Philadelphia Noir

was theirs.

“I thought these dramas were supposed to be clean and wholesome,” the mother muttered while the son, who looked to be about eight, demanded: “What’s seed? It’s not like grass stuff, is it? I know what a bastard is.” In the silence, his falsetto voice boomed.

“Hush, Anthony, we’ll talk about it later-”

“That’s what you always say, Mom!”

“At least the play’s educational,” the father offered with a wary chuckle. “That’s what we wanted, wasn’t it? American history made fun-”

“Paul, how can you?” Having registered her disapproval, Mom spun away from Dad and bent down to her son. “Don’t use the word bastard, honey.”

“Dad does-”

“What your father says and does isn’t always suitable. You may as well learn that right now.”

“Like when he-”

“That’s enough, Junior.” This time it was Dad who did the scolding. He was now carrying the boy’s sister, a yellowhaired girl of four or five who clung to his neck and stuck out her tongue at her earthbound brother. As the father held his daughter aloft, a grin of false indulgence spread across his face. It didn’t begin to conceal his dismay at being the focal point of a bunch of tittering strangers.

“But you do, Dad. When we watch the Phillies, you-”

“Anthony, that’s enough.”

“Bastard, bastard,” the little girl sang out.

“Look what you made your sister do, Junior. I want an apology. Now.”

“What do you expect, Paul, if you set the kind of examp-?”

“Drop it, Sheila.”

“I’m not allowed to tell the truth, is that it?”

“Now. Drop it now.”

With the audience torn between eavesdropping on a family meltdown and watching professional performers, a space became free for me to slip forward (dog in tow) until the actors were in sight. Two women and a man, dressed not in homespun and breeches and tricorne hats but in full Victorian regalia: the women draped in silks and expensive paisley shawls, the man in a fitted coat and tall beaver hat. He had his back to me; the women were also turned away, their faces concealed by their bonnets’ wide beribboned brims. All three might as well have stepped from the fashion plates in Godey’s Lady’s Book, the period’s answer to an amalgam of Cosmo and Redbook. I shouldn’t have been surprised at their outfits; reenactors are obsessive people. They don corsets and crinolines, tight wool trousers and tighter cravats, whether the heat index measures a hundred degrees Fahrenheit or sleet is slinging itself sideways. In my opinion that’s odd.

“All the while, he struts around the metropolis, esteemed by his peers as if the gentleman farmer from the Carolinas were unconnected to the God-fearing churchman dwelling in Society Hill,” Actress Number One continued. Her tone had grown more strident; her posture (or what I could see within her voluminous clothes) was rigid. “How can this be? Wasn’t the transatlantic slave trade abolished in 1808? Then why does the government allow this evil to persist?”

The argument hit a chord with the audience. There were cheers; several people clapped. It seemed a likely time for an educational interlude, a Q &A during which the cast traditionally breaks character and engages in a group discussion, encouraging onlookers to air their views on whatever political message is up for debate. I took this as a cue to vacate my spot. Besides, I figured the dog was growing bored standing in one place while a lot of human types made noises that had nothing to do with food. However, the actress who’d taken the lead wasn’t about to relinquish her soapbox. I opted to linger a bit longer.

“It’s not merely the Southerners who are to blame. Here in our own city the textile mills supply fabric, so- called cot-tonade, for those despicable slave owners-”

“Haven’t I experienced that abominable situation myself?” the second actress interjected, her tone also incensed, although her interpretation was subtler than Actress One. “And our calico is traded for human cargo along Africa’s Niger River. But, I repeat, what’s to be done in your case? Your husband’s within his rights. As demonic as it-”

“Within his rights? Oh, where’s your sense of decency and equality? What about the burning of Pennsylvania Hall during the Anti-Slavery Convention, or the rioting that ensued? Entire blocks of houses set on fire. Men and women dying in the conflagration and their homes reduced to ashes. And this the City of Brotherly Love!”

Louder applause followed the bellicose speech. A few people whistled and stamped, their shoes drumming a tattoo against the stones. The instructive vignette was taking on the rowdy passions of an Eagles game. I began worrying for my dog’s safety. The team’s reputation as being pooch-friendly is a sullied one, but that’s another story.

“What you say is true,” the male actor picked up the cue. “Now we face riots over laborers’ rights, which increase the civil unrest. But men and women-and children-must be paid fairly for their work.” There was authority in his delivery, and sorrow that sounded genuine. I was sorry I couldn’t see his expression. I was also impressed at the amount of research the playwright had done. I know this period well. The facts were solid.

“But what about your husband?” Actress Number Two persisted. I watched her lay a gloved hand on the man’s sleeve, an indication that the scene was about to shift focus. Attentive though the audience was, the encroaching dusk, combined with the siren call of Geno’s Steaks, would soon take its toll. It was time to address another topic. “I assume you haven’t mentioned your critiques to him.”

“Oh, I have. Naturally, he repudiates my arguments. No matter. I intend to divorce him, and desert his bed and wicked habits forever. Indeed, I should never have wed him, but I think you know that well enough.”

“Well, duh!” two female audience members whooped in unison, although their advice might as well have been whispered. The performers never reacted to the commotion.

“You say nothing in response,” Actress One eventually sighed. “But what other choice have I? I can’t continue as I have been. Turning a blind eye to his numerous peccadilloes. Feigning devotion when what I feel is abhorrence. I see no other solution but to sunder our marriage bonds. Speak, please. I know you’ll support me in my plight. I must divorce him, mustn’t I, Martha?”

“Martha?” This time I was the one who attempted to interrupt the proceedings. Martha…? It couldn’t be. Or could it? Had the unimaginable happened? Had people I believed I’d never encounter miraculously materialized? No. No, it was inconceivable. Fictional characters don’t leap out of the pages of books and confront their authors. I studied the actress called Martha: the narrow waist and fashionably full sleeves, the cameo eardrops and brooch, the reticule held in a gloved hand. Of course, she was a reenactor. A good one, certainly, and wearing more costly accoutrements than most, but that didn’t mean she was the genuine article, a resident of 1840s Philadelphia transferred to the modern city. Probably the name was pure happenstance. Or perhaps I’d misunderstood. And yet… And yet, what if truly it were she? What if fantasy had turned into fact? “Martha… Beale?”

She made no sign of having heard my words, but she turned and faced me. Despite the fading daylight, I knew in an instant that this was no counterfeit. It was Martha Beale in the flesh. Her aquiline nose and proud jaw, her pensive eyes, the tall, stoic frame: who else could it have been but she? Practical, resolute Martha who’d finally broken free of her dictatorial father’s troubling legacy. And there she was, gazing in my direction as though the encounter was a commonplace occurrence.

How to explain what I felt seeing her standing before me after all these years? Shock is too pallid a word; I was utterly confounded. It simply wasn’t possible that she was living and breathing, but somehow she was. I stared at the broad steps leading up to the bank; pollution had cut runnels in the marble; the columns were streaked and crumbling, so I knew the time wasn’t 1843 but the present. And then there were my fellow audience members: exposed bellies bulging over hip-huggers, facial piercings, flip-flops despite the season, the sartorial trappings of the twenty-first century. This was no figment of my imagination. Martha was alive. Now. I reached out my hand. I couldn’t help myself. “I’m-”