Quick Reads: The Gardener, Page 2

God."

  "We'll that's great," Dad was sarcastic, "the man's a religious fanatic."

  "I would never characterize him that way," the warden replied. "Look, Mr. Richter, I'm not a particularly religious man myself. But I see a lot of wrecked lives and anytime I see one that has so obviously been redeemed, I have to sit up and take notice." Dad heard the earnestness in the warden's voice. "Harold Thompson is the closest thing I've seen to a saint. He deserves not only a job, but the respect and admiration of everyone around him. He has something to teach us all."

  "Why didn't you find him a job around there?" Dad had to ask.

  "I tried to get him into a monastery near Rochester," the warden responded. "Harold's such a simple, trusting soul, I was afraid he'd be an easy mark out in the world. But he insisted his path was not in a cloister. He said he would find gardening work and continue practicing the presence on the outside." He paused. "Honestly, Mr. Richter, I would consider it a blessing to have him working for me."

  Dad hung up and thought, "What am I going to do now? Not only do I have an ex-con murderer for a gardener, but he's also a saint." He worried about Jackie's reaction. If there was one group she hated as much as criminals, it was the Religious Right. And to her thoroughly agnostic mind anyone who spoke openly of God was part of the Religious Right.

  While he thought it would be simplest just to let Harold go, he hesitated. Not only would he lose an admittedly first-class gardener, but he was also curious. He had never known a saint before. Though he had to admit there was something saintly in the old man's demeanor, Dad was cynical enough to know that every man has his faults and problems. It would just be a matter of time till he found Harold's.

  So Dad, going against all his inner voices and better judgment, decided to lie to Mother. He told her that night that Thompson had worked as a gardener for an estate near Rochester and that his references were excellent. Mother seemed to accept this and no more was said.

  As the summer progressed Dad found more and more reason to be satisfied with Harold's work. The vegetables were flourishing, flowers were popping up everywhere and a compost pit the likes of which Dad had never seen was started next to the tool shed. Even Mother was delighted with the fresh flowers Harold brought to the kitchen and gave Miriam for our table.

  To Dad's profound astonishment, the old man's behavior really was beyond reproach. He was industrious and self-effacing. He worked long and hard and kept to himself. When Dad suggested a different course of action for the garden, the old man responded cheerfully and without hesitation. And Miriam spoke glowingly to Mother of his gentle nature and cooperativeness, so that for once there was no antagonism between house and garden.

  On Saturdays Dad rose early to work alongside Harold. The old man never seemed to resent Dad's intrusion and though Harold continued to pray aloud when Dad was there, he never made it seem an imposition when Dad spoke to him. He would simply interrupt his heavenly conversations and turn to Dad as if he were also included.

  In time, Dad began to ask the old man's advice about matters beyond those of the garden. Whatever was troubling him, whether it was a problem from work or some domestic friction, Dad would run it past Harold. The old man's answers were simple and direct. He never preached. Instead he simply pointed to the obvious obstacle and suggested what seemed to be gentle, non-confrontational approaches to the solution.

  All this had an effect on Dad. He seemed happier and less anxious than we had ever seen him. He was unusually attentive to Mother which pleased her and he even took a greater interest in my comings and goings. Mother commented that working in the garden must have a soothing effect on Dad's nerves. Certainly he seemed to be spending more and more time there.

  Every so often Dad would try to draw Harold into a discussion of his beliefs. But the old man resisted, saying once that it did no good to talk about it. He said it could not be described, only experienced. When Dad persisted and asked the old man what made him so happy, Harold replied "When you are smothered in the loving embrace of God, you want nothing. In wanting nothing, there is peace." The serenity of his face was obvious and Dad was convinced that Harold was the happiest, most peaceful man he knew. Dad even admitted to me once that he was never happier than when he was with Harold, saying "The old man has a calming effect on me.”

  As I look back on it now, it was the happiest time of my life. Though I didn't have much to do with Harold, there was a tranquility in our house that it had never before known. The subtle tension that always seemed to underlie my parents' conversations disappeared. There seemed to be a new found respect and loving regard in their relationship. Mother laughed and smiled a lot and seemed to be bubbling over with enthusiasm for everything. I even walked into the family room one morning to find them embracing with obvious affection. It was something I had not seen before.

  But late in August it all fell apart. It happened innocently enough. Mother had gone to the garden to thank Harold for a particularly lovely bouquet of yarrow and daisies he had brought to the house. In the course of their polite conversation she commented on how sorry his former employers in Rochester must have been to lose him.

  With complete ingenuousness Harold corrected her, "It was Attica."

  "Excuse me?" Mother replied, not sure she heard right.

  "I was in Attica, not Rochester."

  "Well, who did you say you worked for?"

  "I was at the State Prison in Attica." Harold's honesty could be brutal.

  "Oh!" Mother replied coolly. She excused herself and went back to the house.

  That night all hell broke loose. Mother had been seething all day. Dad was barely through the door when she descended on him in fury.

  "You promised after your little chippy fling three years ago that you would never lie to me again," she screamed at him. Her anger was in direct proportion to her fall from happiness. "How could you?"

  "What are you talking about," Dad cried unaware of his transgression.

  "Harold told me today. He's an ex-convict." She was crying. "How could you lie to me like that? How can you let a man like that into our house?"

  "For Christ's sake, Jackie, be reasonable," he pleaded. "You yourself said he has the sweetest disposition of any man you know. Sure, he's an ex-con, but judge him for what he is now."

  "That's beside the point," she hollered back, choking on her tears. "You lied to me again. And you promised . . . ," her voice broke into sobs.

  Dad was beside himself. He tried to explain, but Mother was unreasonable with hurt. She wanted Harold fired immediately. Dad argued that it was not the gardener's fault. She could be angry with him if she wanted. He had lied, not the old man. But Mother could not be persuaded. She said it was either the gardener or her.

  The fight lasted until Mother fell asleep exhausted from her shouting and tears. Dad hoped that she would be more reasonable after a good night's sleep. For many reasons, he was unwilling to let Harold go. He was undeniably the best gardener they'd ever had and he sensed whatever happiness had come into the house that summer, was somehow attributable to the old man.

  Sometime during the night, Harold, who had been informed by Miriam of the turmoil in the house, packed quietly and left. Dad discovered his departure the next morning and was heartsick.

  With the old man's departure, things only got worse. Without his soothing reason and gentle example, things deteriorated quickly. Mother sought allies among the servants and tried to recruit me to her cause. Loving them both, I tried to stay out of it. Finally, it became unbearable for Dad and he moved to a Manhattan apartment in September. It wasn't too long before he found a lady friend and then it was all over. Mother filed for divorce in November and the marriage was dissolved the following year.

  Things happened so quickly that we were all in a state of shock. Dad admitted to me shortly before the divorce that he wished he and Mother could put all the anger aside and get back together. "We were
so happy that summer. I'd give anything to have that feeling back."

  Years later, long after he had remarried and shortly after Mother died, Dad wrote me in Chicago where I was working. The letter was long, rambling and painfully sentimental. I imagined him sitting in his study with a Chivas in his hand while he wrote. He lamented the fact that things hadn't worked out between Mother and himself. He said she was basically a good woman and blamed himself for the failure of the marriage. He said he worked too hard and spent too much time away from home. And yes, in a moment of self-indulgent weakness, he had an affair with a secretary in New York. But he was convinced his greatest transgression had been to allow the ex-con to become his gardener. "I just don't know what I was thinking," he wrote. "Your mother was right. I never should have let a convicted felon into our midst. His presence was too disturbing."

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