The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up (5 page)

Much to Arnold’s consternation, the girl had left her ladder behind the hedges. He’d have no choice but to return it as soon as the crisis blew over. He was about to remove it—no need to invite in a real burglar—when a shadow darkened the flagstones behind him. It was the girl.

“Looks like your first run-in with the media was a real hit,” she said. “You had them eating out of your hand.”

“What the hell are you still doing here?”

“I can hear them packing up their gear and running off to Africa this very minute. Who can blame them? They might miss breaking the next case of dysentery.”

“I thought I ordered you to leave.”

“I disobeyed.”

“You have to leave. I need time to think.” Under different circumstances, he would have kept his cool.
He’d even have invited the girl in for a cold drink before expelling her. But when he wasn’t getting along with Judith, everything in Arnold’s life stopped working. “I’m not joking anymore. I’ll call the goddam police.”

“We’re you joking before?” asked the girl.

“Fine, stay,” he snapped. “I’ll leave.”

That’s when the idea struck him. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Do you still have that other ladder?”

“It’s lying against the fence.”

“So I could leave without going through the front door.”

The girl smirked. “If I let you.”

She stood between him and the ladders. He considered attempting to get past her—to use force, if necessary—but he didn’t like the idea of wrestling with a girl in her twenties. Besides, she might scream. The last thing he wanted was Spitford & Company coming around the back of the house.

“You give me an interview,” offered the girl, “and I’ll lend you my ladders.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“That’s my best offer. Only offer, really. Take it or leave it.”

Arnold remembered why he’d left academics. Too much negotiating. In business, ironically, nobody ever haggled. It just wasn’t worth it.

“You drive a damn hard bargain,” said Arnold.

She grinned and stuck out
her
tongue.

“Deal?” she asked.

“Deal. Now let’s get out of here.”

The Blue Rose Plant & Garden Centre occupied an entire city block on the far side of Seventh Avenue in a gap between two historical preservation districts. Until the late-1960s, the site had been home to Baumgarten’s Poultry Yard, the last
glatt
kosher slaughterer south of 14
^th
Street. One of Arnold’s first memories was of his father’s grandmother, whom everybody called the Baroness, taking him to Baumgarten’s to pick out chickens for the Passover
seder
. He’d never overcome his fear of the old widow. Her hands had been mangled in a childhood carriage accident, and she spoke only Yiddish and Dutch, not English, so she communicated with her great-grandchildren by gesticulating with the stump of what had once been her index finger. Arnold had watched in a combination of fascination and horror, but mostly horror, as she’d used the same disfigured digit to pass judgment on three caged hens. In the seconds that followed, the butcher—a cheerful and robust young
chasid
—roped the birds around the legs, as though wrapping a pastry box, and severed their heads on the wooden chopping block. The Baroness had made Arnold hold the carcasses in his lap on the subway ride home.

It was easy, maybe too easy, to trace a line between that visit to Baumgarten’s and the botanist’s subsequent
life choices: abandoning Judaism for secular agnosticism, giving up red meat and poultry for edible flowers, marrying the blue-eyed daughter of a Norwegian laundress, herself the collateral descendant of baronesses, or their Scandinavian equivalent, although this connection came with neither fortune nor privilege. If the Baroness had known that her own great-grandson would wed a lapsed Lutheran, an artist who brewed tea from dandelion stalks, and a poor girl at that, the old refugee would have dropped stone cold dead on the sidewalk—which was what she did anyway, that same Passover, from a blood clot to her brain. What amazed Arnold wasn’t that he’d forsaken his heritage—Judith joked that the only roots they had were carrots and sugar beets—but that he’d ended up in business.
That
seemed implausible. As his father had always said, they were descended from an ancient and venerable line of hourly employees: bricklayers, pieceworkers, clerks. Arnold’s first foray into capitalism, a sixth-grade carwash, had run two hundred dollars in the red—not including the restitution his father kicked in when he forgot to seal the roof of a convertible. From that point forward, the Brinkman’s only son had seemed destined for university life. In the academy, it didn’t matter how peculiar or incompetent you were, whether you couldn’t tie your own shoe laces or believed the earth was flat—provided you contributed to the intellectual advancement of your field. Arnold knew of one prominent botanist, for instance, who
also published self-help books on the therapeutic benefits of drinking one’s own urine. But in Arnold’s case, his scientific articles hadn’t proven terribly valuable. In the words of his tenure committee, they were “perfectly competent, but uninspired.” He couldn’t have agreed more. Who in their right mind would be inspired by the crosspollination genetics of winter wheat? What he’d wanted to do was to study edible flowers—but
that
wasn’t considered serious research.

While Arnold had searched for another teaching post, a senior colleague of his, Hans Overmeyer, probably because the middle-aged professor had an unspoken crush on Arnold, had suggested they purchase the foreclosed poultry yard from the city and use the space for experimental botany. Overmeyer was interested in transplanting animal DNA into plants. He dreamed he might someday be able to produce blue roses from dolphin genes, or pink rice from flamingo feathers, but his first project—breeding glow-
in-the
-dark crocuses with the help of firefly chromosomes—struck pay-dirt in the mid-70s. For several months, while the rest of the nation grappled with stagflation and gasoline lines, it seemed everyone within walking distance of Sheridan Square had a crocus nightlight in their bedrooms. Arnold owned fifty percent of the proceeds. The following autumn, when Overmeyer’s second ex-wife gunned down the older botanist in his Barnard office, a shocked Arnold inherited the entire operation. To that point, he’d done
nothing to contribute to the nursery; he hadn’t even cleaned out the rusted chicken cages from his designated office. The entire summer had been spent house-hunting with Judith and searching for specimens in Central Park. Yet somehow the glow-in-the-dark crocuses had led to an organic flower market, and then a catalogue bulb-and-seed business, and eventually a multimillion dollar enterprise—albeit one where, for many years, elderly out-of-towners continued to come seeking live ducks and guinea fowl. On the lecture circuit, young horticulturists frequently examined Arnold’s curriculum vitae and noted how well all the strands of his life had come together. That was because they possessed the power of hindsight, he warned. A man doesn’t list his setbacks on his résumé.

Arnold had always prided himself on taking an interest in the community—not just writing annual checks to City Harvest and the West Village Green Thumb Society, but setting aside time to get to know his neighbours, even though his neighbours changed frequently and his own time grew increasingly precious. Usually, nothing pleased him more than exchanging early-morning greetings and chitchat with his fellow merchants: the chain-smoking Israeli locksmith, the Ethiopian restaurateur who always addressed him as
my cousin
, the elderly transvestites who ran a combination costume shop and internet café. He had even befriended the lizard-tongued kid who pierced nipples and genitals on 13
^th
Street. Arnold called the young man
“The Specialist.” But that morning, after his confrontation with the media, Arnold dreaded the prospect of running into anyone he knew. He walked rapidly, steering a broad rectangular course that avoided his usual morning route, so that he approached the nursery from the opposite direction. The girl struggled to keep pace. Several passers-by appeared to recognize him—either from television or the newspapers—but he ignored their stares.

“Can you slow the fuck down?” Cassandra pleaded. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we got you a paper bag to put over your head?”

“This is how I normally walk,” said Arnold. “If you can’t keep up, we can always do the interview another day.”

“I think you’d look awesome in a paper bag,” continued the girl. She had the habit of following her own train of thought, independent of his interruptions. “We’ll cut you some eyeholes and draw you a moustache.”

Arnold picked up his pace. He wasn’t in the best physical shape—he’d given up jogging years earlier when he’d ruptured his Achilles’—but he was still surprised to discover how easily he winded. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and under his collar. Somehow, he blamed this flagging breath on the girl. “Did anybody ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?” he demanded.

“All the time,” retorted the girl. “Some guys like that.”

Her tone was overtly playful—possibly flirtatious.
Even racing down Sixth Avenue in a condition approaching panic, Arnold couldn’t help noticing. But how was he supposed to respond? Ordering the girl to “stop flirting” was somewhat presumptuous. It might even come across as coy encouragement. On the other hand, engaging her in a battle of teasing repartee might give her ideas. So Arnold said nothing. He let her fire off her barbs, but refused to shoot back. Besides, he was out of practice. He hadn’t flirted with anyone in thirty years.
He hadn’t wanted to flirt with anyone
. Even before that, verbal jousting hadn’t been his strong suit.

They crossed the park, cut along the new jogging trail where the city’s gardeners had recently set down a bed of asters and heliotrope. “Where the hell are you taking me?” demanded the girl. “We’re spinning in goddam circles.”

“Squares,” retorted Arnold.

Soon they emerged opposite the Plant Centre. Arnold was relieved to see that Guillermo had the place up-and-running in his absence: Display trays of African violets and New Guinea impatiens lined the sidewalk; the heavy iron gates had been drawn open and festooned with wandering jews. Arnold also noticed several unfamiliar decorations: an American flag taped under the “Summer Sale” sign and two dozen plywood boards leaning against the brickwork. Inside, the air smelled pungently of pine sap and pollen. There were only a handful of customers:
an old man with a beagle, an unkempt girl walking her bicycle through the aisles. The nursery generally did very little business before noon in the warmer months. What surprised Arnold was that there didn’t appear to be any staff on duty. Where were all those muscular, interchangeable youths—Ecuadorians, Peruvians—whom Guillermo hired “to do the heavy work”? And where were the salesgirls? He finally spotted Maria reading a tabloid behind the last checkout counter.
Soap Digest
. At least he wouldn’t be in that.

