And now death seemed to be teasing him with these outbreaks, even mocking him with inexplicable details.
As Jack rode deeper into the dark, deserted park, its gloomy and somber views added to his disquietude. In areas where he’d seen beauty that morning on his way to work, now he saw ghastly skeletons of leafless trees silhouetted against an eerily bleached sky. Even the distant saw-tooth skyline of the city seemed ominous.
Jack put muscle into his pedaling, and his bike gained speed. For an irrational moment he was afraid to look back over his shoulder. He had the creepy feeling that something was bearing down on him.
Jack streaked into a puddle of light beneath a lonely streetlight, braked, and skidded to a stop. He forced himself to turn around and face his pursuer. But there was nothing there. Jack strained to see into the distant shadows, and as he did, he understood that what was threatening him was coming from inside his own head. It was the depression that had paralyzed him after his family’s tragedy.
Angry with himself, Jack began pedaling again. He was embarrassed by his childlike fear. He thought he had more control. Obviously he was letting this episode with the outbreaks affect him far too much. Laurie had been right: he was too emotionally involved.
Having faced his fears, Jack felt better, but he noticed that the park still looked sinister. People had warned him about riding in the park at night, but Jack had always ignored their admonitions. Now, for the first time, he wondered if he was being foolish.
Emerging from the park onto Central Park West was like escaping from a nightmare. From the dark, scary loneliness of the park’s interior he was instantly thrust into a rallylike bustle of yellow cabs racing north ward. The city had come alive. There were even people calmly walking on the sidewalks.
The farther north Jack rode the more the environment deteriorated.
Beyond 100th Street the buildings became noticeably shabbier. Some were even boarded up and appeared abandoned. There was more litter in the street. Stray dogs plundered overturned trash cans.
Jack turned left onto 106th Street. As he rode along his street the neighborhood seemed more depressed than usual to him. The minor epiphany in the park had opened Jack’s eyes to just how dilapidated the area was.
Jack stopped at the playground where he played basketball by grabbing onto the chain-link fence that separated it from the street. His feet remained snug in his toe clips.
As Jack had expected, the court was in full use. The mercury vapor lights that he’d paid to be installed were ablaze. Jack recognized many of the players as they surged up and down the court. Warren, by far the best player, was there, and Jack could hear him urging his teammates to greater effort. The team that lost would have to sit out, since a bevy of other players waited impatiently on the sidelines. The competition was always fierce.
While Jack was watching, Warren sank the final basket of the game and the losing team slunk off the court, momentarily disgraced. As the new game was being organized Warren caught sight of Jack. He waved and strutted over. It was the winning team walk.
“Hey, Doc, whatcha know?” Warren asked. “You coming out to run or what?”
Warren was a handsome African-American with a shaved head, a groomed mustache, and a body like one of the Greek statues in the Metropolitan Museum. It had taken Jack several months to cultivate Warren’s acquaintance. They had developed a friendship of sorts, but it was based more on a shared love of street basketball than anything else. Jack didn’t know much about Warren except that he was the best basketball player and also the de facto leader of the local gang. Jack suspected that the two positions went hand in hand.
“I was thinking about coming out for a run,” Jack said. “Who’s got winners?”
Getting into the game could be a tricky business. When Jack had first moved to the neighborhood, it had taken him a month of coming to the court and patiently waiting until he’d been invited to play. Then he’d had to prove himself. Once he’d demonstrated he was capable of putting the ball in the basket on a consistent basis, he’d been tolerated.