Arnold

An Obit of Sorts

In the 1950’s, the women who frequented the Textile Mart, my father’s store, recognized him as a classy guy. On the floor of his shop, he introduced me to frequent customers like Marion Anderson and several stars from the 40’s, each of whom clearly enjoyed his attention. In self-deprecating asides, he would let it be known that that my mother spoke excellent French and graduated from Abbot Academy and that their friends were doctors, professors and world travelers.

Alongside the more acceptable residents, a few derelicts also found a home. Occasionally they stopped passersby or local merchants, asking for spare change or work. Most often my father offered them a job sweeping out the store of pushing a broom on the sidewalk in front of his shop. “Sure Joe” he might say, “that broom looks like it could use some company.”

Likewise, on weekly buying trips to NYC, if a guy with a dirty rag waiting at the traffic light offered to squirt his van windows, he would offer them a full dollar not to do it. I remember asking about giving drunks money they would just waste. “They’ve got a right to drink just like I do,” he replied.

My father also liked hanging out at the shabby diner around the corner from his store. It was a long, narrow establishment with a single line of stools lined up facing the counter. Men with cigarettes dangling from their lips ordered scrambled eggs and said hello by simply lilting their chins.

For me, the real attraction of the diner was the pinball machine at the back…and feeling quite special as the only little girl ever taken to a place like this. On tiptoes I reached the buttons that controlled the pinball flippers that set the ball banging and clanging and lit up the scoreboard. My Dad comfortably greeted those men at the counter.

One day he arrived home with one of them—Arnold, a guy he had recently bailed out of jail. My father found a cot, set it up in the basement where Victorian housemaids once did their wash, and announced to the family that Arnold would be repairing our slate roof. I remember my father, happily humming to himself at the stove as he prepared “hobo stew” for Arnold, a feast that Arnold seemingly enjoyed by himself in the basement.

Arnold was short and scrawny, his jeans bagged around the belt at his waist. He had whiskers, but not a full beard and spoke with a slight Irish accent. My father, who was stationed in England during WWII, had fond memories of Ireland. He and Arnold together recalled the special green of Irish fields as well as the Irish whiskey and pub beer.

Remarkably, Arnold had no fear of heights and an amazing sense of balance. Ours was a three-story Victorian with a steeply pitched, gabled roof, with a turret and dormers. Arnold would chuck a few slate tiles from the pallet that sat in our backyard into a back satchel and scurry up ladders and across slippery surfaces until he reached the section of the roof he planned to repair. As time went on, he became increasingly comfortable with the work… and started drinking more. I recall watching Arnold wave as he danced across the slippery roof. As I quaked with nervousness, my father almost shone with pride.

Arnold finally left our Deer Hill digs, itching somehow to get back on the road. Or had he finished the roof job? He left me a silver pocket watch his mother had given to him. The hands, that had become disconnected floated inside its face and there was tiny key on the neck chain. But the background image of a tower, sparkled. Or did my father buy the watch from Arnold? Where is that watch now, I wonder now.