Spitford’s Church of the Crusader still bore battle scars from Arnold’s previous visit. Plywood boards stood in the window sockets, giving the structure a burnt-out appearance. A banner dangling above the main entryway solicited donations for a HEAVENLY REBUILDING FUND. He rounded the corner of the hulking structure and stripped naked. He stashed his clothing beneath the “God Hates Sin” sign, retaining only his sneakers and the handgun. Then he crept along the slate path that ran between the minister’s home and his church, under a row of leafy beeches, to where a solitary security guard had dozed off on the job. The man was one of the same dark-suited bodyguards who’d accompanied Spitford on his protests outside Arnold’s brownstone. He was sitting on the concrete porch, a flashlight and a radio at his feet, a large black nightstick resting on his lap. That made Arnold’s next step all the easier. The botanist slid the cudgel out from between the man’s lax hands and, as the guard stirred, bashed him over the head. He was surprised how easy it was. Just one hard blow. That was all it took to knock another man out cold. The victim let forth a deep groan and disappeared into unconsciousness. Arnold checked the guard’s pulse—to be certain he hadn’t done any permanent damage—and then he set about removing the man’s garments. He even pried the man’s dentures from his gums and tossed them into the undergrowth. In another ten minutes, he’d lugged the naked body down to the church and bound it quite snugly to the altar. Morning services, he suspected, would never be quite the same.
Arnold hadn’t come all that way, of course, to humiliate a nameless security agent. His real target remained the fascist minister himself. But he dared not ring the front bell, as he’d done on the previous visit, trusting himself to Spitford’s hospitality. Instead, he circled the building in search of an alternate entrance, and coming across a set of glass sliding doors, shattered them with the club. Then he tiptoed up the carpeted stairs and along the low-ceilinged corridors into the minister’s bedroom. He knew it was the minister’s, because it faced the front of the house—the same location where, on his previous visit, he’d seen the glow of a reading lamp. Sure enough, he he found himself in a large bedchamber heavily furnished with nautical décor. A free-standing globe and a ship’s wheel stood sentry under the windows. Several large trophy fish—mackerels, barracuda—were mounted above the bureaus. Over the king-size bedstead itself loomed the antlered head of a bull moose. There was also a highboy whose drawers stood open and empty, and a wardrobe of vacant hangers, as though one of the two Mrs. Spitfords had recently departed in haste. Who could blame her? What could be worse than infidelity except infidelity and a passion for animal heads? The room smelled pungently of damp wood. A box air-conditioner provided its only sound. From the window coursed an effervescent stream of moonlight.
Arnold noticed a rotary telephone on the end table and yanked the cord out of the jack. Then he rattled the fleshy lump under the sheets. “Wakey, wakey,” he cooed.
The minister grumbled and shifted onto his opposite side.
“Rise and shine,” said Arnold, louder. “It’s time for naked roll call.”
Spitford must have recognized something amiss, because he froze suddenly. All but his right hand remained under the covers.
“You heard me,” Arnold said sharply. “Stand up and get your hands over your head or you’ll be taking a lead sandwich in the stomach.”
“Sweet Lord Jesus,” muttered the minister. He poked his face over the sheets and raised his hands toward the headboard. “As I live and breathe,” he said.
“You won’t be living and breathing for long if you don’t do exactly what I tell you,” retorted the botanist. “Now stand up slowly.”
“Let’s talk this over,” offered the minister. “I’m more than willing to negotiate….”
“The only negotiating you’ll be doing is negotiating yourself out of those clothes,” ordered Arnold. “You have exactly fifteen seconds.”
The minister was wearing striped cotton pyjamas, but not a stocking cap. That had apparently been an accoutrement added solely for the media’s benefit. The man stumbled out of bed and stood in the centre of the carpet, enormous and helpless as a beached sea mammal.
“I’m sure we can work things out,” pleaded Spitford. “I’m a man of the cloth. A man of God.”
“Well let’s see how God made you,” answered Arnold. “Time to show that trim body of yours….”
Spitford sneered at the jibe about his weight. “Think what you’re doing, Mr. Brinkman. It’s never too late to step back and reconsider. Many of our greatest martyrs began life as profligates. St. Augustine—”
“Knock off the sermon and start stripping. Now!”
