Phantom of Riverside Park by Peggy Webb Page B

approached the gates he said what had
been on his mind ever since the cookies went up in smoke.
    “I’m goin’ to find that man myself. I’m the
one who took the check.”
    “You do that, Papa.”
    Elizabeth kissed them both goodbye and he
headed to his usual bench in the middle of the park. He’d been
coming to the park so long that the bench might as well have a sign
posted that said “Reserved for Thomas Jennings.” Today he was
surprised to see somebody else sitting there. In all those years it
had only happened twice.
    “You’re in my seat,” he said.
    “I got here first. I guess it’s my seat
now.”
    Thomas couldn’t believe that crusty old fool
defied him. If he’d taken a good gander at the face the first time
around, he might have guessed what would happen. The man’s jowls
hung down like a bulldog, and he’d apparently got a temper to
match. But Thomas was not without a stubborn streak himself, and he
wasn’t fixing to let some upstart take over his bench in the
Riverside Park.
    “I’ve been comin’ here nearly five years with
the boy. Everybody knows that’s my seat.”
    “You’re gonna argue, ain’t you?”
    “Looks like it.”
    Thomas looked for Nicky, already under his
favorite tree, the fire truck parked on a big exposed root, pointed
stick in his hands, digging to China.
    “You be careful with that stick,” Thomas
yelled, not that he was worried. He just wanted to show somebody
his authority.
    “He yours?” The bench snatcher nodded toward
the tree.
    “I don’t tell strangers my business.”
    “Looks like I’m not going to be a stranger
long seeing as how I’m sitting in this seat and don’t plan on
moving.”
    “Neither do I.”
    They glared at each other, two old men with
nothing better to do than see who could outlast the other in a
staring contest. Thomas had walked a long way, at least for a man
his age, and his legs were beginning to ache. But he wasn’t about
to let the old goofus on his bench know that.
    “I should have known anybody who wears a wool
cap in the summer wouldn’t have the manners of a mule,” Thomas
said.
    “Who are you calling a mule, you skinny old
toot? When I was in the war I ate men worse than you for
breakfast.”
    “Are you a veteran?”
    “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”
    All the fight went out of Thomas. Anybody who
served in combat couldn’t be all bad. To prove it, the man scooted
down to the far end of the bench.
    “Take a load off,” he said. “I guess there’s
room enough for two.”
    “I guess.” Thomas sat on the opposite end of
the bench. “My great grandson,” he said, nodding toward the
tree.
    “I thought so. He looks like you.”
    The old fool went up a notch in Thomas’s
book. “You think so?”
    “I said it, didn’t I?”
    They sat like that for fifteen minutes,
neither of them speaking, neither of them moving. Thomas was
getting a cramp in his legs, and the truth to tell he’d been
lonesome of late for the company of somebody his own age. In Tunica
he’d had Jim Gardner and Clarence Hopkins, but even if he was still
there he’d outlived them by three years.
    “Thomas Jennings,” he said, not even turning
his head. “l6th Infantry, lst Division.”
    “Fred Lollar, 506th Parachute Infantry
Regiment, l0lst Airborne Division.”
    Sometimes prayers you didn’t even know you’d
prayed were answered. It was that way with Thomas. For the next
hour they couldn’t talk fast enough, and by the time Thomas pulled
his two biscuits with bacon out of the sack, he’d told Fred all
about the man he was looking for, everything except the million
dollar check.
    Good soldiers don’t ask questions. Fred
munched his honey bun and stared into the distance.
    “I reckon I can help you find him,” he
said.
    “I’m not askin’ for chairty.”
    “I ain’t offering it. Just a neighborly
hand.”
    “That’s different.” Thomas broke half his
biscuit off and handed it to Fred. “Too much sugar’ll take all