths and small tables. Quiet murmur of conversations. Locate him. Seated in a bentwood chair, he leans forward, shirtsleeves rolled up, elbows on table. Across from him, on the upholstered bench, a second man nods, interjects, listens.
Descend three steps. Weave between tables clustered about the dark-tiled floor. Sit down on the bench nearest his table. Don’t interrupt – he discusses business. Also, the baby needs attention. Nine-month-old April. Balance her on one knee as you wait, hands spread to cup and support her small form. She is a contented froth of white-clad lace and ribbons, taffeta and crinolines.
Another woman, clad in crisp dark skirted suit and hat, slides down the bench, asks: “Do they have a date?”
A date? Search her face for understanding – skin thin as parchment, creased at the corners of her eyes, downward at her mouth’s edges. Her expression yields nothing. Scan the café again, observe the small clutches of people – mostly men discussing business. Observe the women – all plain-clothed, practical, narrow women. Women with infants of various ages. Women waiting. Nannies?
Tell her, “No. No date yet.”
The woman nods shrewdly, asks: “What are your hours?”
Tell her, “Mornings. Evenings. Most afternoons.” Hold April closer. Feel her warmth, her aliveness, the pleasing weight of her. Inhale the fresh infant scent of her.
The woman seems surprised, says: “I only have the day shift – that’s enough.”
Smile at her. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know.
The men finish their discussion, rise to depart. Time to go. Lift April – taffeta crinkling – balance her on one hip. Follow the men around the tables, across the café, outside. Pause briefly to consider poster on wall – “DJ’s Café”; curling periwinkle and white paper on old brick.
Shoulder the door open. Step outside, into crisp Autumn. Realize the men have drawn away – across the street, into the dappled shade of the tree-lined park, brightly studded with the colored silk tents of a fair. Holding April close, hurry across the street to catch up. Lose sight of them amongst the shifting current of fairgoers and performers.
