A Nose for Adventure by Richard Scrimger Page B

her, those beady little New Jersey eyes. Everything from New Jersey is little. Little eyes, little ears, and teeny-weeny hearts
.
    He stops at the sound of a tentative honk. The van is back. It must have gone around the block, then returned to our side. The lady opens the sliding side door with a flick of a driver-side button. Her smile is small and apologetic, like a puppy that’s made a mistake on the living-room carpet. She asks if we need a lift anywhere.
    We all say thank you, one after the other, like a row of parrots. Even Norbert murmurs something. The lady thanks us for changing the tire, and apologizes for her bad manners. “I’m just so scared of driving in the city. I usually come here with my husband, but he’s away on business; this is my first time by myself. I got lost coming off the Manhattan Bridge, and then I got the flat tire. After you fixed it, all I wanted to do was find the Holland Tunnel and get home. I drove away, but I was too ashamed to keep going.”
    –
Ah, New Jersey. The generosity state
, Norbert says.
    She frowns at us, unable to figure out who is speaking. “I think we call ourselves the Garden State,” she says.
    –
Generosity is a plant that should be in every garden
, says Norbert.
    Bird and I lift Frieda into the middle seat. “Oh, my dear, I didn’t see you were hurt,” says the lady. “I’m not,” says Frieda.
    Bird’s wagon fits into the well by the side door. He climbs into the front seat. The lady from New Jersey isnervous with him beside her, a teenager with ripped ragged clothes. I sit with Frieda. Sally is in the back.
    Frieda gives her address on West 84th Street – our destination for the past four hours. The New Jersey lady asks how to get there. Frieda doesn’t know.
    “What?” I ask. “But it’s where you live.”
    “I know it’s off Central Park West. But I’ve never had to get there on my own from way down here. I get driven most places.” She looks down at her legs.
    “Sorry,” I say.
    “What about you?” the New Jersey lady asks me. “Do you know how to get there?”
    “Sorry,” I say again.
    “Don’t mind the apologies. He’s from Canada,” Frieda explains.
    Bird, of course, is no good to us. He’s never been out of the neighborhood. He knows that Central Park is somewhere up that way. He points vaguely ahead.
    A van full of people, and none of us knows the way.
    “I’m from Jersey,” says the lady. “I wouldn’t be here, except that my sister is finally getting a divorce from her no-good husband, and wanted a shoulder to cry on.”
    “Central Park is the biggest green space inside city limits anywhere in the world,” says Frieda.
    “Maybe we’ll be able to find it then,” says the lady, putting the van in gear. “If we go too far, we can take you home to Canada,” she says to me. She has slick dark hair and bulging eyes. Her clothes are mostly green. She lookslike a worried frog. “And, please,” she adds, “children, keep your eyes open for gas stations. The spare tire is only a temporary replacement.”
    “So this is Park Avenue,” I say, after we’ve been on it for a quarter of an hour or so. “When do we get to the park?”
    “I don’t know.” The lady – whose name is Mrs. Amboy – drives slowly among the limousines and yellow cabs and buses, which seem to make up most of the traffic. We see a lot of different tail lights as they pass us, one set at a time.
    I stare up ahead. Blocks and blocks of tall buildings, blotting out all of the sky except a narrow blue strip. Park Avenue seemed like the right street to turn onto. Back then the cross streets had numbers like 15 and 16. Now we’re up to 65, and still no sign of a park. Mind you, we passed streets named Canal and Mulberry without seeing water or fruit.
    “Turn left,” says Frieda suddenly. “I’ve been here before.”
    A left-pointing arrow directs us right through the middle of Central Park. On the other side of the park is a street I recognize