by Triss Stein
It didn’t take us long. We concluded there was no one who knew what had become of that Whitman plaque. The plan was that the Nicaraguan consul would purchase it from the luncheonette owner for a reasonable price before he returned to his home in Nicaragua and then the consulate would graciously donate it back to Brooklyn. Nothing about that plan made sense to either of us, and the paper trail had no more clues.
Before I left I took one more look at the photo of Louisa Gibbs leading a demonstration, and then some of the other pictures on the wall: Margaret Truman with her father, Harry S Truman, who was then a senator, christening the battleship Missouri at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Framed headlines from when the Dodgers beat the Yankees in the World Series. Fireworks at the opening of the Brooklyn Bridge. Odd, intricate drawings signed “Kingston” in flowing script.
When I left it was too late to go back to my office, and besides, I had one more reason to walk around the neighborhood and refresh my memory about its surprises.
A little article I wrote for a local blog had caught the eye of a book editor. He emailed. Then he called. He said all things Brooklyn were hot. Neighborhood change was hot. He said I had a relatable writing style. He urged me to write a few sample chapters of a possible book. He didn’t accept that I had more important things going on in my life. With his deep voice and self-assured words I pictured a middle-aged man who looked a lot like Jason Robards playing a newspaper editor in an old movie.
His name was Carter Fitzgerald III. No kidding. And I had no idea what he meant when he used words like “relatable.”
Completely far-fetched? It was to me, but here was Brooklyn Heights, full of surprises, which might be a perfect subject to give it a shot. And so I took a walk.
I strolled past the spacious brick house where Truman Capote rented rooms and wrote Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I know this partly because he wrote about the house in an article that began “I live in Brooklyn. By choice.” How could I not love that? I made a little mental bow.
And the Brooklyn Women’s Exchange shop was still in service, a time capsule from right out of a Louisa May Alcott book, begun before the Civil War to help indigent gentlewomen make a little money with their needlework. I was briefly distracted by the window array of dainty hand-smocked baby clothes and hand-painted ceramic tiles. This was the charming side of Brooklyn, a walk back to the days it was an independent city.
But I am a historian, after all. I know there is no place that is sheltered from changing times.
The quirky main street now had fewer offbeat local businesses than it used to, and more chain stores. Piles of dirty blankets on the sweeping limestone staircase at a large church, and in the basement entry at an apartment building, suggested homeless people were camping in the midst of all this elegance. Some posters in store windows said, “Watch out for this woman. She has been shoplifting in YOUR neighborhood shops.” And others had a different photo and the heartbreaking question, “Have you seen this man? Missing from the Downtown Care Home since August. Not dangerous. Needs his meds.”
This was not Brigadoon, and I knew better than to imagine that it was. I did know better. I had a fancy diploma that said so.
And then, wandering on the side streets, I realized I was on the block where Louisa Gibbs lived.
It was a leafy street where a few Edith Wharton–ish ghosts in elegant clothes might stroll, if only we could see them. Except for the tightly parked cars on both sides of a street with no driveways.
And except for the man sitting on a bench. I walked right past. I didn’t even register a bundle of old clothes with—maybe—a man’s head on top. Sounds cold? I’m a city girl. Sometimes we stop noticing, shameful though that is.
But he called out to me. No. It was more like a raspy whisper, but it was insistent enough to make me stop.
“Young lady,” he said. “Do you happen to have anything to eat? Anything will do. Whatever you can spare.” But his look at me was not as imploring as the words were. He was looking hard, right at me. It almost felt like right through me.
I did have something, a healthy protein bar in my backpack, snagged from Chris. And a bag of potato chips, all my own. I was looking forward to them in case I had an attack of munchies on the way home.
I handed both to him, carefully, to avoid touching his hands.
He smiled at me with the joy of a child and patted the bench next to hm. “Come. Sit. You have given me something I needed.” He ripped the bag and popped a handful of chips into his mouth. “Let me give you something in return.”
Honestly, I was repelled at the idea of taking anything he could give. His heavy winter coat was filthy, ripped at all the seams and edges. The thick scarf wrapped around his neck was full of holes. His knitted cap was unraveling, trailing threads of yarn over his ears. And he smelled. The “war against winter” gear months too early made me wonder if he was sick.
He continued to look at me, not even sensing my discomfort. “You need a story, don’t you?”
“How did you know that?” The words fell out of my mouth on their own.
“I looked at you. So we begin.
“There was a beautiful place here once. Kind people, soft voices, soft hearts. But it’s all gone now, destroyed by wickedness. It was the lake that did it.” He looked at me sadly. “He thought it would cleanse, but he was a fool. He did not mean it to happen. It was the demon who told him to do it.”
“What lake? Is this a fairy tale?” It made no sense, but I was trying to be kind. Kinder. “From a book?”
“If you want it to be.” He smiled at me. “Your story. I could tell you needed that one.”
“Why are you…are you…?” I fumbled in my bag, thinking I had a bottle of water I could offer him and not knowing what else to say. “Are you all right, sitting out here?”
