The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up (4 page)

The police department had commandeered the near side of the street. Two patrolmen flanked Arnold’s stoop like the guards at Buckingham Palace. Another team of officers hurriedly erected a cordon of blue sawhorses along the pavement. Fire engines sealed off both ends of the block. There was also an ambulance on the scene. The EMTs were posing for photographs with a conclave of Asian tourists.

At one level, Arnold understood that he’d been the cause of this frenzy. At another level, the entire business was so implausible, so unreal.

Cassandra had climbed onto the ledge behind him. He regretted having filled in the Weatherman’s escape tunnel.

“Okay, Mr. Yesterday’s News. Why don’t you go out there and tell
them
there’s no story?” asked the girl.

“What am I going to do?” muttered Arnold. “Judith
is going to murder me.”

“Not if they get to you first,” Cassandra shot back.

Arnold didn’t have a chance to respond. From the avenue came a thunder of voices that slowly separated out into chants of “Shame! Shame! Shame!” Then the motley parade of patriots rounded the corner.

The protesters numbered several dozen. Some were clad in military fatigues; others wore red-white-and-blue. Placards read: “A Friend of Osama’s Is No Friend of Ours” and “Eternal Vigilance is the Price of Liberty,” also “Nuke ’Em” and “Jesus Wasn’t A Patsy.” Two young dark-skinned men were decked out in revolutionary war garb and had muskets slung over their shoulders; they accompanied the demonstrators on fife and drum. Poorly.

At the head of the procession marched an obese black man in a three-piece suit. Reflective sunglasses shielded his eyes. The man held hands with a tiny, withered old woman done up in a lime green church outfit and matching hat. A band of black satin had been wrapped around the hat’s crown. The obese man, in his other hand, held a raised American flag. When this ragtag crew arrived at the police cordon, they removed their hats and sang
God Bless America
in several different keys. Darmopolis, the wine merchant, joined in. So did several tourists. Arnold cringed. “Kate Smith is turning over in her grave,” he said. The girl just looked at him, puzzled.

“Do you know who
that
is?” she whispered.

“Who
who
is?”

“The guy with the sunglasses. That’s Spotty Spitford. As in The Revered Spotty Spitford and his Emergency Civil Rights Brigade.”

Arnold vaguely recognized the name. It reminded him of a fifties vocal group. “Black conservatives?” he asked.

“Black reactionaries,” Cassandra retorted. “The self-styled front line in the war against homosexuals and abortionists. They call it the Second Abolitionist Movement. You’ve got to be living under a rock not to know about them.”

“I’m neither a homosexual nor an abortionist.”

“Make sure you tell them that while they’re stoning you.”

When the singing limped to a conclusion, one of Spitford’s assistants handed the minister a bullhorn. Now the entire neighbourhood could hear him speak.
And did he speak!
Nearly fifteen minutes on the “Fifth Column of Sixth Street” in a voice as heavy as a boulder. Then he turned the pulpit over to the withered old woman. She held up a photograph of her dead grandson. “I taught my boy about service,” she said—barely audible, even with the megaphone. “I’m proud of my Lionel. I don’t understand how anybody could not be proud of my Lionel. Why can’t this man sing to show my boy respect?” The woman’s voice rose in anger. “My Lionel deserves an apology. All
the boys in the service deserve an apology.” The woman glanced at Spitford for reassurance and he nodded his approval. “I don’t want no trouble,” the woman concluded. “I just want respect.”

The protesters cheered. Even a number of the bystanders joined in. Then a chant of “Apologize! Apologize!” swept across the crowd.

“We’ll be here,” boomed Spitford, “until that dirty yellow coward does the right thing by this gold star grandmother and says he’s sorry.”

The girl grinned. “It’s your lucky fucking day. You’ve just seen the beginning of the Spitford campaign for mayor,” she said. “If there’s one thing that can get a black conservative elected in this city, it’s a white guy with a red agenda. I guess that’s where you come in.” Cassandra pulled a camera from her bag and snapped Arnold’s photograph. “A souvenir,” she explained. “For our files.”

Spitford continued his sermon: “We demand that this reprobate acknowledge the error of his ways. We also demand that our elected officials stand with us in our outrage. Where is the mayor this morning? Where is the governor? Where are the people you pay to represent your values at times like these? I’ll tell you where. Nowhere. But that does not mean that we’re going to go away….”

