I was sitting on what I called the barricades, cement seats of pews that had been built in the Square for no apparent reason, eating a corn muffin and drinking iced tea from Warburton‘s. I got up to leave and as I walked toward the bend from Massachusetts Avenue into Brattle Street, a middle- aged woman crossed Brattle Street. She tripped on a little cement post that was stuck in the sidewalk for no apparent reason and slipped on the straw soles of her espadrilles and fell flat. Everyone around stopped dead. I did, and then, when she didn‘t get up, I ran over to her in my rubber -soled sandals.
She was white in the face, and she was just lying there.
‗Are you all right?‖ I asked.
She nodded. She seemed to be having trouble breathing.
―Should I call an ambulance?‖ I asked.
She shook her head.
I stood there and she lay there.
After a while she started to get up and go. I put my hand under her shoulder and she stood up and we struggled toward the barricades.
She wasn‘t bleeding, but it looked as if there was only about half a layer of skin between her and the air on her right leg and her right elbow.
She sat there. It was very hot, August.
―I think that my blood pressure spiked, ― she said at last. She was well dressed.
―I think I should call an ambulance,‖ I said.
―No, please don‘t,‖ she said.
24
―It‘s the rope soles of your espadrilles,‖ I said. ―You shouldn‘t wear them. My aunt slipped and fell down a whole flight of stairs because she was wearing straw-soled espadrilles.‖
―Why didn‘t somebody tell me?‖ she moaned.
―Where do you live?‖ I said.
She pointed vaguely toward Mount Auburn Street.
―Do you want me to call you a taxi?‖ I asked.
―No,‖ she said. ―I don‘t have any cash, just credit cards.‖
―I‘ll lend you some money,‖ I said.
―No,‖ she said. She had trouble talking.
So we just sat there.
Eventually she said, ―I think I can get up now.‖
―Can you walk now?‖ I asked. ―Let me see you.‖
She got up slowly and walked a few steps.
―Yes!‖ she said.
―Where are you going?‖ I asked.
―I‘m going home,‖ she said.
She waved vaguely toward me and started off.
I watched her.
―There‘s nothing you can do,‘ a guy said.
I got up. I was wearing the most beautiful purple sun dress that my mother had sent me from Seattle.
Everyone came toward me, so pleased and praising me.
I was mad. Why hadn‘t they done it?
One Saturday I came down to the Square to play the guitar. On Saturday street vendors sold jewelry and ancient bric a brac. I sat down on the cement row above the pew and played and sang. A guy was spreading out his wares beside me. A young woman very neatly dressed in white was sitting in the space he was trying to use, embroidering.
―Please move,‖ the guy said.
The young woman said, ―I‘ve been doing everything for everyone else and taking care of my mother and I just came down here to sit in the sun and have some time to myself.‖
She was very tense and white.
―Well, I have to spread my things out here,‖ he said. ―This is my space.‖
25
The young woman looked hysterical.
―Let her alone!‖ I said to him loudly and to my own amazement. ―Let her alone and let her sit there, for Christ‘s sake.‖
The guy was furious, but he backed down.
―I came all the way from New Jersey last night to do this,‖ he said, and cursing, he moved his stuff over.
I sat and played the guitar on the barricades and the woman sat on the pew below, embroidering. It was a beautiful afternoon in June.
After about two hours, when the buildings‘ shadows covered the barricades, she got up to leave.
―Thank you,‖ she said.
―Yes,‖ I said. ―You‘re welcome.‖
There was a woman lying in the street, about thirty, quite heavy, with a thick braid of blond hear pinned up on the back of her head. She used to ask for money and I used to give it to her. I saw her almost every day. When my finances became more straitened I stopped giving her money.
―Please, just a quarter for a cup of coffee?‖ she asked. Lee‘s Coffee Shop was right there.
―I‘m sorry, I can‘t.‖ I said.
I came by a few days later and she was lying dead on the steps of the church. She lay there for a couple of days. Her hair with her yellow braid had gone white.
When Lance and I used to hang out in Harvard Square, there was a small bearded street person who looked a lot like Lance. He used to stand and look at a manhole cover beside the barricades, and then slowly moving away from it, stretching out his arms and wiggling his outstretched fingers all the time.
―What‘s he doing?‖ asked Lance, amused.
―Maybe he‘s trying to make it stay still,‖ I said. ―Maybe it‘s moving around and he‘s trying to make it stay still.‖
Lance smiled. ―Maybe he is.‖ Lance had a West Virginian drawl.
Lance and I were sitting on one of the benches in front of Grendel‘s Den. I was wearing, the only time I ever wore it, the white cotton jumpsuit with eyelet trim that my mother had sent me. It was generally too lovely to wear, but Lance made me feel proud.
It was hot. We had walked all the way from Shepard Street.
―There‘s a bead of sweat that started at my neck and has gone all the way down to my seat.‖ I said.
26
―Adventurous bead.‖
Once on the corner of Mount Auburn Street and JFK Boulevard, as I waited in a crowd of people for the light to change, a small black woman started screaming, ―I want to fuck! I want to fuck!‖
Everyone ignored her.
How terrible, I thought. What will happen to her?