The clergyman slowly undid the buttons of his top. It fell open to reveal his enormous paunch—a torso crisscrossed with keloid scars from various medical interventions. Arnold caught Spitford’s narrow eyes darting toward the corridor, so he waved the gun. “Don’t tempt me,” he warned him. “I’m already facing God-knows-how-long a prison sentence. One more dead fascist isn’t going to make or break me one-way-or-the-other….Now off with those pants.”
Spitford reluctantly slid out of his last article of clothing. Manoeuvring his flabby legs through the pyjama bottoms required considerable effort. It was several minutes before the oversized Black minister was standing stark naked in front of Arnold. He’d allowed the pyjamas to fall to the bearskin rug. Arnold let him stand like that in silence. The Bandit had taught him the “humiliation power” of waiting.
“Now what?” Spitford finally asked.
“Did I tell you that you could speak?” demanded Arnold.
The minister gulped. He tried to cover his groin with his hands.
“I thought you might be willing to show some decency,” said Spitford. “Now that you’re done humiliating me—”
“—Done humiliating you?” cried Arnold. “Done? I haven’t even begun.”
The minister nodded. He looked more perturbed than actually frightened.
“It’s time to sing,” announced Arnold. “Are you ready to sing?”
“If that’s what you want,” answered the minister. “You have the gun.”
“Hands over your head,” barked Arnold. “And I want to hear We Shall Overcome at the top of your lungs.”
The minister raised his arms again, but he didn’t sing. “My mother is sleeping, Mr. Brinkman. If you’ll kindly—“
“Sing goddammit! Either you sing or she sings.”
Spitford winced. He began singing, barely audibly. “We shall overcome…”
“Louder!” ordered Arnold.
“We shall overcome…We shall overcome someday….”
Spitford paused for breath. His voice was painfully monotonal. Arnold stepped forward and levelled the barrel of the gun at his prisoner’s forehead. Now the minister appeared genuinely frightened. He squeezed his eyes shut, but continued singing: “Deep in my heart, I do believe…. We shall overcome someday.” Then he stopped.
“Keep singing,” demanded Arnold.
“I don’t…” stammered Spitford. “I don’t know the words….”
This admission made Arnold even angrier.
“The next verse is, We’ll walk hand in hand,” said Arnold.
“We’ll walk hand in hand…,” sang Spitford. “We’ll walk hand in hand…..”
“Now up on that chair,” commanded Arnold. “Keep singing….”
He kept the Black minister standing on the armchair through We shall all be free… and We are not afraid…. Then he grew bored and had Spitford croon Puff the Magic Dragon and Deutschland über Alles. By the end, the clergyman was sobbing while he sang.
“I guess I’m done now,” said Arnold.
The minister sighed, but didn’t lower his arms.
“Oh, wait,” said Arnold. “I forgot the part about me being a racist. I guess I can’t let you go until I give full flight to my prejudices, can I? So what do you know in the way of minstrel music….”
“Enough Brinkman,” h
is hostage begged. “Enough already….”
“No, not enough. Not nearly enough. We’re just warming up….How about a chorus of Old Man River?”
But then they heard a noise in the corridor. A tiny, prune-like creature wearing a hairnet appeared at the door. She had hideous growths under her jowls, and her skin, if it could be classified as any colour, was a brutal mix of bronze and purple. The old woman’s presence made Arnold feel acutely self-conscious.
“I heard music,” said the clergyman’s mother.
Spitford immediately took control of the situation. “Don’t worry, Mother. It’s just an old friend visiting,” he said. “Please go back to bed.”
Mrs. Spitford nodded. “It was such dreadful music. Like the devil himself singing,” she said. “I’m Loretta Spitford,” she added, extending her bony arm out to Arnold. He reached out to take it—and then realized he was holding the revolver. He quickly shifted the weapon to his opposite hand and let the old woman squeeze his fingers. Arnold introduced himself as Spitford’s new choral director. “Delighted to meet you,” she said.
“Please go back to bed, Mother,” urged the minister “We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Why yes, of course,” agreed the old woman. “But you should put some clothing on, Spotsylvania. You’re liable to catch a chill.”
