The Last Time We Met

3

Sunday dawned bright and windy. I dressed with care, then removed my tie and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. I wore a jacket and had my hair slicked down under my hat, and on second thought, tucked my tie into my pocket in the event that our meeting should result in an extended afternoon, in which we might have dinner in a restaurant.

Golden Gate Park was quite large, over a thousand acres, and therefore finding Henrietta in the crowds would not be an easy task. I took my bicycle and visited the main attractions: the windmill, the waterfalls, the rustic bridge. Everywhere people were strolling and picnicking and flying kites. It seemed impossible that I might spy Henrietta somewhere in these crowds.

The breeze kept me cool enough, though I was glad to have removed my tie at the outset. I regretted not bringing along a picnic lunch, or a small bouquet of flowers. Then I regretted my regret, as Henrietta had made it clear that she thought me beneath her and a visit with me here would be a lark on her part.

After an hour, I parked my bicycle and entered the Japanese Tea Garden. It had a different feel than the rest of the park, with still pools of water filled with koi, a curved bridge, and lush exotic flowers. I imagined this was what it might feel like to live in Japan.

Rounding a curve in the path, I saw her, sitting upon a bench under a tree, reading a book.

I had to stop. She looked perfectly at peace. Her long, dark hair had been piled up atop her head, and the high collar of her white blouse emphasized her long neck. She was biting her nail as she turned the pages of the paperback book in her hands. She read with the same intensity as when she had glared at me in the photography studio.

She had not sensed my presence, and so I removed my hat and cleared my throat and said, "Miss Walters?"

She turned another page with a smirk before looking at me. "Took you long enough. I thought I would finish my book before you'd say hello."

"I did not mean to stare, Miss," I stuttered beneath her penetrating gaze.

"Oh, come now. We are far too well-acquainted for these formalities." She stood and fluffed her skirt, depositing her book into some pocket hidden by layers of ruffles. "You may call me Henry, and I shall call you Theodore."

"As you wish." I offered her my elbow.

She took it, and in that brief moment of contact I felt myself swoon slightly.

Or rather, my vision blurred, and I saw some bleak prescience of a landscape: rutted mud and a low-hanging cloud of smoke, dark figures in the distance digging as a cart drawn by horses approached. In the back of the cart all I could make out were feet and legs and I knew, I just knew, that many had died, so many that they would be buried in a mass grave.

I gagged and gasped, and my vision righted itself.

"If I had known my touch would trigger such a response, I would have kept my hands to myself," I heard Henrietta say, as if from a great distance.

Everything felt too bright, and my mouth too dry. I tried to swallow and straighten myself up; Henrietta had been the only thing keeping me from falling to the ground in a fit. "Many apologies, Miss," I managed to whisper.

"Sit down, you fool. Here."

I sat heavily onto the bench where Henrietta had herself been sitting only moments before. Using my hat, I fanned myself. Sweat was pouring down my face.

Plucking a handkerchief from her pocket, Henrietta dabbed at my face, peering at me gravely. "Are you ill?"

"No, no. I just... I suppose I overexerted myself in trying to find you."