Nightshade

“Do you mean I’m fired?” Edmund asked his boss, Clive Stanway.

The day had started like any other workday. Edmund had risen early, fed his cat, Chloe, exercised, and walked to work from his home in the Logan Square neighborhood of Philadelphia. It was a pleasant early summer day, sunny and not yet humid. Edmund’s walk was a brisk 15-minutes door-to-door, and the lovely weather put a spring into his step. While striding, he remembered how, as a child, he was so good at skipping great distances, outpacing his playmates in races.

Edmund worked as an accountant for a company that owned restaurants. He knew some of the dining places were performing poorly and had thought it a mistake to open an expensive one near Rittenhouse Square. There were already many great eateries there, and the competition was challenging, but Clive had insisted his place would be a huge success. It wasn’t. However, knowing the finances of his company did not prepare him for that Friday morning. A note on his desk summoned him to Clive’s office.

“Good morning, Ed,” Clive said. “Have a seat.” Edmund had long ago given up on asking people to call him by his full forename, though he preferred it.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Stanway?”

Edmund regarded his boss. Though coeval, he always thought of Clive as significantly junior to him in age. Perhaps it was Clive’s supercilious nature. Clive was always quick with decisions and utterly confident in them, despite making many major misjudgments over the years. He treated with disdain anyone who raised an objection or provided a contrary viewpoint. Though often wrong, he was haughty, arrogant, and never doubted the truth of his vision.

“Unfortunately, I have been forced to declare my firm bankrupt,” Clive said. “Covid has killed it. I am letting you go immediately. Here is your final paycheck.” He passed a handwritten check to Edmund.

In response to Edmund’s question, Clive said, “No. No. No. You are not being fired. You have done your job. It’s just that your position no longer exists. Everyone will be let go, and all the restaurants closed. You can clear out your office and take your things home.”

Never one to fulminate, usually calm and professional, Edmund struggled to say anything coherent. “But the business is not doing that badly,” he blurted.

“It’s over; I’ve decided to close everything down. Don’t make this emotional.”

Stunned, Edmund picked up his check, stood, stretched his head toward the ceiling to bring himself to his full five-foot-eight-inch height, nodded at Clive, turned, and left the office. On his way to his room across the hall, he noticed what he had not seen earlier. Clara, Clive’s long-suffering assistant, was not at her desk. Moreover, there were no photos on it. Clara was married with two charming young children, who sometimes came to the office. She adored showing visitors their photos. She must have been informed the evening before when he was closing the books for May. Clive would have told her not to disturb Edmund on her way out of the office.

Edmund sat at his desk and began putting his belongings into his briefcase. Unmarried and childless, he had only a few beloved pens, an aging calculator, and one paperweight to take home. The walls had several posters he had put up to alleviate the drabness of the office, but he had no use for them at home. Before he left, he quickly checked the company’s cash account on his computer. It was empty; his check would bounce.

Edmund stopped at his bank on his way home and waited patiently in line to see his favorite teller. When it was his turn, he approached her and said, “Jessie, I seem to have a problem.”

“What’s that, Mr. Baker?” Jessie asked, concern clouding her face.

“I don’t believe there are any funds in this account to cash my paycheck,” he said, pushing the check and deposit slip through the slot in the glass separating them.

“Let me see,” she said. The restaurant business banked here as well.

“You’re right,” she said, after looking up the company’s account on her terminal. “Its balance is zero. Is something wrong?”

“Yes, the firm is bankrupt, and I have been let go. Clive told me this morning and gave me this last check.”

“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. You certainly didn’t deserve that, Mr. Baker.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re very kind.”

“Please leave this here with me, and I will check the company’s account from time to time. If some new receivables appear in it, I’ll cash and deposit your check when there are sufficient funds.”

“I would greatly appreciate that,” Edmund replied. “I may need it.”

Though he had saved diligently over the years, Edmund was far from wealthy. He lived a comfortable but simple life, occasionally splurging on a vacation to the Caribbean in winter or an extravagant meal. At age 64, he realized he was unlikely ever to get another full-time job. Who would want a highly experienced accountant when they could have a young, less costly one? Yes, he could use this last paycheck. He’d take himself to an expensive restaurant, somewhere he had never been.

• * * *

Chloe was happy to see him and came running to greet him when he opened the door at home. He fed her a treat of roasted turkey, and she looked at him quizzically. Did she know it was unusual for him to be home on Friday morning? Cats seemed to know much more than we credit them. Chloe always knew how to get attention when she wanted it and stop it when she didn’t. She was a pro at food requests. She was a house cat, so she did not need to know how to ask to go outside, but he was sure she would have learned if necessary. Aside from Chloe, Edmund was also fond of his two orchids. One was still blooming after five months. They sat on the windowsill with the most sunlight. He gave them an ice cube each, though they didn’t need one.

What to do? Edmund was at a loss. Work provided grounding, a purpose in life, structure. He would need to arrange his affairs for retirement. Meanwhile, he had most of a Friday ahead of him. Shouldn’t he be happy?

To keep himself busy, he would bring forward all his chores from Saturday. He could review his finances later. But first, a walk.

Edmund enjoyed walking. He prided himself on his ability to live in the city without a vehicle, and it kept him fit. As he stepped out of his front door, he noticed the foxgloves on his neighbor’s stoop were blooming. Weren’t they a poisonous plant?

He walked to Reading Terminal and picked up a large steak, potatoes, broccoli, and a baguette. On his way home, he picked up a bottle of Malbec, the most expensive on the shelf, at his local wine shop. He put all these things away in his kitchen, each in their proper place.  