“Yes, mother,” agreed Spitford. “I was just about to get dressed.”
“Be sure to put on your long underwear,” said Mrs. Spitford. “Especially if you’re going to stand up on a chair like that. You’re liable to get caught in a draft.”
“I promise, Mother. Long underwear. I’ll get dressed this minute.”
“You do that,” said his mother.
Then the old woman grunted several times and vanished into the corridor.
“She’s not what she used to be,” said the minister. “Please don’t bother her.”
The appearance of Spitford’s mother reminded Arnold of his own parents. How little he’d understood them when they’d been alive, but how much he had missed them after they’d gone. It took only a touch of reflection to divert him from his torment of the Black clergyman—and once he’d been diverted, it was impossible to regain his enthusiasm. He had Spitford sing a few Stephen Foster tunes, as a matter of form, but then he bound the man to an armchair and departed in haste.
The Bandit was waiting for him under the hickory tree.
“Four hours exactly,” said the lunatic. “Did you make the most of them?”
“I did the best I could,” said Arnold. He didn’t like lying to the Bandit.
“I’m sure your wife was glad to see you.”
“I’m feeling much more relaxed now,” answered the botanist.
“Good. Feel relaxed, man. That’s what’s most important.”
The Bandit offered Arnold the blindfold and tied it tight.
That night Arnold slept more soundly than he had in months. It wasn’t that he’d taken any great pleasure out of humiliating the minister, but more like a great burden had been lifted off his shoulders. He hadn’t tormented the man because he’d wanted to. He’d done it because it needed to be done. As though the entire balance of the planet had been out of whack and punishing Spitford had helped knock it back on course. So Arnold slept the sleep of a man without responsibilities. It was the same deep rest he enjoyed during the first days after completing a manuscript, or discovering a new recipe, in those short lulls before the urge to tackle another project overtook him. For nearly two months, he’d despised Spitford. He’d relished the thought of making the man suffer in indescribably horrific ways; he’d dreamed up methods of torture sure to make the most hardened Spanish inquisitors blush. Now Arnold found himself entirely without hate. He still didn’t like Spitford, of course—in fact, he disliked him intensely. But now his attitude was entirely cerebral. He held the Black minister in contempt for what he’d done and for everything he stood for. At the same time, Arnold no longer felt what had been an overwhelming need to do the man any personal harm. The score between them was settled. It was time to move on. And there was nothing quite like a long sound sleep to tamp out the fires of revenge. Already, Arnold sensed that the coming days would open up a whole new world of promise and opportunity.
When Arnold awoke the following morning, his head was sweltering and his body was shaking with chills. He reached his hands up to his face and ran his fingers over what felt like a rubberized mask. The Nixon mask! Arnold jolted upright with a start and, as his surroundings came into focus, he realized that he was sitting stark naked in high grass. Someone had moved his body while he was asleep, carried him to the edge of the Great Lawn in Central Park. It was still early morning, he sensed, as the sun hadn’t yet risen over the luxury buildings lining the avenues. Their roofs, some red tile, some grey slate, glistened in the pristine light. The grass itched on the back of the botanist’s legs. He also felt a cool, mud-like sensation on his chest. All around him the air smelled of pollen and honeysuckle and what must have been a nearby mound of dog shit. That’s when Arnold looked down at his own body and saw the lettering: TRAITOR. Printed vertically from his collar bone to his navel. He didn’t need any reflection to recognize that the medium was human faeces and the perpetrator was the Bare-Ass Bandit.
CHAPTER 13
Arnold’s initial panic at being abandoned, at having had his body desecrated, soon gave way to that most primal of all human yearnings—the desire to clean himself. The botanist raised his frame up on his elbows, and a horde of black flies, which had settled on his body as though it were carrion, scattered in surprise. He swatted at the empty air in their wake, as though revenging himself on these pests might in some way undo his debasement. Then he rubbed his skin along the grass like a snake until he’d managed to remove as much of the faeces as was possible without water. This dry bath proved highly imperfect and gobbets of excrement remained entangled in his chest hairs. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t long before the botanist’s efforts gave way to an overwhelming sense of futility. Arnold felt disoriented, possibly feverish. Like a rat that had been spun by its tail for several hours and then left to die. Tears of frustration and self-pity and sheer exhaustion overcame him and soon he was sobbing and shaking. He was so unnerved that he lost control of his own bladder, and the stench of his urine mixed with that of the lunatic’s shit. It was a pungent odour, and he fought the urge to vomit. But even throwing up required a certain reserve of energy—and Arnold’s was entirely depleted.