“Why?” He seemed surprised. “It’s a bench. It’s for sitting. So I sit. And I watch.” He nodded, emphatically. And then he kept nodding, as if he couldn’t stop. “I watch. And wait.”
I handed him the water bottle. “I have to go now.” I couldn’t wait to get away.
“Yes. Take your story with you.” He closed his eyes.
His story made no sense at all. I shrugged it off, going back to my exploration.
Yes, there was the Witnesses dormitory building, a massive modern brown brick style on a plot too small for it. It loomed over its neighbors.
And there, next to it, was an elaborate Victorian brownstone house, freestanding, with columns at the raised entrance and bay windows along the side. The stone in front was chipped in spots. The sidewalk was cracked and heaved. How did Mrs. Gibbs with her cane manage to negotiate that? I could not see the threatened garden, though. A tall plank fence separated it from the sidewalk and ran along its side.
I was surprised when a door in the planks suddenly opened. There was Mrs. Gibbs herself with a basket of cut flowers on one arm and a cigarette in her hand. Now she wore overalls but still sported the purple sneakers.
She stopped. “I saw you with Kingston this morning. What do you want?”
Chapter Two
Ouch. I was caught in the act, snooping. So much for being the smooth professional scholar I supposedly had become. I stammered out my admiration of her work; my ownership of all her books, and how heavily annotated they were; my writing about her in school.
She stared and then smiled slightly. “I suppose you’d like to see my garden. Well, come on then.” She held the door and motioned impatiently.
It was a long strip of green grass with a flagstone pathway, a border of brilliant flowers, and a tiny tree at one end with a small table in its shade.
I don’t know a thing about gardening, but my first impression was that it was exquisite, and my second, that it was neglected. Stems poked up between the flagstone, dandelions dotted the lawn, and there were a lot of vines smothering the wooden fence.
“But—I’m sorry—I don’t know the facts. How can they do that unless there are records supporting their claims?”
“Facts? Ha! Records from then are spotty, but the fact is that my great-grandfather built this house in 1875 and put in the original garden. I remember a fountain. With a dolphin, no less. The garden goes with the house and it’s been here almost a century and a half. I don’t care what the buyer’s lawyers claim. “
She shot the modern building a venomous look and added, “He’s right up there, you know.”
“Who?” She couldn’t mean God, could she?
“That thieving hypocrite, Daniel Towns. He has an office over there. Oh, I’ve been battling him forever. Did you know, when we were fighting to make this a historic district, New York’s very first, Watchtower fought us at every turn?”
“Seriously? What reason could they possibly have had?” I knew what they said; I wanted to hear her interpretation.
“Oh, they weren’t against it. Or rather, they couldn’t have cared less either way. Cause you know, their home is not here, it is in the world to come.” The sharp edge in her voice could have cut through the trunk of her garden’s small tree. “What they cared about was preventing any new rules interfering with whatever they wanted to do, in perpetuity, with the property they owned and don’t pay taxes on. And they own a lot.” She stared hard at me. “Yes indeed. But since they use all their profits for the greater cause—you know, that invisible man in the sky—they think whatever they do is righteous. Well, I beg to differ.”
I would have liked to record this whole strange interaction, or take notes, and I would, the second I was out of sight. I would do some quick research, too. I hadn’t been keeping up with this issue. I had other responsibilities now.
As she eased me toward the door in the fence and lifted the lock, she said, “You are interested in this? You should meet that lovely Mr. Towns, but don’t let him fool you. He’s a shark, exactly like all the other big real estate businessmen.”
When she turned to the door, her sunburned face turned deeper red.
“Hello, Louisa. The door was open. Did you know?”
“Mr. Towns.” Her chilly tone could have frosted over the entire garden. “An open door is not the same as a welcome mat.”
He nodded slightly and smiled, but not confidently. In fact he looked entirely uncomfortable, shifting his weight from side to side. His skin was shiny with sweat. “I thought there was a safety issue. Maybe you had forgotten to lock it.”
“Oh, you’d like that! Old Mrs. Gibbs, getting too forgetful to manage her affairs. You could take that to court.”
“Come on! We are trying hard to work with you on this issue. No one thinks you are unfit, but…” He visibly stopped himself. “But we need to get this resolved and soon. A great deal rests on it.”
“Ha. A great deal for you and yours, you mean. You can sell this building and the one across the street and even keep the tunnels to connect them. A tidy package. Oh, don’t look so shocked! Everyone knows about the tunnels.”
I didn’t. I didn’t know anything about the tunnels, but now I surely wanted to.
“Louisa! Please try to see reason. Our buyer will compensate you for the loss of your garden, but he does need the entire property.” I could see his hands were shaking. “It is of great importance that we get this done in timely fashion, and we are truly trying to be as accommodating as we can be.”
She fixed him with a grim look. “As you always are. Good day, Daniel Towns.”
He still stood in the doorway, and she closed the door in his face. He had to step back quickly to prevent damage to his nose. She slammed the lock into place with a loud clang.
I was now inside.
