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 14th 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 13th 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.
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?”
“Better safe than sorry. The plywood’s to board up the windows at night so nobody puts a brick through.”
“You’ve got to be joking!” Arnold paced back and forth beside the filing cabinets. The floors were cluttered with stacks of folders and sun-faded invoices. “Weren’t you the one who insisted we dump the steel gratings?”
They’d had one of their periodic squabbles the previous winter when Guillermo insisted that they adopt a more modern, “new millennium” look. According to the manager, the steel security gratings gave the place an unwelcoming 1970s feel, “like something off the Barney Miller show,” and did little to prevent property crime—because there was no longer any property crime to prevent. The squabble ended as all of their squabbles ended: Arnold gave in. They replaced the metal bars with plate glass. Business picked up dramatically.
“Are you telling me not to put up the boards?” asked Guillermo.
“I’m just saying that I can’t imagine anyone vandalizing the nursery as a result of what was a minor, inconsequential incident.” Arnold scowled. “Do whatever you want.”
The Venezuelan pressed a button on his phone. “Maria,” he said. “Put the flag back up. Mr. Brinkman changed his mind.”
“How did you know—?”
Guillermo’s eyes twinkled. “That’s why you pay me the big money.”
It was possible the saleswoman had phoned Guillermo while Arnold and Cassandra were trekking through the hothouse. Or it was just as likely the Venezuelan had anticipated Arnold’s response. The two of them shared a long history—back to when the Venezuelan and Hans Overmeyer were selling glow-in-the-dark crocuses out of a pick-up truck. Before that, Guillermo had managed delivery for the poultry yard.
“Trust me on the flag,” said the Venezuelan. “It reassures people.”
“Okay,” said Arnold. “Keep the flag up. But I don’t like it.”
The girl continued writing. It struck Arnold that she was transcribing their conversation. “All of this is off the record,” he said.
“You so can’t do that,” answered Cassandra. “That’s like announcing the Kennedy Assassination is off-the-record. You can’t say a public conversation with another person present is off-the-record. That’s whack.” She sounded upset.
“Fine. Put it back on the record,” said Arnold. “But now I’d like to have a private conversation with Mr. Zambrano. Why don’t you wait for me in my office?”
The girl rose sullenly. She packed her belongings into her bag one at a time—notebooks, pencils, water bottle. Then she tied each of her shoes.
“Down the corridor and to the left,” Arnold said.
Cassandra tossed her bag over her shoulder and walked out.
The Venezuelan lit a cigarette. “Quite a charmer,” he said. “Looks like she’s got a thing for the boss.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” said Arnold. “Cassandra’s a reporter for a small newspaper. It’s a long story.”
“I’m not the one getting ideas.”
“Lay off. Judith knows all about her.” Arnold ambled over to the Venezuelan’s mini-fridge and appropriated a can of Coke. “So what do you really think?”
Guillermo blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. “About what?”
“Give me a break, Willie. You know what about.” He pulled up a folding chair opposite Guillermo’s desk and sat down. “Was I out of line?”
“You know what I’m going to tell you,” said Guillermo. “I’m going to tell you that I don’t have an opinion. I am without politics, Arnold.”
“You always say that.”
“And I mean it. You wonder how a gay Venezuelan who survived the FALN and Ronald Reagan can be without politics. But that is by far the safest way. If I were not without politics, I would not be….as well-off as I am.”
“I just don’t get you, Willie.”
Arnold confided in him secrets that he didn’t even dare reveal to Judith—such as his relief that they couldn’t have children. At the same time, he never understood what made the manager tick. Other than financial security and buff men half his age. He’d once asked the Venezuelan if he had any long-term dreams or ambitions; Guillermo had responded: “I’m too old for dreams. At my age, I try to avoid nightmares.” Guillermo had equally clever rejoinders for questions about his family, his finances, even his hobbies.
The Venezuelan stubbed out his cigarette. “People are always asking me what I think of the regime in Venezuela,” he said. “Am I in favour of it? Am I against it? That’s like asking a priest what he thinks of baptism. It’s not something I’m going to change any time soon.”
“So do you have any wisdom at all?”
“I subscribe to the old Arabian proverb: ‘The husband of my mother is my father.’ Words to live by.”
The manager walked to the doorway and paused.
“Give Lucinda a raise,” Guillermo said. “And buy more plywood.”
