The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up (15 page)

Arnold was in the process of preparing one of his delicacies, a coleus casserole, when Cassandra returned home from work at the end of the week. Her cargo pants were rolled up at the bottoms, exposing an alluring pink ankle bracelet. She’d arranged her hair into intricate cornbraids. In contrast, Arnold was wearing a pink checkered apron and a pair or well-gnawed slippers. “I got a head start on dinner,” he announced.

“I like the apron,” she said. “Very becoming.”

“I stole it off one of your neighbour’s laundry lines, the tubby fundamentalist with the blotchy skin,” said Arnold. “She’ll probably think it was an evil spirit.”

This particular neighbour, who Arnold knew only from sight, sold evangelical tracts from a folding table on the sidewalk. Her fire escape, opposite Cassandra’s, contained the desiccated remains of what had once been a philodendron. Arnold held against her the double sins of religion and vegecide.

Cassandra frowned. “Don’t mess with the other tenants,” she said. “I have to live here after you leave.”

That was the first the girl had ever said about
Arnold’s leaving, at least since the evening of his arrival, and it caught the botanist off guard. He’d begun to believe he was welcome to stay indefinitely. The girl must have seen the alarm on his face, because she smiled in amusement. “Don’t worry, I’m not throwing you out,” she said. “At least, not yet. I’m actually getting used to you. But absolutely no more screwing with Mrs. Poxly’s laundry. Or anybody else’s laundry, for that matter. If you want women’s clothes, you can buy them yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Arnold, relieved.

The girl reached into her canvas bag and produced a bottle of red wine. “Besides,” she said. “Tonight, we’re celebrating.”

“What’s there to celebrate? My one week anniversary in hiding?”

“Better than that,” she answered. “Have you seen the paper yet?”

“No, I listened to the news at lunchtime.”

She uncorked the wine bottle with a dull pop. “Radio is a second-rate medium,” she said. “It’s like television for blind people.”

They’d actually argued about the merits of television over breakfast. Arnold had been anti-TV all of his life—but now that he was confined to one-hundred-forty square feet of floor space, he wanted Cassandra to invest in a portable set. The girl thought that was a waste of resources and brain cells.

Arnold slid his casserole into the oven. “Are you going to tell me?” he asked. “Or do I have to wrap bandages around my face and buy a
Times
at the bodega?”

The girl poured them each a glass of wine. “It wouldn’t be in the
Times
.”

“Let me guess. It’s in the
Vanguard
. You ran my interview.”

“It’s in the
Vanguard
, all right. But we didn’t run your interview. I’m not that stupid.” She reached into her bag again and pulled out a copy of the radical broadsheet. “Take a look at that,” she said.

“What is it? Has socialism triumphed? Or has Lenin risen from the dead?”

He’d stockpiled a whole slew of sarcastic quips to level at Cassandra’s employer, which usually ran articles laced with words like
imperialism
and
hegemony
, but the banner headline brought his mockery to an immediate halt:

THE MINISTER’S TWO WIVES

Far Right’s Spitford Spotty on Monogamy
.

The exposé covered the entire front page and included photographs of the clergyman with his wife in New York and his
other
wife and five children in Tampa.

“I told you you’d like your surprise,” said the girl.

“I should throttle you for not telling me sooner.”

“Take a look at the by-line,” urged the girl.

There was her name:

CASSANDRA BROWARD, INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER

“A toast,” proposed the girl. “To my promotion.”

They clicked glasses and drank.

“That should give him a taste of his own medicine,” she said. “So much for Mayor Spitford. Now what was that you were saying about Lenin’s resurrection?”

“I stand corrected, once again. I guess I should go eat my hat.”

“There’s no need for anything so drastic,” she answered. “You can thank me by pouring me another glass of wine.”

Arnold poured them each another glass and they toasted again. Her face flushed from the alcohol.

“I also have something else for you,” said the girl. “A present.”

“What more could I possibly ask for in life? Don’t tell me Ira Taylor also has two wives?”

“Who?”

“An old nemesis of mine. Never mind.”

“You have an awful lot of enemies, don’t you?” observed the girl. This might have been true—but she didn’t give him a chance to think it over. Instead, she withdrew a small appliance from her bag. “But now, at least, you can track their progress from home on your new portable television.”

