Quick Reads:
The Gardener
Ed Rehkopf
Copyright 2012 Ed Rehkopf
I don't recall when he first came to our house though I was vaguely aware that Dad had hired a new man. I think he mentioned it at the table one night. But I was too busy then with school and lacrosse. Besides, gardeners were nothing new. There had always been one at our place for as long as I could remember. They'd come and go with the seasons, never staying more than a year or two.
This was a great frustration to Dad. He complained frequently to Mother about it. But the garden was never one of her big interests, so he got little sympathy. He couldn't understand why a good gardener was so hard to find. He said he paid twenty percent above the going rate for live-in gardeners on the North Shore. The furnished apartment was modern and clean and he didn't think he was too demanding. All he asked was that the gardener have a knowledge of green things and pride in his work. He even encouraged extra plantings of produce for the gardener's use.
If there was a drawback to the job that he could see, it was his habit of working in the garden whenever his schedule permitted. He recognized that for some gardeners, this would be an unwelcomed intrusion. But the whole purpose of having a gardener was to permit Dad to keep a garden with his limited time. And he always warned the prospective employee of this up front.
So every year we would watch Dad's high hopes and expectations build through the spring only dissipate as the summer wore on. One year when Dad was delighted with the prospects of a banner harvest and we already had fresh tomatoes and corn on the table, the gardener disappeared. By the time Dad got back from his trip to Europe, his precious tomatoes were badly rotting and weeds had taken over the garden. Another year, he had to fire the gardener for his constant drinking and entertaining. And this spring, shortly after he had hired a new man, he had to let him go when he was caught taking silverware from the kitchen.
Just at the point when Dad was talking about giving up the garden altogether, an elderly man appeared at the door asking for work. Normally, Dad used an agency in Port Jefferson Station and wouldn't consider hiring this way, but I think he was fed up paying the fees with nothing to show for it. So he spoke to the man at some length in his study and decided to hire him. The man moved into the apartment the next day.
As was his habit, Dad checked on the new gardener's work each day when he got home from the city. At the table he made guarded comments that showed his pleasure with the new man. But he had learned by bitter experience not to make too much of early efforts. He had been disappointed before. Mother, as was her habit, maintained only a polite interest in these concerns while talking on and on about the problems of the household staff. In her eyes the garden was nothing but a bother and a source of friction for Miriam, the cook, who was expected to clean and prepare the summer's cornucopia.
One day after school let out, I happened to come across the old man. Brent Scarloff and I were playing catch in the expanse of lawn out back when Brent threw a long one that got away from me and rolled into the lilacs. As I crawled under them and found the ball, I heard someone mumbling something over and over. I peered through the bushes toward the garden and there was the new man hoeing weeds.
He was older than I expected and his thin body was lost in baggy coveralls. He had taken off his shirt and his brown arms fell away from bony shoulders like strings of caramel taffy. His thin neck seemed barely capable of holding up the large ball cap he wore, much less the weight of his head. He moved slowly and methodically as he shuffled along the furrows, the hoe rising and falling rhythmically. Each movement was accompanied by some indistinct muttering. I wasn't sure at first if the sounds were coming from him, but then I saw his lips moving. I strained to hear what he was saying, but could only recognize certain sounds repeated again and again.
"Come on, Hartley, what's the problem," Brent called from behind me. I did not want to be discovered spying so I turned quickly and scrambled out from under the bushes.
That night at the table when Dad started talking about the progress the new gardener was making, I couldn't help saying, "Dad, I think you've hired some kind of crazy. I saw him hoeing today and he was talking to himself. He was muttering out loud, saying the same thing over and over."
"Charles," Mother said to Dad, "I told you not to hire anyone without the agency. You have no idea who you've brought into the house." She was a little paranoid and very nervous about such things since her mother's friend, Mrs. Hardesty, had been beaten and raped by a handyman twenty years ago.
"There's nothing to worry about. The man is the most gentle creature I've ever met. I wouldn't have hired him if I hadn't felt completely comfortable with him."
"Where is he from? Did he give you references?" Mother harped. "You can't be too careful, you know."
"He's from upstate and he really knows his gardening," Dad started to defend.
"I don't care if he's Luther Burbank," Mother snapped. "I don't want him around unless he's got references." Trustworthy help was ever a point of contention with Mother.
To avoid the inevitable argument Dad agreed to speak with him and check his references.
Later that evening Dad went around back of the cottage and knocked at the gardener's apartment. The door opened and the old man stood in the door surrounded by the light of the room. Dad apologized for disturbing him, but the old man greeted him warmly, if deferentially, and invited him in. As Dad stood waiting for him to pull up a chair, he noticed a Bible lying open on his chair where he had obviously been sitting and reading.
Dad sat on the chair and began, "Harold, I'll get right to the point. It's my policy not to hire anyone without checking references. When I first spoke with you, I was so pleased with your obvious good character and knowledge of gardening that I failed to inquire about your work history. So while I am very happy with the work you've done so far, I must ask for some references. I hope you understand."
The old man gave a weak smile. "I thought it odd when you didn't ask, Mr. Richter, but I certainly understand." He looked momentarily at his hands folded in his lap and then looked up again. "Unfortunately, the only reference I can offer is Wayne Clifford, the warden at Attica State Prison."
Dad flinched at this and the old man continued. "Thirty-seven years ago in a fit of jealous rage, I killed my wife. After serving thirty-five years of a life sentence, I was paroled last fall. While I cannot restore the life I took, I am not the same man I was then." He watched Dad for his reaction. When Dad did not respond, he smiled thinly and reassured, "I do know my gardening, though. I kept the prison garden for over twenty years."
Dad swallowed deeply. He was at a loss for words, but finally muttered, "Harold, I must say I'm a little shocked. I didn't expect this." His voice faltered.
"I understand, Mr. Richter. If you want, I'll clear my things out of here tomorrow morning. I don't want to cause any trouble."
Dad, too much the thinking man's liberal, tried to calm his gut reaction. "No, that's hardly fair. If you've paid your debt to society, you deserve another chance." He paused, wondering how he could explain this to Jackie. "What was the name of the warden? I'll call him from my office tomorrow."
The next morning Dad called the prison and spoke with Mr. Clifford. He felt it was an exercise in futility. No matter what the man said, he'd have a hard time selling it to Jackie. In some ways he hoped the warden would equivocate. It would make it easier to let Harold go.
"Harold Thompson is the finest man I've ever met, inside or outside of prison." The warden was emphatic. "I would trust him with my wife, my daughter and my grandchildren. The crime he committed was the cat
alyst for a complete change in his life. He has become a man of God. His life has touched all of us here at Attica."
"I see," Dad responded lamely. He had not expected so effusive a recommendation. "What about his mind? Has he been examined by a psychiatrist? I understand he mutters the same thing over and over? You never know when a man like that could snap again." He was looking for anything discrediting.
"Mr. Richter, are you a religious man?"
Dad, somewhat put off by this question, replied, "No, I can't say that I am. But what's that got to do with Thompson?"
"Have you ever heard of practicing the presence of God?"
"No, I can't say that I have." Dad's voice betrayed a certain peevishness.
The warden sensed the irritation and said, "Bear with me a moment, Mr. Richter. This may sound unusual, but believe me it's bona fide. In the seventeenth century there was a monk, a Brother Lawrence, who developed the idea of being constantly in the presence of God. He devoted every minute of every day to communion with his Creator. Every act, every effort, every piece of work, he devoted to His glory. He believed it the simplest way to absolute peace and happiness. If you have heard Harold murmuring aloud, he was practicing the presence of