Arnold found Cassandra seated on the swivel chair behind his desk. He sensed she’d been rummaging through his drawers, but when he entered, she was filing her nails nonchalantly with an emery board. Her long, tawny hair glowed pink under the fluorescent lights. “Done with your man-to-man talk, Mr. Private Conversation?”
“You’re sitting in my chair,” said Arnold.
“I know,” agreed the girl. “Do you want to trade places?”
“Honestly, I don’t care,” Arnold answered. He perched himself on the splintering stool he used to water the pothos and syngonium. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The girl removed a cassette player from her bag. “You okay if I record our conversation? It’s easier this way….”
“Actually—” said Arnold.
“Come on, Mr. Brinkman. Chill out,” she said. “It will go much quicker with the recorder. Otherwise, it’s going to take me all day to write down what you say.”
“Fine, dammit. Use the tape-recorder.”
“Awesome,” said Cassandra. “Say, you sure have a fucking lot of plants in here.”
The room was crammed with pots of succulents, tomato-germinating tubs, even basins full of water lilies. Most of the plants were overgrown, abandoned relics from Arnold’s experimentation in floral-based dieting and nutrition. He’d heard several times on the radio that celery was the lowest-calorie solid food available, but this wasn’t strictly true. Several common garden blossoms, including primroses, were far less caloric. Many of these species were edible; some contained a host of essential minerals. But most of Arnold’s low-calorie flower snacks were either entirely flavourless, like calendula, or strikingly bitter, like daisies. Unlike Guillermo’s office, Arnold’s shelves didn’t contain any business documents. He probably didn’t even have a writing implement—other than a wax pen he’d used to prop up a pea stalk. On the desk lay a handful of field guides, birds as well as plants, and a bevelled display case of photographs from his honeymoon.
“I have a lot of plants,” said Arnold, “because I like plants.”
“More than you like people?” asked the girl.
“I like plants and people,” answered Arnold. The truth was that he liked people individually, but preferred plants collectively. Who wouldn’t prefer a primeval forest to a packed sporting arena? “The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he added. “Some people like both children and animals.”
“Your friend doesn’t have any plants in his office,” prodded the girl.
“Mr. Zambrano doesn’t like plants. He likes other things.”
The girl gnawed the end of her eraser. She examined him closely—and for a moment he thought she might ask: And do you like other things? Instead, without taking her eyes off of him, she said: “Your wife was very beautiful when she was young. A total babe.”
It was hard to tell whether she was paying him a compliment or taunting him.
“My wife,” said Arnold, “is still very beautiful.”
Cassandra smiled. “How does she feel about what you did?”
Arnold noticed the cassette recorder was turning. The girl had started the interview without telling him.
“You’d have to ask her that,” said Arnold.
“Are you telling me you haven’t talked to her about it?” persisted the girl. “She hasn’t expressed an opinion? You really expect me to believe that….”
“I don’t like to put words in my wife’s mouth.”
“Can you at least tell me whether she approves or disapproves?”
“That’s rather complicated,” answered Arnold. “I suspect she both approves and disapproves.”
The girl reached forward and stopped the tape player. “You’re so not keeping up your end of our bargain,” she said. “You’re cheating.”
“I agreed to be interviewed,” Arnold answered, “and I’m being interviewed.”
“You’re totally avoiding the questions.”
“I can’t speak for Judith,” he said. “If you have questions about me, I’ll be glad to answer them.”
Arnold waited while Cassandra gathered her thoughts. He was surprised how attractive he found her—especially since, by objective standards, she was far from pretty. He was also surprised how little he cared about the difference in their ages. If he’d had a daughter of his own, he imagined, the disparity might have troubled him more. But he did have a wife of his own. He resolved to get rid of the girl as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, the air-conditioner hummed in the window box and pigeons thrashed about on the ledge. From the street rose the muffled honking of taxicabs. Cassandra glowered at him, drawing her thick eyebrows together, toying with her heart-shaped silver locket; the ornament reminded him that she really was just a young girl—with her own young girl’s music and young girl’s parties and young girl’s lack of perspective. Without accepting or rejecting Arnold’s terms, she pressed the record button on the cassette player.
“Can you tell me how this all happened?” she asked. “Was it something you’d been planning for a long time or was it more of a spontaneous protest?”
“I didn’t intend it to be a protest. I just didn’t want to stand up.”
“But why? Were you protesting the war, Mr. Brinkman? Or the performance of a religious song at a secular event?”
The answer was both. And a whole lot more. In hindsight, he wanted his protest to have been directed at anything and everything—against all of the perversions of justice that passed for decency. But how could he explain this to a young woman who insisted upon boilerplate answers in black-and-white? “I was protesting against the mistreatment of Native Americans,” he said decisively. “Wounded Knee, the reservation system, Leonard Peltier.”
The girl looked up, her appetite whetted.
“I’m also quite upset about slavery,” continued Arnold. “And rural poverty, and the lack of national health insurance, and the imprisonment of Lisl Auman. Then there’s the invasion of Panama, and the bombing of North Vietnam, and the entire Spanish-American War. I’m disturbed that they tore down Penn Station, and that gay couples can’t adopt children in Texas, and that Washington D.C. isn’t a state. Not to mention what happened to Sacco and Vanzetti and the Scottsboro Boys and the Rosenbergs. Especially Ethel. Then there’s the two million people in prison—probably half of whom didn’t do anything wrong, only nobody knows which half anymore—while all the people who actually belong in prison are enjoying liquid lunches on Wall Street and in the Pentagon. You want to know what I’m protesting? I’m protesting the Salem Witch trials and the blacklisting of Dalton Trumbo and every goddam time Lenny Bruce got arrested. I’m still mad that they stopped delivering mail twice a day, and that Roosevelt dumped Wallace for Truman, and that McGovern dumped Eagleton, and that Victoria Hager dumped me for a football player in the eleventh grade. Son of a bitch! And I’m enraged that Ronald Reagan became President for playing best supporting actor to a monkey while Orson Welles didn’t even win a goddam Academy Award. But what I find most frustrating in this Bible-thumping, gun-slinging, sexually-repressed, intellectually-stunted and utterly backwards country of ours is that you can no longer send live plants through the mail. Shall I go on?”
“No,” said Cassandra. “Don’t bother.”
She snapped off her tape recorder and stuffed it into her bag.
“I can’t believe I trusted you,” she added. “You’re a total asshole.”
“What’s the problem?”
“You’re the problem, Arnold Brinkman. I did you a favour and now you’re making fun of me. I thought we had a deal.”
“I’m sorry,” answered Arnold. “I shouldn’t have agreed to an interview. You want me to connect what I did to the larger events of the world—to make me into the Rosa Parks of anti-Americanism—while the reality is that I was hot, and tired, and I had to go to the bathroom.”
“That’s a real awesome story,” Cassandra answered bitterly. “Man sticks tongue out because his bladder is full.”
“See my point? There really is no story.”
The girl examined him closely; she wiped her eyes with her fingers. “What am I supposed to tell my editor?”
“I don’t know,” answered Arnold. “Anything you want. Tell him your paper is too conservative for me—that I only grant interviews to anarchists.”
Arnold grinned. The girl looked up at him puzzled, biting the knuckle of her index finger, as though trying to figure out whether he was joking. She appeared so vulnerable, so close to tears, that the botanist instantly regretted his sarcasm. He wished he had some profound statement about patriotism to offer her—but he couldn’t even remember the stock platitudes that Gilbert Card had shared over dinner. He had absolutely nothing useful to say. He resisted the instinct to let her cry against his chest. Then the girl’s jaw stiffened and her hands balled into fists. “You’re screwing with me, Arnold,” she snapped. “I can tell.”
“Excuse me?”
How quickly she’d gone from Mr. Brinkman and pretty please to Arnold and screwing…
“I’m not a moron,” she seethed. “I know you’re thinking I’m just some dumb girl reporter from some second-rate paper, but at least have the guts to say it. You’re pathetic, Mr. There Is No Story. You don’t think I can tell you’re holding out for one of the big-time magazines.”
“I had to go to the bathroom,” Arnold insisted.
“Bullshit!” The girl rummaged through her bag and slid a business card onto Arnold’s desk. “If you feel guilty for treating me like shit, here’s how to find me. I doubt you will—but deep down you’ll have to live with knowing it was my interview. It is my interview, goddammit, whether I get it or not.”
She was gone before Arnold could stop her. He picked up the card.
CASANDRA BROWARD
The phrase “Reporter, Daily Vanguard” had been scrawled in red ink beneath her name. There were also a handwritten address and phone number.
