New York - The Novel

days as gentle a passing as he could.
    He’d been walking about ten minutes when he saw the guy with the red baseball hat standing by a tree.
    He was a black man, over six feet tall, wearing a long black coat and a black scarf he’d wrapped around his neck many times. His narrow shoulders were hunched. As Gorham came near, the man looked at him, but obviously without much hope. As he passed, the automatic “Smoke? Grass?” came without conviction. Out of habit, equally, Gorham walked sternly by, trying to ignore him.
    He’d gone a little way before his father’s words came back to him. “It helps with the pain.” He’d read about that, people with cancer taking marijuana. Why not? After all, they took other drugs to ease the pain. Maybe his doctor could give him dope on prescription. Could he do that? Gorham had no idea. Presumably not, or Charlie wouldn’t be trying to buy it in the park.
    He looked at his watch. Wasn’t it time to be getting along to his train? Not really.
    What was the law, exactly? The guy with the red baseball hat could be arrested, certainly, for selling the stuff. But what about if you bought some? In possession of an illegal substance—they arrested people for that, he was sure. What was it going to do to his chances of getting into a bank if he got arrested in Central Park? Not a good idea. He walked on.
    So he was going to let his father suffer? His poor father who, in his own crazy way, had been good to him all his life? His father who had nothing in common with him, but treated him with all the kindness he might have reserved for a soulmate? The father who quietly ignored the little moments of irritation that he himself had been unable to conceal entirely even in the company of a dying man?
    He turned round. The guy with the red baseball hat was still there. He looked about. Unless there was somebody hiding behind a tree, this section of the park was empty. He walked toward the dealer.
    The guy looked at him questioningly. He had a thin face and a small, straggly beard.
    “How much?”
    “An eighth?”
    The man said something, but Gorham hardly heard the price. He was looking around nervously.
    “I’ll take half an ounce,” he said quickly. If the man was surprised, he gave no sign. He reached into his pocket and started pulling out little plastic bags. Gorham supposed he’d been given half an ounce, which he knew was plenty, but he had no idea what he was doing. He took the little bags and thrust them into a pocket of his pants, underneath his overcoat. He started to move away.
    “You haven’t paid, man,” said the guy.
    “Oh. Right.” Gorham pulled out some bills. “Is that enough?” He was starting to panic now.
    “That’s enough,” said the dealer. It must have been too much, but rightnow Gorham didn’t care. He just wanted to get away. He hastened along the path, glancing back only once, hoping the dealer had vanished. But he was still standing there. Gorham followed the path until it led to another, and then made an eastward turn toward an exit onto Fifth. Thank God the guy was well out of sight by now.
    He had just got to the sidewalk on Fifth when he saw the cop. He knew what he ought to do. He ought to look casual. After all, he was a respectable, conservative young man from Harvard who was going to be a banker, not a young guy with half an ounce of grass in his pocket. But he couldn’t help it. He froze. He probably looked as if he’d just killed someone in there.
    The cop was watching him. He came toward him.
    “Good afternoon, officer,” said Gorham. Somehow it sounded absurd.
    “In the park?” said the cop.
    “Yes.” Gorham was beginning to get control of himself now. “I needed a little walk.” The cop was still watching him. Gorham smiled sadly. “Do I look pale?”
    “You might say that.”
    “I guess I’d better get a coffee before I go back then.” He nodded grimly. “Not a good day. My father has cancer.” And then, because it was true, he felt the tears come to his eyes.
    The cop saw.
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “There’s a place where you can get coffee if you follow this street to Lexington.”
    “Thank you.” He crossed Fifth and kept going all the way to Lexington. Then he turned north, went up a few blocks and came back to Park Avenue.
    His father was still up when Mabel let him into the apartment. He was sitting in the chair, but he was slumped over on one arm, and his face was drawn. Obviously the