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There are times in our lives when we are confronted by challenging situations. These are moments which may have implications for our principles and value systems. Read the following account of the predicament faced by Morton, as observed through the eyes of his wife.
Sunday in the Park
Bel Kaufman
1 It was stillwarm in the late afternoon sun, and the city noises came muffled through the trees in the park. She put her book down on the bench, removed her sunglasses,and sighed contentedly. Morton was reading the Times Magazine section, one arm flung around her shoulder, their three-year-old son, Larry, was playing in the sandbox: a faint breeze fanned her hair softly against her cheek. It was five-thirty of a Sunday afternoon, and the small playground, tucked away in acorner of the park, was all but deserted. The swings and seesaws stood motionless and abandoned, the slides were empty, and only in the sandbox two little boys squatted diligently side by side. How good this is, she thought,and almost smiled at her sense of well-being. They must go out in the sun more often; Morton was so city-pale, cooped up all week in the little cube of the company. She squeezed his arm affectionately and glanced at Larry, delighting in the pointed little face frowning in concentration over the tunnel he was digging. The other boy suddenly stood up and with a quick, deliberate swing of his chubby arm threw a spadeful of sand at Larry. It just missed his head.Larry continued digging; the boy remained standing, shovel raised, stolid and impassive.
2 “No, no, little boy.” She shook her finger at him, her eyes searching for the child’s mother or nurse. “We mustn’t throw sand. It may get in someone’s eyes and hurt. We must play nicely in the nice sandbox.” The boy looked at her in unblinking expectancy. He was about Larry’s age but perhaps ten pounds heavier, a husky little boy with none of Larry’s quickness and sensitivity in his face. Where was his mother? The only other people left in the playground were two women and a little girl on roller skates leaving now through the gate, and a man on a bench a few feet away. He was a big man, and he seemed to be taking up the whole bench as he held the Sunday comics close to his face. She supposed he was the child’s father. He did not look up from his comics, but spat once deftly out ofthe corner of his mouth. She turned her eyes away.
3 At that moment, as swiftly as before, the fat little boy threw another spadeful of sand at Larry. This time some of it landed on his hair and forehead. Larry looked upat his mother, his mouth tentative; her expression would tell him whether to cry or not.
4 Her first instinct was to rush to her son, brush the sand out of his hair, and punish the other child, but she controlled it. She always said that she wanted Larry to learn to fight his own battles.
5 “Don’t do that, little boy,” she saidsharply, leaning forward on the bench. “You mustn’t throw sand!”
6 The man on the bench moved his mouth as if to spit again, but instead he spoke. He did not look at her, but at the boy only.
7 “You go right ahead, Joe,” he said loudly. “Throw all you want. This here is a public sandbox.”
8 She felt a sudden weakness in her knees as she glanced at Morton. He had become aware of what was happening. He put his Times down carefully on his lap and turned his fine, lean face toward the man, a shy, apologetic smile on his face. When he spoke to the man, it was with his usual reasonableness.
9 “You’re quite right,” he said pleasantly, “but just because this is a public place….”
10 The man lowered his funnies and looked at Morton.He looked at him from head to foot, slowly and deliberately. “Yeah?” his insolent voice was edged with menace. “My kind’s got just as good right here as yours, and if he feels like throwing sand, he’ll throw it; and if you don’t like it, you can take your kid the hell out of here.”
11 The children were listening, their eyes and mouths wide open, their spades forgotten in small fists. She noticed the muscle in Morton’s jaw tighten. He was rarely angry; he seldom lost his temper. She was suffused with a tenderness for her husband and an impotent rage against the man for involving him in a situation so alien and so distasteful to him.
12 “Now just a minute,” Morton said courteously, “you must realize...”
13 “Aw, shut up,” said the man.
14 Her heart began to pound. Morton half rose; the Times slid to the ground. Slowly the other man stood up. He took a couple of steps toward Morton, then stopped. He flexed his great arms, waiting. She pressed her trembling knees together. Would there be violence, fighting? How dreadful, how incredible … She must do something, stop them, call for help. She wanted to put her hand on her husband’s sleeve, to pull him down, but for some reason she didn’t.
15 Morton adjusted his glasses. He was very pale. “This is ridiculous,” he said unevenly. “I must ask you …
16 “Oh, yeah?” said the man. He stood with his legs spread apart, rocking a little, looking at Morton with utter scorn. “You and who else?”
17 For a moment thetwo men looked at each other nakedly. Then Morton turned his back on the manand said quietly, “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He walked awkwardly, almost limping with self-consciousness, to the sandbox. He stooped and lifted Larryand his shovel out.
18 Larry began to kick and cry. “I don’t want to go home, I want to play better.” It became achant as they walked, pulling their child between them, his feet dragging on the ground. In order to get to the exit gate they had to pass the bench where the man sat sprawling again. She was careful not to look at him. With all the dignity she could summon, she pulled Larry’s sandy, perspiring little hand, while Morton pulled the other. Slowly and with head high she walked with her husband and the child out of the playground.
19 “A fight wouldn’t have proved anything,” Morton muttered through his teeth as they came into the street.
20 Her first feeling was one of relief that the fight had been avoided, that no one was hurt. Yet beneath it there was a layer of something else, something heavy and inescapable. She sensed that it was more than just an unpleasant incident, more than defeat of reason by force. She thought, if there had been something to fight for…. But what else could Morton possibly have done? Allow himself to be beaten? Attempt to educate the man? Call a policeman? “Officer, there’s a man in the park who won’t stop his child from throwing sand on mine….” The whole thing was as silly as that, and not worth thinking about. She quickened her step. She wanted only to get home and to busy herself with her familiar tasks.