He sat at his dining table and began making a list of pros and cons. On the left side, he put Chloe, Orchids, and Meal at a Fine Restaurant. Then, he added: Charity Work: Helping small businesses with their accounts?; and Hobby: Painting? On the right side, he could only think of a question: What is the point?

He got on his computer and looked up foxgloves to learn how poisonous they were: toxic but not very deadly. If ingested, they could be fatal, but the irregular heartbeat, upset stomach, and confusion they caused sounded unpleasant. Then he researched nightshade. He liked the ring of the word. It was also called deadly nightshade, devil’s cherry, and best of all, belladonna. Like the other plant, it had beautiful flowers, and it appeared to be more noxious than foxgloves. It also had particularly lethal berries: consuming ten to twenty could be fatal for adults. It was supposed to be one of the most toxic plants in the Western Hemisphere. However, the symptoms after eating the roots, leaves and berries were nasty—blurred vision, loss of balance, hallucinations, and convulsions.

Later, he went to the dry cleaners to pick up his shirts. He passed the homeless man on the corner of Market Street who always politely asked for spare change, and to which he replied, “Sorry.” At least this person wasn’t truculent like some beggars. But Edmund preferred to give to the local food banks; then, he knew people were getting nutrition and not buying cigarettes and booze with his donated money.

“It’s Friday, Mr. Baker,” Amy said anxiously as Edmond entered the shop. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve retired,” he replied, but the phrase sounded odd to him. “Today was my last day of work.”

“Congratulations!” she said, with a huge, beaming smile.

“Thank you,” he said, and he almost felt good, but he winced at the memory of his talk with Clive. Thirty years of doing his accounting ledgers and nothing but a dubious one-month paycheck to show for it. The perfidious swine, Edmund thought, startling himself with his sudden anger.

While walking back to his row house, his shirts folded over his left arm, he stopped at the iron fence protecting the Mütter Museum’s garden and gazed through the bars. The shrubbery was spectacularly green and lush, and some plants sported flowers of various hues. An early-blooming hibiscus had large trumpet blooms of fiery red, changing to orange, then yellow at its outer edges. There were several plants with florets of yellow or white. Whoever maintained the garden made sure every plant was healthy, with robust foliage and blossoms. The gardeners had thoughtfully placed every stone on the small path that wound through the shrubbery. Even those stones covered with moss seemed to be intentionally chosen. The benches look comfortable and inviting. How had he never noticed this before? He had walked by this garden, an emerald oasis, once a week for decades. He hadn’t been to the museum since he was a teenager. The deformed fetuses in formaldehyde and the skeletons were more interesting to him in those days. He decided to visit the museum and learn more about the plants in its tiny park.

At home, Edmund purchased a ticket for the museum and printed it. Then he left for the Mütter, only a few blocks away, taking his mask with him. Upon entering, Edmund refreshed his childhood memories by taking a quick tour of the permanent collection. It looked much the same as he recalled from his youth, lots of grim evidence of disease, often modeled in wax, deformed babies, skulls, etc. However, the special exhibit was about the influenza pandemic of 1918 and its impact on the city. Planned since 2015, there was a video commemorating the 17,500 deaths in Philadelphia attributed to the disease, made in September 2019. How prescient!

But he was impatient to see the garden, so he left the exhibit and exited the building. The heat of the day hit him like a large feather. It had been cooler inside than he realized. To his left, a brightly blossoming tree caught his eye. Behind it, ivy crept up the side of the building. The church facing him loomed over the garden, framing the park on the south side. He descended the steps to review the plants. Many were medicinal. Marigold was good for infected wounds, swollen glands, and skin disease. Thyme helped with chest infections, bronchitis, colds, and flu. Wild ginger relieved digestive spasms. The sweet scent of an unidentified flower tickled his nose. There were many other plants as well, but no nightshade that he could find.

Edmund walked the length of the garden, about a hundred feet, and sat on a bench with shade near the iron bars. It was peaceful and serene. The bustle of the city felt far away. Even the sounds of cars driving by on 22nd Street seemed distant.

He would plant a garden!

What should he plant? He toured the small space again, seeking inspiration for his garden. Perhaps some hibiscus; they were so beautiful. Maybe a few carnivorous pitcher plants, to reduce the number of insects. Definitely some chamomile—he could brew his own tea! Since he enjoyed cooking, he would have an area devoted to herbs. He liked the idea of perennial wildflowers also; color was always heartening, and wildflowers were hardy. A tree or two for shade would be pleasant as well. Currently, his small backyard was simply a patio of bricks. He would dig them up and replace them with topsoil. This project would give his life structure while he contemplated what to do in his remaining years.

His phone was ringing when he got home. It was Jessie from the bank. One of his firm’s bistros had recently deposited last week’s receipts; she had deposited his last paycheck into his account. What a gem that Jessie is!

He sat again at his dining table and glanced at his earlier list. Setting it aside for later contemplation, he started another list for his garden: hibiscus, azaleas, chamomile, pitcher plant, wildflowers, herbs, trees, and other bushes from a nursery.

Satisfied, he turned on his computer and ordered the wildflower and herb seeds. He would research nurseries in the area tomorrow.

Before turning off his computer, he hesitated, and then he also ordered some nightshade seeds.

Options are always good, he thought.

But for now, I’m going to focus on my garden. The best thing about options is: you don’t have to do them.