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The Magi At first I thought it was just the dog, wandering alone over the leaves in the park, his back curved and his head low so he had to lift his eyes and peer through his brows when the squirrel ran past and sat poised on the tree trunk, aware of him. He froze for a moment, then, realizing his age, continued to shuffle along over the leaves, occasionally slowing to nose one over or limpidly paw at the dirt, but never more than disinterested. As he turned the path towards me, I saw the man he was walking come into view. Stooped, and crooked like an old chimney. His hand clawed at a thick walking stick, fingers curled around the knob at the top like hands rested on a knee – comfortable, but necessary to stop the hands from the involuntary shaking. He wore a golfing hat tight on his head and a vest underneath his blazer. Irish. Even had the red cheeks and nose of a man who had once known the gentle ministrations of the whiskey. But not anymore, I could see; underneath the flush, he was pale and sunken. The old touch he knew now was the whisper of breath against his neck as death sang the gentle lullaby she always does for the old adventurers. He used to be quite a man, I could tell, one of grand adventures and even grander tales of adventures. I wondered how he had come to America, what had driven him from his island to here. I noticed the scarf tucked in around his neck looked like the village spun wool they still used in the small places. Wee places, he might say. As he turned the path toward me, I saw the man he was leading come into view. Young, but much more aged. A hat shoved tight down over his bald head, hands tucked quietly into the pockets. His eyes scanned the ground, but they darted upwards once, and I saw their haunted look. He knew more than just the lullaby; he was one of her lover’s, and death had not treated him kindly. He coughed, as he passed the tree, and the squirrel fled upwards, the spell of still broken. He leaned against the trunk, his body shaking, while the old man paused, and the dog lay down, the leaves clinging to his coat like dalmation spots against his long hair. It was a painful cough to hear, the kind that rips you apart more than the cougher. The old man just waited patiently, leaning against his cane, as the other man – barely more than a boy, I realized, as I stared longer – his shoulders still had that awkward shape of adolescence and his face was young under the age, he couldn’t have been more than 20 – reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the little flecks of blood and foaming spit that had fallen around his lips. The handkerchief came away red with little spots, I saw that from where I sat. As he tucked it back in his pocket, the young man almost self-consciously looked around. His face was gaunt under the beard he had grown. Probably only a week since he came out of the hospital, and he wants to cover it. His clothes were baggy, but the right length. He pulled his hat down tighter. The old man stood staring up at the boy, a sad sort of smile on his lips, perhaps sympathy from the pathetic. They both turned continued to walk down the path, to a bench further on. The young man helped the old one sit, and the dog lay at their feet. Both men merely sat looking at the park, watching the children run around shrieking happily, the lovers laughing and flirting, chasing and swinging each other to the ground, the mothers with their baby carriages, pushing the prams into a circle and gossiping about so-and-so’s husband, or this-and-that’s new car, the tourists chasing ducks like children, and laughing like children, only taking pictures to capture the memory of that time they felt like children. The dog slept at their feet. I returned to my book, but after a while I noticed their bench empty. I turned and saw the three heading back my way on the path, into the trees. They must live back there, in an apartment house on the other side of the street that cuts behind the park. Probably fifth floor, and no elevator. The dog passed, bending to sniff me this time. I gave its head a stroke, and it gave my hand a dry lick. Beautiful eyes, deep brown pools with golden flecks. Then, then men passed him, the boy’s eyes flickering downward towards me, a sad sort of smile, almost sympathetic, and the dog trotted softly back to his owners, his tail slowly wagging. The men walked around the corner, their backs receding into the trees, the dog slowly following, silently eyeing a squirrel. As the men disappeared, the dog stopped and let out one deep, throaty bark, then fell back onto his haunches. The squirrel leapt into the branches and quietly chittered in protest. From the trees, I heard a soft, hollow whistle, and the dog rose and gently loped off after his masters. back |