A man was performing a headstand to the side of the line in front of the park’s castle and with skyscrapers as a backdrop; frisbee throwing was going on, and a ball game in the field farther away. Up and down the line an ordinary-looking man in a yellow polo shirt and brown trousers was singing Elizabethan airs and then passing his hat, saying, “Something for the singer?” Tina admired his spunk and liked his ordinariness better than the costumed minstrels who also passed by.

Petitioners came around asking the people in line to sign their petition to be put on the ballot for the coming elections. Tina signed for them all: the Communists, the libertarians, the gays. She took in the noises of the ball players; she saw the lake a little way off; she felt the gray soupiness and humidity of the day; she observed people picnicking and playing and overheard their snatches of conversation.

“Well, that’s the littlest one I’ve seen in a good while!” someone was saying to the mother of the baby. “What is it—two months?”

“No, five.”

“A boy?”

“A girl.”

Vendors went up and down the line offering cold soup from the Front Porch, homemade chocolate chip cookies, frozen yoghurt, chilled sangría or Lambrusco. Farther ahead Tina could see the ethnic-food brigade: One wagon dealt in stuffed pitas and shish-kebab; another was into vegetarian falafel; there was an Italian sausage-and-pepper man, and a Chinese wok full of good things.

The whole mélange of noise, smell, sight, attracted and delighted her senses. She felt everything filtering into her consciousness, pleasantly and effortlessly, at the same time as she wrestled with her private problem about Jason. Should she or should she not? What if he had already seen her before she noticed him and had deliberately decided not to speak?

A man in a black velvet jacket, loose beret, and boots was doing Shakespearian monologues. As he finished he rather dramatically declared that his name was Barnefielde, the same number of syllables and letters as in the Bard’s name.

A woman singer came along, singing an old English carol, the refrain of which was:

“For the Lord knows when we shall meet again

To be Maying another year.”

It struck Tina with a great sadness; it was true of all the lost opportunities of all their lives—who would ever know if there would be other meetings, other Mayings. Change and distance and time could put the screws into everyone’s plan of Maying. The refrain came again and again after each stanza.

“For the Lord knows when we shall meet again

To be Maying another year.”

And it decided her. She would not let this chance go by no matter what it cost her. She turned to the young woman with the baby: “Would you keep your eye on my blanket and things? I’ll be right back.” “Oh, sure,” said the woman.