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The west side of the park had a plaza instead of an esplanade, and a garden instead of a meadow, with a sweeping series of terraces and stairs leading down from the footpath. Usually she admired the elegance of the view, but today the brightness of the sun reflecting from the pavement made her head swim and her stomach lurch. The steps were shallow, and were lined with crowds of gossiping young people, just out of school. Most of them ignored her as she picked her way slowly from terrace to terrace, but one girl turned from her group of friends and watched curiously as she descended. Mrs. Chambers felt her heart speed up slightly. She wondered where the man in the dark coat was now, and whether, in a minute or so when she was out of sight again, he would emerge from the trees and walk nonchalantly over to that girl. She could see them now, head to head, could see exactly how the girl would point down the steps to show the way the woman in the russet straw hat and navy crepe jacket had gone. Mrs. Chambers began to hurry. The steps were awkwardly wide, and she struggled to take them one at a time, clutching the handrail and praying she would not fall. Now the girl was getting up, still watching, and in that moment Mrs. Chambers didn't care that her head hurt, didn't care that others were turning to look; teetering on her shoes, she scuttled down the steps and out into the plaza.
Halfway to the park gates she turned and looked back. The girl was nowhere to be seen, either among the crowds on the plaza or in the gaggles of teen-agers on the terraces above. The moment of panic collapsed, and she thought how ridiculous it all was.
Gloria, she thought, you're imagining things. That girl and the man in the dark coat have never met, and probably never will. Now you've gone and twisted your ankle on the stairs. These shoes were never made for running.
She realized that her fist was still clenched around the crumpled, sticky paper cone, and she dropped it in one of the garbage cans at the park entrance. Her gloves had been in the other hand, but besides being crushed and damp they had also somehow acquired a few purplish stains from the shaved ice, so she tucked them irritably away in her handbag. Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she slowed to a halting walk. How to get home? She could never make it all the way back up the avenue on a twisted ankle. Limping to the curb, she hailed a cab, but at the sight of the cabbie's grinning face she stumbled back and waved him on. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought, but how could she be sure the cab driver wasn't on the lookout for her? The tram stop was just ahead, though, and yes, the tram was approaching. She moved to catch it, wincing as her ankle twisted under her again.
The car was full, and she told herself she felt comfortable and unobserved, but she couldn't keep from scanning the faces of the other people aboard: a young mother and child, laden with shopping bags; a man in overalls who appeared to be on his way home from his construction job; a group of young people (none of them the girl); and several others whose faces were turned away or were hidden in the crush. No one seemed to be paying her any attention. She had almost relaxed when the young mother seemed to give her a furtive glance—a surreptitious flicker of the eyes, so quick she almost didn't see it. Mrs. Chambers froze. In her mind a terrified litany began, with her head throbbing counterpoint—it's true it's true it's true, dear God, it's true. The motion of the car suddenly nauseated her, and she fought to maintain an outward appearance of calm. When the City Hall stop came, she pretended to ignore it, and then lurched to her feet and climbed down at the last second. Sure enough, when the mother saw her escaping, she tried to gather up her child and shopping bags to pursue her, but Mrs. Chambers had timed it just right. She stood there on the sidewalk until the tram was out of sight, so they would not be able to see which way she went.
Outside the police station she paused to bring herself under control.
You must remain rational, Gloria, she thought. You have to go in there and tell them everything. They'll be able to help.
When the nausea and panic had drained away, she pulled open the door and stepped inside.
The few civilians she could see all looked either dirty or angry, and two of the dirtier and angrier women were standing at a long counter arguing with the desk sergeant. Their blouses were extremely low-cut, and she could see their grimy cleavage tremble as they gestured emphatically. Her unease immediately returned. She didn't belong here, not in a police station, not with these criminals and—and prostitutes! At that moment, however, the two filthy women broke off their diatribe and stalked out of the station, pushing rudely past her as they went out the door.
The desk sergeant gave her a tired look. "Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked.
"I hope so," she said. "There's a—well, there's a man, he was behind me in line to get shaved ice, and now he's been following me, watching me, trying to catch me alone. I twisted my ankle running from him in the park."
He pulled out a form. "Can you describe the man to me?"
"It's hard to say," she confessed. "I didn't notice exactly. But he was wearing a dark coat and hat. He has several friends, and they're all helping him." She lowered her voice. "I think he may be part of a gang."
The sergeant paused in filling out the form and frowned at her, then turned and called another policeman over. Handing him the form, he said, "Reynolds, this lady is complaining about a gang. Says they've been harassing her."
Officer Reynolds was older and had a rumpled uniform. He glanced at the form, and then smiled reassuringly at her. "Ma'am, if you'll come right this way I'll be happy to take your statement."
He led her past the counter to his own desk, and after offering to get her a cup of coffee or tea, he smiled at her again and took up his pen.
"So you say you've been followed, harassed by a man in a . . . a dark coat and hat, is that correct?"
She nodded. "He and his friends have been following me all afternoon. I didn't know where else to go."
"Well, you're safe here," he said. "Now, what is your name?"
"Glo—" she began, then stopped and swallowed. "Why do you need my name?"
"We want to help you, ma'am, but I need to take down your information." He shrugged. "Name, birth date, address. You know."
His smile wasn't so reassuring after all. A scene came abruptly and vividly into her head of this Officer Reynolds handing the man in the dark coat the form with her "information" on it, of the man in the dark coat knowing her name, knowing her address . . . No.
"I'm sorry for bothering you, officer," she said as politely as she could. She got up and limped past the desks, past the long counter, past the grimy man who was now haranguing the desk sergeant. She was sure Officer Reynolds was still watching her as she pulled the heavy door open and went out.
Now she was really frightened. Her head spun and throbbed, and for a moment, she thought she would vomit. Leaning against the side of a building, she closed her eyes and tried to think. Her husband needed to know about this, needed to come home this instant and deal with the situation. With that thought, the nausea passed. The judge would know what to do.
Sean
