In the Name of the Park

They say you never really know what someone is like, not truly. Life has a funny way of showing you. Coincidences, they call them — those little twists of fate that seem too good to be true. Like how, just as the park started filling up with the wrong kinds of people, they all began to disappear. One by one. Strange, isn’t it?

I’ve lived here for decades, in this little house with its flower boxes and its white shutters, watching the seasons change, watching the people come and go at the park across the street. For so long, the park was perfect. Flowers bloomed each spring, and the trees provided shade for the frolicking that took place under them. The good people were always there, the ones who respected it. There was Mrs. Calloway, who had walked her poodle, Franz, at the same time every morning for twenty years. There was George, the retired schoolteacher, who read his newspaper on the same bench while sipping his thermos of coffee. The mothers with their strollers, the elderly couples arm in arm, the joggers who nodded politely as they passed. These were my people.

But then, the bad ones came.

First, it was the teenagers, those little delinquents with their cigarettes and their loud music, loitering around the swings, leaving their garbage behind. They carved their nonsense into the benches, foul words that I won’t repeat, marking their territory like stray dogs. I scolded them at first, wagging my finger, telling them they should be ashamed. They only laughed. They had no respect for anything — not for me, not for the park, not for the memories of the good people who had been there before them. But they weren’t laughing for long.

Then came the couple — the awful couple — who would play disc golf and argue the entire time. He was a burly man with a voice like a foghorn, and she was a waifish thing, shrill and unrelenting like a bird. They didn’t just argue; they screamed. And, I even think they smoked marijuana. I would try to enjoy my walks, but their voices would pierce through the trees, ruining everything. Clem, Ollie, and Marcus, my yorkies, would cower in fear as they approached us. It was always about money, or about some other woman, or about how she was ungrateful, and he was a brute (she used much more colorful language). The sound of their discs clattering against metal mixed with their venomous words, polluting the air. Their presence felt like a stain on what should have been a sanctuary, a place of peace. I could almost hear the park groaning under their weight.

And then there were the worst ones of all. The dealers.

I noticed them sneaking into the park, lurking by the back benches where the trees grew thickest. They wore hoodies, their eyes darting around as they exchanged small bags for crumpled bills. I knew exactly what was happening. I’d seen enough crime reports to recognize the signs. And to think, they were doing this when there were children and teenagers in the vicinity. The neighborhood wasn’t safe anymore. My park wasn’t safe. I saw them whispering to people who passed by, shifting anxiously, always watching their backs. I knew their kind. I had seen the stories on the news — violence always followed them, and the police did nothing.

And yet, people ignored it. They walked past, either too afraid or too indifferent to say anything. I called our local police station, and they only told me they would send an officer to check it out. I will tell you this did not happen, as I watched from my window and saw no police officers in the area. I did report this as well. But I knew the truth: if you want something done right, you must do it yourself.

I had to do something.

You can never judge a book by its cover, they say. People look at me and they see an old woman, slightly hunched, dressed in my sensible sweaters and shoes, walking my three little dogs. They see my tidy house with the white shutters and the flower boxes, and they assume I am exactly what I appear to be.

They don’t see the woman who was married to a cruel man for twenty years, who learned how to endure, how to be patient, how to bide her time until the right moment came. Who realized sometimes, something must be lost to be gained, as was the case in preserving peace for my three sons. They don’t see the woman who grew up on a farm, who learned early how to break a chicken’s neck in one swift motion. They don’t know how strong my hands really are.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, don’t they?

The teenagers were first. It wasn’t hard. One of them, a particularly mouthy one with a sneer that made my blood boil, was walking home alone one night. It was almost too easy. A single strike with the tire iron I kept in my shed and he crumpled like a rag doll. He and his friends did not hang out at the park after that, so far as I could tell. It was strange how quickly the others took the hint.

The arguing couple was next. I followed them, listening to their voices rise in fury. They were on the edge of the park, past the old fence where no one went anymore. She was crying, and he was yelling, his voice shaking the leaves. I didn’t even hesitate. A push was all it took — just one push — and his big, lumbering body toppled over the edge of the ravine. The silence was so sudden it was almost beautiful. It was as if the park could finally exhale. She turned to me, eyes wide, lips trembling. I thought she would scream.

But she didn’t.

She ran. And I let her. Because I knew she wouldn’t tell. Women like her know better than to cross women like me. And, maybe she will use this second chance to make some better life choices.

The dealers were harder. They moved in groups, cautious, always looking over their shoulders. But people like them? They get greedy. They trust the wrong people. One by one, they fell, each disappearance a small victory. The police didn’t even look into it too hard. Junkies, they called them. No big loss. I made sure they disappeared quietly. A little patience, a little careful planning. No one questioned it. You wouldn't suspect I could even be capable of these deeds.

The park is quiet now. The good people have returned, along with the lilac blooms and the koi fish in the pond. Mrs. Calloway walks Franz without fear. George reads his paper in peace. The mothers push their strollers without looking over their shoulders. Their babies have grown and play freely on the park equipment, without having to read rubbish. Soon, a new batch of these little lambs will be springing about. The joggers smile again.

"It’s so nice that the park has cleaned up," they say. "Feels safe again."

“Isn’t it amazing that all those rough types just stopped coming here? I wonder what happened,” Mrs. Calloway mentioned yesterday, as we paused to dispose of our dog droppings before exiting the park.

I smile back.

But then, just as we step onto the sidewalk, I notice something. A new teenager sitting on the swings, head down, hoodie pulled tight. Just sitting. Watching. I grip the leash in my hands, my knuckles whitening.

Because it is safe.

And I intend to keep it that way.