“You’re so screwed,” chimed Cassandra. “He’s got his political teeth into you. Now there’s no letting go.”

Arnold resisted the urge to bean the self-ordained
minister with a gardening implement. It was the man’s right to protest. But Arnold had no intention of apologizing. He stepped around Cassandra and lowered himself from the platform. “Good luck with your story,” he said. “By the way, that’s off the record.”

The girl said something in response, but it was drowned out by chanting.

Judith was standing at the kitchen window in her dressing gown. She’d fastened her hair back haphazardly, and sandy strands stuck out in all directions. Her feet were bare. When Arnold entered—still in his gardening clothes, he realized too late—she greeted him with a chilling frown.

“We’ve had fifty phone calls in the last two hours,” she said. “I had to disconnect the doorbell before I went insane.”

“Shit,” said Arnold.

“I was going to get you, but I didn’t want to interrupt your tête-à-tête with the queen of the prom.”

“Don’t start on that. She’s a reporter for the
Vanguard
. Her name’s Cassandra. The last thing I need right now is you accusing me of things.”

Judith squeezed and released her fists. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything.”

“You were hinting. As though it’s not enough that they’ve practically strung me up for treason. Now you’ll
have me shot for adultery.”

Judith laughed—a short, sharp laugh. “As I said, Arnold, nobody’s accusing you of anything. You couldn’t cheat on me if you tried. But you’ll have to admit now is not the best of times to be gallivanting around the flowerbeds, cavorting with teenaged girls. For any reason.”

Arnold opened the refrigerator. He rummaged through the drawers and came out empty-handed. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just not sure what to do right now.”

“I suppose you should apologize,” said Judith. “Maybe that will placate them.”

“That’s the one thing,” answered Arnold, “that I certainly won’t do.”

Arnold paused to collect his thoughts. The muffled chanting from the sidewalk was audible in the kitchen. It was giving him a headache. He was about to explain that he was too old to apologize, that he didn’t want to be remembered as the asshole who apologized—far better to be hated for not apologizing—when Ray came charging down the stairs. The boy was wearing pyjama bottoms.

“Can I ask a question?” Ray demanded.

“No,” snapped Arnold.

The boy turned to Judith. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Some people are still angry at your uncle for not standing up at the baseball game yesterday,” explained Judith. “Your uncle was about to apologize to them.”

The boy poured himself a bowl of sugared cereal. “What time are we going to the aquarium?”

“Oh, the aquarium,” said Judith. “I don’t know. Uncle Arnold has to apologize first.”

“When will that be?”

Judith turned to Arnold. “When will that be?”

“Never,” said Arnold. “Let’s drop it.”

“Then I guess we’re never going to the aquarium,” countered Judith. “I guess we’ll stay prisoners in this house forever.”

Ray grimaced. “Can I ask another question, Aunt Judith?”

“Sure, honey,” she said.

“What does nigger mean?”

“Nigger,” repeated Judith. She lashed Arnold with eyes as sharp as whips—or maybe she was just asking him for help; he couldn’t tell. “Well,” she said. “Well.”

“The baseball game was your idea,” said Arnold.

“How was I supposed to know that you couldn’t handle it? Fifty thousand other people managed to make it through the game without causing an international incident.”

And then—as Arnold’s temper approached the snapping point—the phone rang.

“Don’t answer it,” warned Judith. “The machine will pick up.”

“I’ll answer it, all right,” said Arnold. He nearly
wrenched the receiver off the wall. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Arnold? Arnold Brinkman? It’s Celeste.”

“Oh, Jesus, Celeste. I thought you were somebody else.”

“I’m not,” his sister-in-law answered. “Is everything okay?”

“Couldn’t be better. One of these days, I might just drop dead from pure joy. Any minute now.”

“I’m glad—that things are going well, I mean. How’s my Raymond?”

“Having the time of his life. I even took him to a baseball game.”

“Did he use sun block? You have no idea how that child burns.”

“Sure, sure,” lied Arnold. “And today, we’re off to the aquarium. In fact, Celeste, you caught us on the way out the door….”

