Logan Circle is one of William Penn's original five squares. Situated on Benjamin Franklin Parkway, it is surrounded by some of the city's most impressive institutions: the Franklin Institute, the Academy of Natural Sciences, the Free Library, the art museum.
The three figures of Swann Fountain, at the center of the circle, represent the main waterways of Philadelphia: the Delaware, the Schuyl- kill, and the Wissahickon rivers. The area beneath the square was once a burial ground.
Talk about your subtext.
Today the area around the fountain is packed with summertime revelers and cyclists and tourists. The water sparkles: diamonds against a cerulean sky. Children chase each other in lazy figure eights. Vendors hawk their wares. Students read their textbooks, listen to their MP3 players.
I come upon the young woman. She is sitting on a bench, reading a book by Nora Roberts. She looks up. Recognition dawns on her pretty face.
"Oh, hi," she says.
"Hi."
"Nice to see you again."
"Mind if I sit down?" I ask, wondering if I've expressed myself correctly.
She brightens. She understood me after all. "Not at all," she replies. She bookmarks her book, closes it, slips it into her bag. She smooths the hem of her dress. She is a very precise and proper young lady. Well mannered and raised.
"I promise I won't talk about the heat," I say.
She smiles, looked at me quizzically. "The what?"
"Heat?"
She smiles. The fact that the two of us are speaking another language draws the attention of people nearby.
I study her for a moment, sifting her features, her soft hair, her demeanor. She notices.
"What?" she asks.
"Has anyone ever told you that you look like a movie star?"
There is a momentary flicker of concern on her face, but when I smile at her the apprehension dissipates.
"A movie star? I don't think so."
"Oh, I don't mean a current movie star. I'm thinking of an older star."
She screws up her face.
"Oh, that's not what I meant!" I say, laughing. She laughs with me. "I didn't mean old. What I meant was, there is a certain… understated glamour about you that reminds me of a movie star from the forties. Jennifer Jones. Do you know Jennifer Jones?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
"That's okay," I say. "I'm sorry. I've embarrassed you."
"Not at all," she says. But I can tell that she is just being polite. She glances at her watch. "I'm afraid I have to get going."
She stands, looks at all the items she had to carry. She glances toward the Market Street subway station.
"I'm going that way," I say. "I'd be happy to give you a hand."
She scrutinizes me again. It seems at first she is going to decline, but when I smile again, she asks: "Are you sure it wouldn't be out of your о» way?"
"Not at all."
I pick up her two large shopping bags, and slip her canvas tote over my shoulder. "I'm an actor myself," I say.
She nods. "I'm not surprised."
When we reach the crosswalk, we stop. I place my hand on her forearm, just for a moment. Her skin is pale and smooth and soft.
"You know, you've gotten a lot better." When she signs, she makes her handshapes slowly, deliberately, just for my benefit. I sign back: "I've had inspiration." The girl blushes. She is an Angel.
From some angles, in certain lights, she looks just like her father.