“Oh, damn. I forgot all about you, I was so aggravated.” She held a finger to her lips and put one eye against the crack where the door hinged from the wall. “He’s gone.” She opened the lock again. “You step right out and get going.”
I stepped out, but I didn’t get going. I took my time because I could see Mr. Towns in the lobby of the building next door. I went in without thinking it through. I only knew I wanted to talk to him. I didn’t exactly plan out what I would say.
I caught him as he was walking to an elevator.
“Excuse me. Mr. Towns?”
He turned, stared, said without a flicker of recognition, “Yes? Can I help you?”
“We just met. Well, not met, not exactly, but I was in Mrs. Gibbs’s garden when you were there.” My voice trailed off as he continued to look blankly at me. Then his expression cleared.
“Oh, yes. You are a friend of Mrs. Gibbs?” He said it very carefully. I couldn’t blame him
“No, not really. I met her today for the first time. I am, uh, I am researching a little about Brooklyn Heights.”
“A reporter?” He looked even more wary, and exhausted, too.
“No, no, not at all. I am a historian.” I fumbled for my impressive museum business card. “Dr. Donato.”
“What do you want?” Then he stopped himself. “I beg your pardon, I am being rude. It’s been a difficult day. How can I help you?”
And I didn’t know. I could not say, “Are you really a snake in the grass?”
“This building?” I was grasping for a subject. “It’s a handsome building.” Not in my opinion, but it seemed a harmless white lie. “The color fits in nicely.”
“We tried hard to do that. Understand, architecture is not our goal in life, not at all, but we are nevertheless instructed to live peacefully with our neighbors if possible. Even when they persecute us, as they so often do. So we tried.”
I picked up something, a touch of warmth, and made a guess. “Were you involved with this? With the planning?”
He almost smiled again. “Yes. I have been involved with our Watchtower physical plant for a long time. The sale of our buildings here, an enormous responsibility, is my last big project for my Witness family.”
“I bet it’s a big headache too. There is so much to do.”
“We don’t complain about doing our duty. Everyone does their part in our community.”
I smiled at him. “What will your role be after this all moves upstate?”
Then he finally smiled back. “I will always be a faithful believer, but I will retire from this task and do whatever I am asked to do next. Pick apples, perhaps.”
“Away from the big city? Won’t you miss it?”
“My home in this life is wherever duty calls. Would you like to hear more about that?” He brightened. “Our beliefs about what life on earth is for? I’d be happy to share with you our blessed goals or give you some reading material to take with you.”
I changed the subject as quickly as I could and not gracefully, I admit. “What did Mrs. Gibbs mean about the tunnels? Did she mean the tunnels that connect the Watchtower buildings?” I had finally remembered a reference from my long-ago research.
“Yes, she did. At least I assume she did. With that woman…” He broke off and took a breath. “Yes. We have tunnels connecting some of our buildings. It allows our workers to move quickly to assignments, no matter what the weather, and also not to crowd up the sidewalks and annoy our neighbors. Not to appear in public in sloppy or dirty work clothes. We strive
for dignity at all times. And we move materials, supplies, and so on. They’re efficient, brightly lit, like an office building hallway.” He smiled. “In case you are imagining subway tunnels.”
I sort of was, something dark and scary. Not really the Witnesses’ style, I guessed. No dark places or dark deeds.
“Mrs. Gibbs? She seems so upset about all of that, your building sale here and the demands about her property.” I was being vague, and I knew it. I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to, which was, “Why can’t you leave her alone?” She was old and frail and deeply stressed by their demands. I thought she, of all people, deserved better.
He shook his head and said, “She’s always been like that, a most opinionated, aggressive woman. She scares me. I’m not used to… Women don’t…in our life…” He stopped as suddenly as he had started, looking shocked by his own rambling words. “She threatened to shoot me recently. She is a madwoman, and in her madness, she has become yet another persecutor of our faith. Like the Russians, who are more vicious than ever.” He stopped himself and then added quickly, “On a smaller scale, I should admit. But sadly the hatred of us never really ends.” He hastily turned toward the elevator. His parting words, “Good day, miss. I need to lie down now,” floated back to me over his shoulder.
The chance to talk further was gone. There was nothing else for me to do here, but there were many things to do when I got home. Make notes for work about the seemingly lost-forever Whitman plaque. Make some notes for myself about the puzzling people I had met today, and learn a little more if I could. I should think seriously about starting that sample chapter. I’d just do a quick search to shine some light on today’s surprises.
Seriously? I should have known better. I became glued to my screen, generating dozens of news items: people who were apprehensive about all the real estate about to be sold to private developers, much of it right on the borders of the historic district. On the wrong side? How would it change, well, everything? Disturbing a balance of many decades standing. Some people said good riddance, the Watchtower Society never cared about the neighborhood anyway, and were not susceptible to local pressure. As one interviewee said, quoting an old ad for kosher hot dogs, “They think they answer to a higher authority.” Some said they had been good neighbors, better than floods of yuppies in expensive apartments would be.