“But I thought you said television was the root of all evil.”

The girl’s eyes twinkled. “I didn’t mean it. I just like
arguing with you.”

Arnold was truly happy, practically giddy, for the first time in weeks, so happy that he could have kissed the girl in gratitude—but he didn’t dare.

Arnold insisted upon testing out his new television later that evening. They cleared the seashells and hedgehog cactus off the window sill, giving the small twelve-inch set a place of honour more suited for a rare family heirloom. Additional effort was required to adjust the antennae in such a manner that more than waves of snow were visible on the screen. At its best, the picture remained cloudy. But it
was
a picture. He even cooked up a bowl of popcorn for the inaugural viewing. Not bugleweed ‘popcorn’ or peppergrass ‘popcorn,’ but the old-fashioned variety, the stuff formed from exploded corn kernels. They also used real butter—of the sort that came not from buttercups but from dairy cows. When Cassandra finally managed to jiggle the machine’s static into sound, a feat that required the device be titled upward forty-five degrees, they relaxed on a pair of aluminium lawn chairs and watched the local evening news. It felt as though they were attending a picnic or a drive-in movie.

The lead story that night was Spitford’s double life. At first, the anchorman rehashed the article in the
Vanguard
. He also quoted several noncommittal statements from leading African-American political and religious figures. Then came more critical words from white conservatives. Arnold found himself contemplating
the larger implications of the black fascist’s downfall. If Spitford were discredited, Arnold wondered, might that lead to his own early rehabilitation? It seemed plausible. The media often had a difficult time keeping two villains in their crosshairs simultaneously, particularly if the two evildoers were themselves adversaries. Complexity and nuance didn’t rake in advertising dollars. Maybe the tide had turned. Next week, he might be sitting in his own living room while Spitford hid from the authorities. He and Judith would laugh at this entire episode as a minor blip in the otherwise smooth course of their passage into old age. In his fantasy, they even invited him back to Yankee Stadium to throw out the first pitch on opening day—and he had the satisfaction of rejecting their offer. And he’d owe it all to Cassandra and her investigative journalism. Even Judith’s attitude toward the girl would have to soften if that came to pass. Arnold smiled at the girl. She winked back—unmistakably. He felt a warm, devoted feeling toward her, he decided, that could just as easily become familial as romantic. Who knew? Maybe Cassandra would become the child Judith so desperately wanted.

The television had cut away from the anchor’s desk to live footage of Musty Musgrove, the fast-talking reporter who’d made a name for himself covering Arnold’s disgrace. “We’re waiting for Reverend Spitford to emerge from his limousine,” explained the newsman. “We’ve been told that he intends to make a brief statement and after that he will
take questions from the media. According to our sources inside the Emergency Civil Rights Brigade, Reverend Spitford personally decided to have this late-night press conference, overruling his closest advisors. Whether we’ll get the usual voice of defiance, or something more contrite, we’ll have to wait and see….” The camera panned across the street to Spitford’s black stretch limo, and Arnold recognized the scene instantly. The limousine was parked
on his own block
. The Black Nazi apparently intended to hold his goddam press conference opposite Arnold’s townhouse. Yet when the portly minister stepped out of his vehicle, sporting his reflective glasses despite the darkness, the extent of the clergymen’s impertinence turned out to be far more greater than even Arnold had thought possible. Spitford, flanked by his dark-suited bodyguards,
mounted the steps of Arnold’s home
. He was going to give his valedictory from the botanist’s own front porch. Sure, it was private property. But nobody was going to make any effort to stop him.

The minister held up his hand for silence. Then he removed his glasses, dramatically, exposing a set of bloodshot eyes. “May I ask you to dim your lights?” he requested softly. “I have been crying and my vision is quite sensitive.”

Several photographers did indeed lower their lights. The minister’s broad, flabby face fell into shadow.

“I have been crying,” continued Spitford, louder,
“because I have done a great wrong. We are all sinners, but I am a greater sinner than most. I will make no effort this evening to explain or justify what I have done. It is unjustifiable. Unpardonable. No censure is too strong for an abject wretch like me….”

