Jeremy and I found seats on the right about ten rows from the back. I moved inside. Jeremy took the aisle, which allowed him to put his feet out. Across from us a gray-faced man was eating a sandwich he had taken out of a brown paper bag. Something yellow dribbled out of the sandwich. I turned my attention to Lyle, who was getting the whispered message from Bass that I still existed. Lyle looked around, found me, eyed Jeremy, and nodded to Bass.
“Get started,” shouted the sandwich man across the aisle.
“We will begin,” Lyle said softly and cleared his throat. Behind him, pinned to the curtain, were big posters of McArthur, Patton, and Eisenhower, all in full uniform. The right top corner of the Ike poster had come loose but Lyle had his back to it and never noticed.
“We will begin,” Lyle said louder this time.
I found Academy Dolmitz about fifteen rows in front of us, hunched down. My eyes must have burned through his collar because he let out a big sigh, turned, looked at me and gave a massive “What am I gonna do?” shrug.
“Will you all move up,” Lyle said. “It will be easier to talk and will leave space for those who come in late.”
No one except the man with the sandwich across the aisle from us moved. He struck his brown bag under his arm and, still holding his sandwich-from which an unidentified vegetable now dropped-tromped forward to answer Lyle’s call.
“See the celebrities better,” the sandwich-eater explained to those in his vicinity as he moved down to sit in front of Lyle, who did not have the talent to hide his distaste. Two well-dressed women seemed to have had enough even before the festivities started. They were in the far aisle from us and headed for the door. Bass hurried to head them off. They saw him coming and scurried back to their seats.
“The enemies of the Whig Party,” Lyle began, looking down at his notes on the unsteady music stand, “have for more than a hundred years done their best to silence our voice of reason. They murdered us when we earned the highest office in the land.”
“Murdered?” came a woman’s voice from the back.
Bass, who now stood, arms folded, in front of the stage, shot a glare of cold fury toward the voice.
“Yes,” said Lyle looking up. “Murdered. They murdered Harrison They murdered Taylor and they would have murdered Winfield Scott if he had been elected. And, most recently, just a day ago right in this city, they murdered the Dr. Roy Olson who, with me, had devoted his life to the revitilization of the Whig Party. And knowing them”-and with this he looked at Jeremy and me-“I am not at all surprised that they have sent the very murderers to our meeting today. Well, I tell them and I tell you they will not silence us.”
He clearly wanted to thunder his fist down for emphasis but there was nothing to thunder on but the wire music stand, or Bass’s head. Lyle settled for shaking his fist and waiting for applause. There was none Someone did cough up front.
“Who’s this ‘they’ he’s going on about?” said another woman, not aware that her voice would carry in the little, nearly empty theater.
“I’m glad you asked that, madam”, Lyle said, aiming his words in the general direction of the comment “
“A General Marshall,” came a voice that might have been touched as much with Petri wine as enthusiasm.
“Not a Marshall,” said Lyle, shaking his head sadly but glad to have some response “I’m afraid he is one of them. We must choose carefully, find the powerful and the incorruptible to lead us. We must make our platform clear, begin with the dedicated few, and become the powerful many. At this point, are there any questions?”
The sandwich man now sitting directly in front of Lyle shot up a hand, and since there were no other questions, Lyle had to acknowledge him. The man got up brushing crumbs from his coat and said, “Where are the celebrities?”
The man solemnly sat down and Lyle said, “I’m glad you asked that. Our ranks right now are, admittedly, small, but among our numbers are the famous and the influential. Some of our strongest supporters are names you would recognize instantly but, because of the pressure of the great
“You said there would be celebrities,” came a woman’s cracking voice.
“We have celebrities,” Lyle said, with a deep sigh; he didn’t give in to despair. “I’ll ask them to stand up and, perhaps, say a few words. Mr. Don Solval, famous radio personality.”
A man, white-haired, lots of pretend teeth, stood up, turned around, and waved at the crowd. The wino in the back applauded alone.
“Who is that?” Jeremy asked me.
“Never heard of him,” I whispered.
“Martin Lyle is a man of honor and integrity,” Solval said in a deep bass voice that reeked of radio. I didn’t recognize the voice. “In the years I have worked for him and his family in Maine, I have come to not only accept his political beliefs but to become a strong advocate of them.”
He showed his teeth, waved again, and sat down. This time only Lyle applauded.
“Thank you, Don.”
“That was no goddamn celebrity,” said the sandwich man in the front row. Bass took two steps toward the man, leaned over, whispered something, and the man went white and silent. Bass returned to his position below Lyle and looked around the audience for more trouble, his eyes stopping significantly at Jeremy and me.
“We have other celebrities,” Lyle said, placating the now resdess little crowd with his upturned hands. “Mr. Robert Benchley.”
“I heard of him,” said the wino in back, clapping. There was a round of polite clapping as Lyle smiled and everyone looked around to find Benchley. Eventually a man who had been slouched over a few rows in front of Academy Dolmitz stood up and turned to the audience with a small, embarrassed grin. His face was round and his little mustache gave a twitch.
“Um,” Benchley began, rubbing his hands together. “Urn,” he repeated and then let out a small laugh as if he had been caught eating the last cookie in the jar. “There seems to be some slight mistake here. I wasn’t aware that this was a political rally.” He laughed again. “I was told by my agent, or maybe I should say former agent or soon- to-be former agent, that this was a war-bond promotion. I’m not even a registered voter in this state. Thank you.”
Benchley gathered up his coat and ambled down the aisle past us with a small, constipated grin as Lyle applauded furiously and a few others joined him.
“Thank you, Robert Benchley,” Lyle said, applauding.
“Wait a minute,” came the wino’s voice. “He ain’t even on your side.”
“We promised celebrities,” Lyle said patiently. “We never said they would support us. We begin by having them present and then the truth of our cause convinces them and you. Now that we have heard from our celebrities-”
“Hold it,” called the wino standing. “You mean that’s it? No more celebrities? No free coffee, nothing?”
“Just truth,” said Lyle, almost giving in to exasperation.
Bass was moving up the aisle now in search of the troublesome wino. While his back was turned, four women, probably a bridge club, escaped out of a side emergency exit. Bass found the wino and carried him at arm’s length out of the theater.
“I want a refund,” screamed the wino.