Arnold rolled his eyes at Judith. His sister-in-law, rather than taking a hint, had commenced relating her own adventures. She and her new husband, Walter The Republican Chiropractor, had island-hopped across the Dodecanese from American hotel to American hotel. They’d “discovered” a McDonalds with clean bathrooms in Rhodes; Mykonos offered the best Jacuzzi. The one disappointment has been Kos, the birthplace of Hippocrates, where Walter had gotten into a heated dispute with a British
cardiologist over the merits of non-traditional healing. Celeste presented the altercation—which ultimately had to be settled by what she called “the gendarmes”—as though reading a trial transcript. Several times, Arnold attempted to interrupt. Finally, Judith took the telephone from him and told Celeste that she’d called at an inopportune moment. “I’m having a difficult time hearing you, dear,” said Judith. “No, it’s not the line. There’s some kind of rally going on across the street. About the war, probably. You know how the Village is.” Ray was standing at his aunt’s elbow, but Judith hung up the phone.

“You’ll talk to Mommy later,” said Judith. “After Arnold quiets the masses.” She turned to Arnold, arms akimbo: “What is wrong with you? Tell them you’re sorry and they’ll go home.”

“Dammit, Judith. That’s like pouring gasoline on a fire. If I humiliate myself a little, they’ll want me to humiliate myself a lot.”

“Please, Arnold. Nobody ever died of humiliation.”

He recalled what Bonnie Card had said:
You’ll offer some lukewarm apology, something about stress or nerves or whatnot, and you’ll go about your business
.

“I love you, Judith. But I can’t do this for you.”

The child started to sob. He ran into the living room and buried his face in the sofa pillows. Judith followed and cradled his head to her chest.

“You have to do something,” she said. Her expression remained placid, but he could hear the tension rising in her voice. “If you don’t do something, I will.”

“Fine, I’ll do something,” he said. “But not what you want.”

Arnold walked to the front door. He glanced at himself in the hall mirror—he was poorly shaven and his overalls were caked in loam—but it was too late to do anything about that. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

Judith said nothing. The boy whimpered. Arnold opened the front door.

When he stepped out onto the stoop, a gust of hot air slapped against his face. Cameras flashed rapidly. Reporters peppered him with unintelligible questions. Yet miraculously, when he held up his hand, the crowd grew silent.

“This is not a news story,” he said decisively. “There are children starving in Africa.
That
is a news story.” Arnold paused—and it struck him that a provocateur like Spitford might distort this remark into something racially inflammatory. “There are children starving all over Asia and Latin America,” he added quickly. “
That
is where you should be focusing your attention. Get your priorities straight.”

A reporter called out: “Does that mean you refuse to apologize?”

“I have nothing to apologize for,” said Arnold. He
glared at the obese minister, but the sunglasses deflected his gaze. “Therefore, obviously, I won’t apologize.”

More cameras snapped. Another reporter asked him a question about terrorism.

“I would appreciate it if you all got the hell away from my house,” Arnold added. “You’re scaring off the bees. The forsythia won’t pollinate.”

Then he stepped back into the dim foyer and slammed the door.

Judith was still sitting in the darkened living room. She was clutching one of the sofa pillows to her chest like teddy bear.

“Did you apologize?” she asked. “Please tell me you apologized.”

“I told them to get their priorities straight.”

Judith squeezed the pillow tighter. “I’m fifty-one years old, Arnold. I can’t handle this.”

“I’m not going to apologize for something I didn’t do.”

“But you
did
do it, Arnold. That’s the point.”

“Well I didn’t do it the way they say I did it.”

Arnold shook his head in the hope of clearing his thoughts; his brain remained murky. He sat down beside Judith on the edge of the couch and rubbed her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me right now,” she snapped. Then she added: “Change your clothes. You’re trailing mud.”

Arnold examined his path. Crumbs of caked earth
speckled the tile in the foyer.

“Dammit,” said Arnold. He walked toward the kitchen door. “I’ll be outside if you need me. If you want to talk.”

In the garden, the sun had burnt off the last of the haze. Brown creepers and nuthatches worked their way down the tree trunks. Wasps buzzed among the hollyhocks. A chipmunk darted across the stone wall beneath the linden. Only the oppressive din from the sidewalk distinguished this morning from any other—from a moment that might otherwise have belonged to a previous age.