The minister’s deep voice resonated along the dark, silent street. Arnold relished the man’s degradation, but he felt a growing sense of foreboding. Spitford’s words were apologetic, but the minister’s tone contained hints of his usual defiance. This was a man who’d been bent, but not broken.

Spitford paused and dabbed his eyes with a
starch-white
handkerchief. “All I can say in my own defence,” he continued, “is that I loved not wisely but too well. I had the grave misfortune of losing my heart to two glorious, God-fearing women, and I am afraid that this love got the better of me. I made the inexcusable mistake of raising two wonderful families—seven children, each of whom I adore more than life itself—and although I owe an apology
to them
, I will never owe an apology
for them
. But I say to all of you, tonight, that I was wrong to yield to my excessive love, and on that account I am terribly, terribly sorry.” Spitford paused again—as though trying to compose himself. “What I am
not
sorry for, is crusading against hatred. Given the choice of too much love or too little, I will choose too much love any day. Because of that, I have no choice but to continue with our struggle against
prejudice and violence of all sorts. I stand before you at the home of a man whose sin is the veritable opposite of mine: I have far too much love to offer. Arnold Brinkman does not have any. You must decide for yourselves which of those transgressions is worse.”

The minister stepped forward toward his audience. On the bottom on the screen, the day’s baseball scores scrolled past. The camera panned in for a close-up of the minister’s pained expression. “I plead with you to accept my sincerest apologies and not to let my own shortcomings injure my innocent children, jeopardize my work toward social justice, or, most importantly, weaken the security of the nation that I love beyond all else: The United States of America. It is in the name of our homeland—and for its protection from men like Arnold Brinkman—that I get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness.” And then Spitford did just that. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. Soon members of the press corps were also crying, and applauding, until someone struck up a chorus of
God Bless America
. When Arnold snapped off the television, the cameras were focused on Musty Musgrove, standing at attention, singing, with his hand over his heart. Arnold had no doubt who the next mayor would be.

“Goddam useless machine,” growled the botanist. “What a waste of money.”

“I can take it back,” offered the girl. “I’m sure if I return the TV, it will change the media’s attitude toward
your friend Spitford.”

“We’ve already got it,” snapped Arnold. “We might as well keep it.”

But after the minister’s press conference, he didn’t turn it on again.

As Arnold took less interest in the news, the news took less interest in him. He still remained on the FBI’s
most-wanted
list, and Spitford continued his vigil outside what had once been Arnold’s townhouse, but now a particularly violent day in the Middle East or a celebrity wedding might easily drive coverage of his disappearance to the middle of a radio newscast. Several commentators speculated that he was dead, either by accident or suicide, and that his bloated body would eventually wash up in the East River. An NPR crime consultant quoted unnamed sources as saying the investigation had run cold and that the authorities were diverting resources away from the search. This prompted an angry denial from One Police Plaza. But after four weeks underground, Arnold was beginning to think he was in the clear. And then, one Friday evening, the intercom shattered the tranquillity of their dinner. This was the first time since his arrival that the girl had received another visitor, and the rarity of the event made it all the more alarming. His adrenal glands kicked into overdrive. He looked to Cassandra for wisdom, but she shrugged.

“Are you sure you’re not expecting someone?”
he asked.

“Who on earth could I be expecting? I already told you: I don’t have any friends.
None
.”

“Acquaintances?” he ventured. “Enemies?”

The buzzer sounded again—seemingly louder, though Arnold knew that wasn’t possible. The German shepherd vaulted off the futon and cowered in the corner.

“You’re the one with enemies, Mr. I-Value-
People’s-Opinions
,” retorted Cassandra. “Not me.”

Arnold scanned the apartment for a place to conceal himself. There wasn’t one. The futon rested directly against the ground and the teak wardrobe lacked doors. His only avenues of retreat were the bathroom or the window.

“We should have planned ahead,” he said. “We should have arranged for a hiding place before tonight.”

“Could-have, would-have, should-have,” answered the girl. “Go out on the fire escape and lie down under one of the sheets.”

Arnold had little choice. He climbed through the open window, prepared to conceal himself under damp bedding, but the linens and blankets that Cassandra had draped along the railing were all missing. There wasn’t so much as a tatter of cloth on the entire platform. They’d been robbed.

He glanced over the railing, hoping he might be able to vault himself into the apartment below. That’s when he caught sight of the checkered pink apron. It was hanging
from the obese fundamentalist’s laundry line, just as it had been before Arnold had scooped it up with a hook. And now that damn hag Poxly had paid him back in kind by appropriating their wet bedding. Which meant he’d spent the rest of his life in prison for stealing a woman’s apron. Unless, of course, Cassandra opened the door on a troop of girl scouts selling cookies. Let them be girl scouts. If they were, he swore he’d buy every last baked good in their warehouse. Arnold clung to this fantasy for a couple of seconds, and then he watched through the railing as the girl opened the door on a pair of burly men decked out in New York Yankees paraphernalia. One wore a solid navy shirt with an insignia and torn dungarees. The other had his cap on backwards. Both looked dour.

“Can I help you?” asked the girl.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” answered Backwards Cap, flashing a badge in the girl’s face. He spoke with a lisp. Why were these officers wearing baseball outfits? To taunt Arnold? To make the arrest photographs more poetic? Did it matter? The bottom line was that the pair was clearly onto him and he had no way out. Or almost no way. Arnold squeezed his eyes shut and, drawing a deep breath, climbed into the compost trough. The fermented stench of the decomposing produce nearly overpowered him. When he lay flat on his back, only his nose protruded about the mounds of murky, semi-liquid slop. The conversation in the apartment now came to him
from a great distance, as though through a long tube.

“I take it you’re Yankees fans,” said the girl—cool and collected.

“It gets us in the door,” answered Navy Shirt. “We used to wear suits. People mistook us for Mormon missionaries.”

“I’m sure they’re relieved when they find out you’re G-men.”

“Depends who they are,” said Backwards Cap. “And what they’ve been doing.”

“That makes sense,” answered Cassandra. “So what have
I
been doing?”

“Maybe you’d like to tell us?” persisted Backwards Cap.

“We could play twenty questions,” offered the girl.

A long silence followed. Arnold tried to breathe silently.

“We’re investigating the disappearance of Arnold Brinkman,” Navy Shirt said eventually in a business-like tone. “We’re going to have to look around your apartment.”

“And you think
I’m
hiding Arnold Brinkman?”

“
Are you
hiding him?”

“I don’t think so,” said the girl. “But you’d better check under the futon and in the wardrobe. And if he’s not there, the bathroom and the fire escape wouldn’t be such bad bets. You have to figure I’m an amateur, so I probably wouldn’t have come up with anything all that creative.”

The G-men didn’t seem to find the girl amusing. Nor did Arnold. Arnold had discovered that policemen, like physicians, enjoyed being treated as though they were better than other human beings. Simply addressing them as “doctor” or “officer” at the end of every sentence was bound to get you better healthcare and a reduced speeding ticket. Arnold didn’t imagine that repartee was one of the qualities that J. Edgar Hoover had looked for in hiring.

“Please sit down right there, Miss,” said Backwards Cap sharply.

“And don’t do anything foolish,” added Navy Shirt.

Arnold heard the floorboards squeak in front of the window. He took a deep breath and drew his nose into the mire.

“Are those your plants?” demanded Backwards Cap.

“They’re tomatoes.”

“You’ve got an awful lot of them.”

“They’re essential for the proper balance of yin and yang,” answered Cassandra. “And they improve the sex drive.”

He was suffocating on rotten sugar beets and the girl was proffering theories on the spiritual properties of tomatoes. Which weren’t even true. Tomatoes screwed with your yin and yang. They were totally incompatible with a macrobiotic diet. Drano offered more promise as an aphrodisiac.

“What’s that over there?” asked Backwards Cap.

“Compost. Decaying produce. Would you like to try some?”

“Jesus, that stinks,” answered the agent. “You
eat
that?”

“I don’t,” said Cassandra. “But you’re welcome to.”

Backwards Cap muttered a word that sounded like “bitch” and slammed shut the window, preventing Arnold from hearing the remainder of the conversation. The two agents stayed in the apartment for another hour. Arnold could feel the watery sludge soaking into his shoes and creeping around his groin. His haemorrhoids itched; the waterline tickled his nostrils. He didn’t dare move. If the hippie movement were looking for a modern variant of medieval torture, compost dunking was surely it.