“Morning, Mr. Brinkman,” said the saleswoman.

“Where is everybody today?”

“They’re in back, Mr. Brinkman. They’re watching television in Mr. Zambrano’s office.”

“Are they?” Arnold muttered.

Cassandra smirked. “You run a tight ship, don’t you?”

He ignored her. “Maria, go outside and take down that flag.”

“But Mr. Zambrano said—”

“I don’t care what Mr. Zambrano said. Take it down. When Mr. Zambrano owns his own nursery, he can fly any damn flags he wants.”

“Yes, Mr. Brinkman.”

“And Maria—”

“Yes, Mr. Brinkman?”

“For the last time, do not call me Mr. Brinkman.
Arnold.
Please
.”

“Yes, Arnold.”

The middle-aged saleswoman looked at him as though he’d ordered her to call him “Attila the Hun” or “Mary Poppins,” but she shuffled outside to remove the flag. Arnold led Cassandra through the cactus-filled hothouse, then between the pyramid displays of wheelbarrows and power saws, to the far corner of the enormous hangar. That’s where Arnold and Guillermo had their adjoining offices. The manager claimed the larger of the two, the one that had once belonged to Hans Overmeyer. It was the only room in the nursery that didn’t contain any plants.

Arnold found his employees gathered around the portable television on Guillermo’s enormous steel desk: a dozen broad-shouldered, copper-skinned men in white t-shirts; several salesgirls in green blazers; the portly Jamaican woman named Lucinda who did the books, the Korean high school student whom Arnold had hired as part of the city’s Young Entrepreneurs Program. At first, the botanist hoped they might be watching a soccer match. But they weren’t cheering.

When he entered, they stepped away from the television in obvious discomfort. They’d been watching
his house
on the news.

“Good morning,” said Arnold.

A chorus of muttered greetings arose—some in English, some in Spanish.

“Time to go back to work.”

Several of the men nodded. None moved. Only the Korean boy retreated around Arnold into the nursery.

“What are you waiting for? I’m not going to show up
there
,” he added, nodding toward the TV. “I’m already
here
.”

Slowly, in twos and threes, the workers departed. Eventually, only Guillermo and Lucinda remained. On the television screen, they’d cut to an interview with the Bronx District Attorney. “It’s not clear that any crime has been committed,” said the female prosecutor. “But we’re looking into the matter closely.”
Among the charges Mr. Brinkman could face
, added a fast-talking reporter,
are disturbing the peace and contributing to the delinquency of a minor
. Then they cut back to Arnold’s house—first a still shot of the front door, next Spotty Spitford and his protesters, finally more commentary from Ira Taylor. The broker now sported khakis and a Hawaiian shirt. “I grew up with
old-fashioned
values,” he was declaiming. “Not just hard work, but also a sense of communal spirit—of taking one for the team. If someone accidentally drops a cigarette on your lawn, you lump it. No big deal. But this Brinkman’s a real stickler, the sort of fanatic who’ll sue you over a dirty look. From the start, it was always his way or the highway….”

Arnold stepped forward and shut off the television.

“Well?” he demanded. “Don’t you two have work to do?”

Lucinda heaved herself off the sofa. She wore a heavy dress with lace frills to the Plant Centre every day, even during heat spells. It wouldn’t have surprised Arnold if the woman’s outerwear concealed a whale-bone corset and a starched petticoat.

“I’ve got to say what I’ve got to say, Arnold,” said the Jamaican woman. “If you fire me, you fire me. But I don’t approve of what you did.”

“Nobody’s firing anybody. But get to work. Please. I don’t know—go audit something.”

The bookkeeper grunted and toddled out of the office.

Guillermo looked up gleefully at Arnold. He sported his trademark pink shirt, hand-stitched, the collar open so tufts of grey hair protruded over the cusp. Elaborate tattoos covered the entirety of his upper body.

“So?” demanded Arnold. “What’s so goddam amusing?”

“Nothing,” answered Guillermo, beaming. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Then why are you smirking.”

The Venezuelan shrugged. “You know how it is with the working class. We can’t help laughing at the quirks of the bosses.”

Guillermo liked to rib Arnold about their relationship. It was funny because Guillermo was far more the capitalist than Arnold would ever be—and had made quite a killing
from his side investments.

“Damn you and your working classes, Willie. You could open your own greenhouse tomorrow if you wanted to. Probably your own chain of greenhouses.”

“Maybe,” said Guillermo.

While they spoke, Cassandra had settled onto the couch. The girl was scribbling in her tiny notepad. When she leaned forward, the tops of her breasts were visible.

“What’s with the goddam flag?” Arnold asked.

The Venezuelan leaned back in his chair, his meaty arms locked behind his neck. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

“I noticed. What’s the deal? And why all that plywood?”