The Park Bench

Climbing to the top of the playground was particularly special here. A large blue staircase spiraled upward to a green slide. The tall green slide was nearly three stories high. The afternoon sun was bright, and clouds were scarce. A father and little boy made the climb like they did every day. The little boy squealed as he jumped on his father’s lap at the top of the slide. They were both laughing by the time they made it back to the ground. The dad, James, looked over at the park bench longingly. A few years ago, his wife used to sit there and watch her husband and son play for hours. Today however, instead of his wife, a little black book was on the bench.

The little black book lay innocently enough on the park bench. James thought about picking it up but decided its owner would come back for it. However, the next day it was still there. And the next. Finally, the following day, with rain in the forecast, he undid the strap holding the book shut and read the first page. The words, written in beautiful, miniscule handwriting were breathtaking. Hooked, he kept reading and reading. He read long after his little boy had gone to bed. By the end of the book, he deeply wanted to meet its owner. James rifled through the book a few times, hoping for a business card or another hint to the author’s identity, but his efforts yielded nothing.

James’ curiosity nagged at him; the book drew his thoughts more and more. The next morning, he noticed a small, built-in folder in the back of the little black notebook. Inside was a check from a publishing company to the name and address of one Taylor Jones. James did not know if he or she had other published works, but he could not wait to find out and return his or her check as well.

Taylor Jones, it turned out, did not live far from James’ house. Taylor’s house was tiny, dilapidated, and not at all what James expected. He rang the doorbell a few times before realizing it did not work. He knocked hard instead, dislodging brown chips of paint. The most beautiful woman James had ever seen answered the door. “Are, um, are you Taylor?”

“No, let me get him.” James quickly hid his disappointment and waited for Taylor.

“Mr. Jones, it is a pleasure to meet you. Your writing is exquisite. I was at the park the other day and found this on the park bench. Here is your book back with the check too.”

“Oh, thank you-”

“James.”

“Thank you, James. As you can see, we could use the money. I quit my job and bought this house with my wife. She works to pay the mortgage and goes to the local university, while I sit home and write. That advance is really going to help us out, but I couldn’t have done it without you. Come back in a week. I will get you one percent of my advance.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that. I truly enjoyed your words.”

“Okay, come back in two weeks, and I will get you a signed copy of my new book.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones! I will do that.”

Two weeks dragged by, but eventually, James revisited and got a signed copy of the book from him. As James was walking home, he flipped through the book. Eventually he got to the picture on the back dust jacket of the book. The picture above the “about the author” section featured the young woman that had answered the door. James did not understand why they had misled him. He walked back to the house and knocked. No one answered; a garbage can at the curb was overflowing with household items and trash, as if the inhabitants had moved out. James could hardly blame them. If he became a millionaire, he would move as well, but why had they duped him?

A few years passed. One stormy afternoon, the doorbell rang. By the time, James got to the door, the mail carrier had gone back to her truck, leaving a package by the front door. James opened it and pulled a book out. It was once again from Taylor Jones. James read the first page and recognized the story from the little black book he had found. Sticking out of the top of the book was a folded piece of paper. Looking closer, James realized it was a check. On it was a sticky note that read:

James, thank you for returning that book to me a few years ago. I am sorry the way my brother and I left. I knew you were recently widowed and would need time to sort some things out. This check is one percent of that first advance that was in the back of the black book you returned. I had once offered it to you through my brother. More importantly, this check has my home address on it. I would really like it if you stopped by some time. Sincerely, Taylor Jones.

Over the next few days, James reread Taylor’s work. The story featured a dad and his little boy. The narrator seemed to follow them as they went about their routine and told their story. They visit the park every day, even after the little boy’s mother leaves in Air Force fatigues and never returns. James was again touched by the story. Then his eyes snapped up. The story was particularly special to him, he realized, because it was a fictionalization of his life. The little black book was at that park for a reason. Taylor Jones had been watching him and his son at the park. Somehow, she learned who they were and why the little boy’s mom was never with them at the park anymore. Perhaps he did deserve the $20,000 check after all, but why had she chosen him?

James could not help himself. He needed to confront her about the book. He visited her new address. Ringing the fancy doorbell beside a door nearly as large as her previous house, James would normally have been impressed by this new house. Distracted, he barely noticed. She came to the door quickly.

“James, before you say anything, please read the sequel to the second book I sent you.” She handed him another little black book and closed the door.”

James stood there for some time; his mouth slightly open in shock. He drove home with both his mind and the radio off. He fell onto the couch and had the book finished before breakfast the next morning. Once again, the beautiful and tiny handwriting had him in wonder. He could not help but hope the words of this book were prophetic. This book, among other things, seemed to be her way of telling him she was interested, since the narrator eventually marries the little boy’s dad. His doorbell rang. Taylor was just outside the door. “Have you finished it yet?”

“Yes,” James said quietly.

“I always loved watching you interact with your son. Before long, I was obsessed. I had just sold my first book, but my second one did not take long. I hope you do not think I took advantage of you.”

He paused, opened his mouth, and closed it. Instead of a response, he kissed her. Ever since he had read those first words and seen her at the door of the dilapidated house, he knew there was something special between them. He only hoped he could live up to her next book, especially the parts where they marry and give the little boy a brother or sister, someone else to play at the park with while Mom looks on from the bench or joins them at the top of the slide. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself, but the years without his wife had been difficult. However, James and Taylor had the shared history of her observations. He was attracted to her, and reading her books, he felt like he already knew her. Only time would tell, but her books had also given them an outline to follow, or perhaps, a baseline to improve upon.