He wasn’t without his faults, he knew. Nobody was. Had he really caused enough harm to deserve this fate? That’s when he recalled the terror in Ira Taylor’s eyes as the bond trader struggled to free his naked body from the chain-link fence. Then he remembered Spotty Spitford’s voice quavering as the minister strained to reach the lower registers of We Shall Overcome. But it was the indelible memory of his own hands around Cassandra’s throat that finally drove him to a horrid realization. Good God! Maybe he had caused enough harm to deserve his fate.
Human voices, not too distant, shook Arnold. He understood that this wasn’t an opportune time for reflection or self-assessment. The sun had already risen over the nearby trees, and with each passing moment, a steady stream of early morning dog-walkers and bird-watchers were converging on his escape routes. He knew he needed to get off the Great Lawn and into the woods as rapidly as possible. But how? And where was he to go from there? What he really wanted was a piece of clothing, anything to reduce his feeling of exposure, of helplessness, but now even something as basic as underwear seemed far beyond his grasp. Only hours earlier, he’d have had no qualms about forcibly unburdening passers-by of their jogging shorts, but that entire mind-set suddenly seemed like a distant shadow. What sort of human being attacked strangers for their wardrobes—even under exigent circumstances? Maybe excuses could be made for a true sociopath, like the Bandit. But Arnold recognized that he wasn’t a sociopath. He could offer his own rationalizations, of course—that he’d gotten carried away in t
he moment, that the world served up many injustices far greater than any he’d created. That was Bonnie Card’s sort of thinking. She’d find a way to justify his behaviour with her ethicist’s abracadabra.
Arnold realized now that he wanted no part of that. Never again. He thought back on all that had happened to him, all that he’d done: the humiliation of Spotty Spitford, the torture of Ira Taylor, his kiss with Cassandra. It all seemed like a bizarre nightmare. Only his own nudity confirmed for him that he’d ever really lived through these events. Somewhere, somehow, he sensed that he had crossed over a barrier—and he wanted more than anything wade his way back over the Rubicon.
Luckily, the Bandit had laid him to rest on a patch of turf along the outskirts of the Great Lawn, a shady nook which hadn’t recently been mowed. The crabgrass was just tall enough for Arnold to slither forward without exposing himself. He kept his belly flat to the ground, his elbows and knees bent outward—like a World War I soldier trying to surprise an enemy trench. He tried to keep his mind blank. He sensed that if he thought too much—about either the horrors that had been done to him or those that he’d perpetrated—he might come entirely unhinged. That was what became of real terrorists, he’d heard. Some, of course, remained intransigent to the end. But others, when confined alone with their own thoughts for a long enough period of time, degenerated to madness under the weight of their shame. So best not to think. Just crawl. Inch by inch. One knee in front of the other. So simple—like a child. But it was only a matter of time before unwelcome ideas crept into the recesses of Arnold’s head. The sounds of pedestrians on the nearby trails propelled his unhealthy thinking. He heard the voice of young woman reasoning with her poodle, as though it were a human being, and he was instantly seized with a memory of Cassandra snuggling against the nape of her beloved Son of a President. And now he would never see the crazy girl or the oddly-named beast again. Because he’d been unable to compromise, unable to forgive. Arnold’s dilemma was that, in his gut, he wasn’t so sure that Cassandra deserved to be forgiven for what she’d done—but, at another level, he missed her intensely. Then he hated himself for missing her, because she wasn’t Judith. And he longed for Judith so deeply that, when he thought about it, that his feelings for the girl seemed entirely trivial. The more Arnold tried to decipher his own emotions, or what they should be, the less they made sense. All internal debate, at some level, was like reasoning with a dog.
The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up Page 20