The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up (23 page)

All of the muscles in Arnold’s body ached, and several had stopped functioning, when he finally crawled out the other end of the tunnel into the remnants of what had once been his garden. Since his departure—it had been nearly two months—the pachysandra and crabgrass had suffocated what remained of the flowers. Poison ivy vines curled their tentacles around the linden and poison sumac blocked the entrance to the tool shed. Deep black-rot lesions scarred the trunk of the apple tree. An infestation of aphids had left the tea roses with desiccated leaves. Woodchuck burrows pocketed the lawn. Even the bird feeders had collapsed under the weight of rainwater. The gardens of Pompeii and Herculaneum could not have appeared as desolate. But to add insult to injury, Ira Taylor’s kid had transformed the entire northern border of the yard into a makeshift trash dumpster. Where the azalea hedge had once run along the stockade fence, empty beers kegs now bloomed. Also Styrofoam cups, and rotting steak bones, and an impressive collection of used condoms. A small stretch of the fence was charred black as though a discarded cigarette had been left to burn out of its own accord. They were all lucky that the entire neighbourhood hadn’t ignited. Then he caught sight of the open door to the back hallway and all thought of anything other than Judith melted from his mind.

Arnold saw the back of his wife’s head at the bay windows in the living room, her long sandy tresses cascading over her shoulders. He charged across the lawn and up the rear steps, like a soldier returning home from the battlefield, but at the last moment he recoiled at the sound of laughter. Male laughter. There was no mistaking the resounding baritone of Gilbert Card’s mirth.

“You really
are
the man of my dreams,” he heard Judith say. “You drive me up a wall ninety-nine percent of the time, but the other one percent makes up for it.”

A long silence followed. In the foyer, the grandfather clock tolled off the seconds.

“It’s so strange how life works out,” drawled Gilbert. “You search and you search and you search—and then suddenly you find someone. And they’re either right or they’re wrong….but it has so little to do with whether you actually get along. Sometimes I think you fall in love with someone
because
they drive you crazy.”

Every word pierced Arnold like a saber. He’d known it all the time, of course—but he’d chosen to interpret every clue in Judith’s favour.

Arnold was on the verge on striding into the living room—of revenging himself on his treacherous friend—when he heard additional footsteps coming from the kitchen. He ducked behind the china cabinet. To his amazement, the next voice he heard was Bonnie Card’s. “What no good are you two up to behind my back?”

“I was just telling Judith how you drive me up the wall ninety-nine percent of the time,” said Gilbert. “Give or take.”

“I guess I’m losing my touch,” answered Bonnie. “You wouldn’t accept only 99% from an airplane or a pacemaker, would you?”

Arnold heard the sounds of chairs moving. “You didn’t have any popcorn in the cabinets,” said Bonnie. “All I could find was a bag of frozen leaves.”

“Oh, those are forget-me-not sprouts,” said Judith. “They taste sort of like guacamole….only not.”

“I say we order in Chinese food,” suggested Gilbert.

“It’s not going to happen,” answered Judith. “The delivery guys won’t pass through the protesters. They view it like crossing a picket line.”

Arnold crept closer and placed his ear against the French doors. That’s when he heard the sound of his own voice. “Food’s ready,” he shouted. “Jimsonweed burgers and daffodil hotdogs! Just like at Nathan’s.”

He remembered that barbecue. It was three summers ago, when he’d first installed the gas grill behind his wife’s studio. So they were watching home movies. That was all. Judith had been speaking
on tape
. About
him
. She must have purchased a TV and a VCR in his absence.

“I’m so glad you found these tapes,” Judith said as though on cue. “You’re entirely forgiven for poking that video camera of yours in our faces all these years….No
matter how much you miss someone, it’s so easy to forget the details. The shape of his voice and the particular motions of his body and all that. Eventually, it becomes like describing a dead person to someone who’s never met him…I’d nearly forgotten how Arnold used to loosen his belt a notch before eating.”

“I’ve got to hand it to him,” he heard Bonnie say. “I thought Arnold would have given up weeks ago. Wherever he is, he really is a man of principle.”