Arnold pocketed the card. He was feeling mildly pleased with himself—as though he’d withstood a brutal cross-examination—when he remembered that nothing outside his office had changed. His home was still surrounded by journalists; his wife still had him in the dog house. And to the Spotty Spitfords of the world, he was still Public Enemy Number One.
Once Arnold was certain that the girl wasn’t going to return—that her departure wasn’t part of some complex ploy to catch him by surprise—he tried to phone Judith. He wasn’t particularly ready to talk to her—usually, if they fought in the morning, they both stewed through the workday and then made up in the evening—but these weren’t ordinary circumstances. Besides, he realized that he owed her an apology. Not for his antics at the baseball game, or his refusal to prostrate himself before the mob, but because he hadn’t explained to her why he couldn’t do what she wanted. Not adequately. In the heat of the moment, he’d probably just sounded obstinate. Besides, until now, he hadn’t even fully understood himself. The girl’s questions had helped him see things better: He wasn’t merely protesting for the right to protest or for some abstract principles. In a way, as peculiar as it sounded, he was protesting against all of the injustices he’d enumerated to Cassandra. Scottsboro. The Chicago Seven. Matthew Shepard. Bonnie Card had a bumper-sticker pasted to her office door that read: “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.” If he could only find a way to communicate these feelings to Judith, he thought it might resonate with her too. He hoped it would. But Judith didn’t answer the phone. Neither did the machine. After twenty rings, he had to accept that she’d unplugged the console or pulled the wire out of the jack. It was possible she didn’t even realize he was gone, that she thought he was still blowing off steam in the garden. He slammed down the phone and stormed out into the corridor.
Guillermo had gone up front to supervise the morning deliveries, but the manager had left open the door to his office. Arnold stepped inside. The Venezuelan relied on the skylight for illumination, and preferred an oscillating fan to air-conditioning, so the warm, shadowy room felt like a government building in Havana. White bands of cigarette smoke still floated on the stagnant air. Arnold considered phoning Judith for a second time. But what would he say? That he’d suddenly realized the world was an outrageously unreasonable place? Then he couldn’t apologize because he was standing up for Sacco and Vanzetti. He knew Judith. She was far too practical—too reasonable—for all that. He didn’t phone. Instead, he flipped on the television.
They were conducting another interview, this time with a nasal-voiced young attorney from the American Civil Liberties Union. “We’re not in the business of forcing ourselves on people,” she said. “If Mr. Brinkman would like to retain our services, this is certainly the sort of case we’d take a serious look at. But that’s entirely up to him. Trust me, there’s no shortage of work for us these days.” Arnold flipped to another station. Spotty Spitford was speaking to a different reporter, demanding that the mayor and the governor condemn “this insult to our boys in uniform.” On a third channel, the governor’s spokesman explained that Yankee Stadium was a private venue and that the Yankees were certainly entitled to ban Mr. Brinkman from future events. He hadn’t voted for the governor—in fact, he despised the governor—but if the governor could get him banished from Yankee stadium forever, that would be enough to earn his vote.
Arnold changed stations one final time and found himself watching cartoons. The roadrunner charged off a cliff; the coyote followed. Then the coyote looked down. But the coyote halted mid-plummet as the broadcast switched to a “Breaking News” bulletin.
Suddenly, he was watching the front of his own house again. This time, the door opened. Cameras snapped; protesters chanted. Gilbert Card stepped out into sunlight. The immigration attorney wore a modest pinstriped suit and carried an attaché case. When he raised his hand, like the Pope blessing St. Peter’s, the crowd went silent. Then Gilbert stepped to the edge of the porch and read from a prepared statement.
“My name is Gilbert Card. I am a spokesman for the Brinkman family.”
Someone shouted a question at the lawyer.
“Card. C-A-R-D. I’m an attorney with Willoughby & Throop.”
“Willoughby. W-I-L-L-O-U-G-H-B-Y,” he said. “And Throop. T-H-R-O-O-P.”
When the onlookers quieted down, Gilbert continued.
“First, let me thank you all for being here. These are difficult times for our nation and especially for New York City, where we live in the perpetual shadow of the horrors of September 11th. That is what makes Mr. Brinkman’s behaviour at yesterday’s Yankees game all the more unfortunate. I’ve known Arnold Brinkman for thirty years and nobody is more sorry about what happened yesterday than he is. He did not mean to show disrespect to anyone, least of all to our heroes in the armed forces. Mr. Brinkman has been under a lot of stress recently. As difficult as it may be for many people to understand, he thought he was doing something patriotic by refusing to stand. He now recognizes how mistaken he was and apologizes wholeheartedly.” Gilbert looked up at the audience. “Thank You,” he concluded. “God Bless America.”
A murmur of approval spread through the crowd. Shouts of “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!” drowned out the journalists’ follow-up questions. The two protesters clad in Revolutionary War garb struck up a festive duet on their fife and drum. If you’re just joining us from an affiliate station, the fast-talking reporter explained, the so-called Tongue Traitor has apologized… Arnold flipped the channel.
“—and we’re getting breaking news of an apology from the Tongue Traitor—
“—so I asked, when exactly would you perform CPR on a fish?—”
“—Traitor’s attorney has issued a plea for forgiveness—”
“—disguised as an onion—”
“—actually said, ‘God Bless America’—”
“—the other sister, the one who looks like a hedgehog—”
“—has apologized—
“—an apology—”
“—at only $99.99—”
“—rather moving statement from a lawyer representing the Tongue Traitor. It appears to represent a complete change of heart….”
How dare he?! His own best friend on his own front lawn serving him up to the lions. This was worse than Nuremberg; this was like the Politburo officials who read aloud the confessions from Stalin’s Purge Trials. He’d be remembered forever as the man who apologized for sticking out his tongue. Even though he wasn’t the slightest bit sorry—even though he’d do it again and again and again.
Arnold was about to turn the TV off—or bash it in—when a commotion erupted behind the fast-talking reporter. The camera quickly focused on Spotty Spitford, who stood in the centre of the street with a bullhorn in one hand and what appeared to be a Bible in the other. “We will not accept no surrogate apologies,” the minister declared. “We will not accept no statement from a paid mouthpiece. You can’t buy no substitute, Mr. Brinkman. This ain’t no Civil War. We are the people and we ain’t gonna accept nothing less than a personal and unconditional plea for forgiveness.” Spitford raised his arms—the megaphone in one, the Bible in the other—as though the heavens might open and summon him up to duty. No such luck. “Let the coward speak for himself,” the minister shouted. “We want Brinkman.”
The mob took up the chant of “We want Brinkman!” and carried it along the block like a hearse.
They were still shouting, “We want Brinkman! We want Brinkman!” when Arnold came charging up the street. The protesters now numbered in the hundreds. Not just professional agitators, but ordinary people who’d come to “defend their country.” There was even a contingent of World War II veterans from the American Legion. A smaller counter-demonstration occupied the opposite sidewalk: Fewer than a dozen college students and down-at-the-heel ex-hippies who could easily have passed as a reunion of the Chicago Seven. One waved a Soviet flag. Another wore a rubber Richard Nixon mask. Their posters read: “Free Palestine” and “Fur is Fratricide.” When Arnold passed through their ranks, none of them recognized him.
Arnold pushed his way toward his porch, where the two officers still served as sentries, and the front door stood slightly ajar. Adrenaline and anger carried him forward. When he mounted the steps, the masses stepped back—as though fearing violence or contagion. “I’ll be brief,” he said.
“Be sincere,” shouted Spitford.
“I’ll be brief and sincere,” answered Arnold. “I do not apologize. I am not sorry. That man had no authority to speak on my behalf.” He took a deep breath. “It is you who should apologize. I wouldn’t stand during a goddam song. You murdered Sacco and Vanzetti. You tell me who has blood on his hands?” Then he stepped into the house and slammed the door behind him.
Judith was sitting on the piano bench. Her face was streaked with eyeliner and her hair hung down unevenly. “Sacco and Vanzetti?” she said. Her voice was hardly audible.
“Where the hell is Card?” shouted Arnold.
“He thought it was best—”
“He knew I’d kill him.”
Judith shook her head. “Please, Arnold. It’s not Gilbert’s fault. I told him you wanted to apologize. If you’re going to kill anyone, you’re going to have to kill me.”
“Godammit, Judith. You had no fucking right….”
“And you had a right to run off on me like that?” cried Judith, rising to her feet. “I couldn’t find you. I had no idea where you went. Do you know what it’s like to be all alone with that going on outside?”
The chanting started again. Louder. Swelling with rage.
“Is that all you have to say to me?” asked Arnold.
“I don’t think I have much of anything to say to you right now,” said Judith. Then she walked up the stairs and left Arnold standing alone.