“Some good that does
me
,” said Judith. “I’d trade all the principle in the world if he’d just slide down the chimney or something….”

“It’s not good to think like that,” answered Gilbert. “The best thing to do is to pretend that he’s gone forever… Even if he does come back, he may not be the same Arnold anymore….You’ve read about what he’s been doing…How he tried to rape and strangle that girl…Sometimes a shock can change people permanently…”

“You can’t believe that bullshit,” snapped Judith. “She’s just a hussy out to turn a profit at our expense.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” answered Gilbert. “A man steals clothes from strangers…It’s hard to make sense of that…To be honest, it’s possible he’s gone truly insane.”

“Say what you like,” Judith said sharply. “But I know Arnold better than anybody, and I’m telling you he’s going to come back as sane as he ever was—even if it’s only to
drive me over the edge.”

Arnold stepped through the doors. His audience drew back in alarm—and he realized that, for the first instant, they hadn’t recognized him. He was smeared in grime and faeces, after all, bearded and unshorn for months. And he was wearing only a damp pair of underpants.

“Arnold?” gasped Judith.

“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Gil,” said Arnold. “That same girl is the head case who tore up my garden.”

“Is it really you?” demanded Judith.

“What’s left of me,” answered Arnold. “But I don’t think I’m as changed as some people seem to think. Rumours of my insanity have been greatly exaggerated.”

Arnold’s wife stood up and moved toward him. “Good God! Are you alright?”

“I’m trying to make a fashion statement,” said Arnold. “What do you think?”

Judith reached out to touch his cheek. He wrapped his soiled arms around her and kissed her face. Her eyes. The end of her nose. It was so good to feel her warmth, her skin against his—but then she started sobbing.

“It’s okay, honey,” he soothed. “I’m back now.”

Judith drew away from his embrace. Arnold noticed the crow’s feet around her eyes, the silvery strands in her hair. They’d always spoken of growing old together as though it was like visiting some far-off kingdom, only that
kingdom seemed suddenly less distant. Judith held her hands over her mouth and examined him closely—her face inscrutable, but possibly displeased.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Arnold’s wife took a deep breath. “I want to know the truth about that girl,” she said. “Whatever it is, as bad as it is, I
need
to know. After all these years, goddammit, I have a right to know…”

Judith stared down at the carpet, her hands clasped together as though in prayer. Gilbert Card inched his way toward the door. “I think we’ll head out now—”

Arnold held up his hand. “There’s no need for that,” he said. “We’re all friends here. I’m not going to keep any secrets…” He glared at Bonnie, who’d made no effort to leave, then reached forward and took Judith’s hands in his own. “The truth is that there’s nothing to tell….Absolutely nothing….”

He hated lying to Judith. The old Arnold would have told her the truth—told her in order to be forgiven—but he’d have been a selfish ass to have done so. Judith’s peace of mind depended upon his lying and, if that was what it took to make her happy, he could live with that. Sometimes you had to compromise your values to get through the day, to protect your home and your loved ones. Beyond that, the more Arnold spoke about Cassandra, the less his words sounded like lies. His romantic feelings for the girl had faded as rapidly as they’d arisen—so much so
that they too now seemed inexplicable. Maybe it was a case of circumstance, of war making strange bedfellows. All that remained in his heart was a paternal benevolence, tempered by the residue of his anger at what she’d done to his flowers. But she was, when you got down to it, just a child—and you couldn’t stay upset with a child too long. In a few months, a few years, he’d have a new garden. Then the girl would fade pleasantly into memory, a lost friend who ebbed deeper and deeper into his past. But Judith would remain at his side forever. That’s why there wasn’t any need to confess. “You’re the only one for me, darling,” he said. “Really. I swear. Nobody else would be stubborn enough to put up with me.”

“I knew it,” sobbed Judith. “I knew it was all lies.”

They embraced again. This time, when Judith drew away, she kept her fingers locked around his hand. “What are we going to do now?” she asked in renewed despair.

“I love you,” said Arnold “
That’s
what matters.”

“I love you too, my dear,” said Judith. “But where does that leave us? I don’t know if I have it in me to run off to Fiji or God knows where….”

“Who said anything about running off?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the most wanted man in America right now,” his wife answered. “You can’t exactly walk to work tomorrow morning as though nothing has happened. They’re going to put you in jail.”

“She has a point,” interjected Bonnie Card.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” said Arnold. “We’re going to adopt children. Lots of them. Black ones. White ones. Boys, girls, in-betweens. A whole goddam army of kids. Fifty musketeers….”

Bonnie held her index finger at her temple and wiggled it. “He’s gone off the deep end,” she said. “All that time on his own must have addled his brain.”

“Nobody’s brain is addled,” said Arnold. “Or at least mine isn’t. Yours with its half-baked ideas is another matter.” He stood up “Adopting dozens of children might be the first good idea I’ve had in ages.”

“Dozens?” gasped Judith.

“Or hundreds. If they’ll let us….”

The Bandit had been right about children, he realized. Children could just as easily be ammunition in his effort to improve the planet, a secret plan B to launch when his own stamina failed. Like a ready-made army. He’d raise his kids to keep up the struggle against the Ira Taylors and Spotty Sptifords of the world. They would be his legion of crusaders against hypocrisy and knee-jerk patriotism. His dozens would do more good than the harm caused by other people’s one or two or nine.

“Since when do you want kids?” asked Judith. “Not that I’m complaining….”

“It’s complicated,” said Arnold. “But I know I want them. I even know a guy I want to send the adoption announcements to.”

That would also repay the Bandit.

Arnold poured himself a glass of wine and downed it quickly. Then he walked toward the entryway.

“Where are you going?” demanded Judith.

“Outside. To apologize.”

“Oh God, honey. It’s too late for that. You don’t understand….”

“Of course, I understand. That’s one of the great things about America. It’s never too late to apologize.”

“You can’t just walk out there like that,” pleaded Judith. “You’ll be lucky if the police snipers don’t shoot you.…”

“This is where having a good lawyer comes in handy,” interjected Gilbert Card. “Why don’t I phone the police and negotiate a surrender. I’ll tell them you want an opportunity to issue and apology before they take you into custody….”

“You really think an apology will do any good at this point?” asked Judith.

“It’s worth a shot,” agreed Gilbert Card. “It worked for Spitford. He’s twenty points ahead in the mayoral polls.”

“And for all those televangelists,” added Bonnie. “And a whole host of politicians.”

“But this is different,” objected Judith. “You can’t just apologize your way out of robbery and vandalism and Lord knows what else.”

Arnold patted her shoulder. “Of course, you can,” he said. “The worst thing they can do is jail you….and then, when you get out, you’re doubly forgiven. People genuinely feel guilty that you went to jail after apologizing.”

“But be sure you actually apologize,” warned Gilbert. “I don’t think you can afford another
tongue-sticking
incident.”

“No worries,” agreed Arnold. “I’ll be as contrite as the dust.”

Bonnie Card smiled at him—her “I told you so” smile. He didn’t give a damn. If she wanted to live her life at odds with the world, that was her privilege. Arnold had more important rows to hoe.

He waited with the wives while Gilbert phoned the police. The lawyer returned from the kitchen with a thumbs-up. “Once you’re outside, they’ll give you ten minutes,” he said. “But keep your hands up while you speak.”

“I can handle that,” agreed Arnold. “I’ll reach for the heavens.”

He wrapped his arms around Judith and kissed her on the lips. Then he braced himself for the masses.

“Wait!” shouted Judith.

“It’s too late,” he said. “I’m going through with it.”

“Okay, darling. But at least let’s make you look presentable.” She dabbed some water on a cloth napkin and washed the grime from under his eyes. “Why don’t you
take a shower, put on some clothes….”

It was another half an hour before his makeover was complete. He wore a light grey shirt and a conservative blue tie. His hair was trimmed and parted on the right. He could have campaigned for governor. For a final touch, Gilbert pinned a tiny American flag to the botanist’s lapel.

“You want some moral support?”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Arnold answered. He thought of the army of crusading children he intended to raise with Judith. “I got myself into this mess. I suppose it’s my responsibility to get myself out of it.”

Then he opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch.