Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [80]
“He keeps slaves on his Southern plantation—which doubtless you’re aware. The crimes perpetrated upon them are demonic: floggings until their flesh comes away in bloody strips, children snatched from their mothers and sold—”
“You tell ’em, sister!” a female audience member yodeled at the actress delivering the lines. Other voices sprang into action, attempting to shush the interruption.
“I’ve a right to my opinion,” the provocateur shot back. Naturally, this was met with more orders to cease and desist.
“Let the gal finish, why don’tcha? The wife and I didn’t come to Philly to listen to you.”
“This is a free country, bro. In case you haven’t heard.”
“Just shut up, okay?”
“You gonna make me? You and the wife? Doesn’t she have a name?”
“What’s that crack supposed ta mean?”
“Whaddaya think?”
“Hey, c’mon, you two. Take it elsewhere.”
As additional members of the crowd joined the enlightening argument and then settled into a tenuous peace, they—and I—pressed closer to the improvised arena. I couldn’t see the performers yet, but the initial actress’s vocal quality and range was impressive, a professionally trained instrument that could hit the back of any theater. I wondered what she was doing hustling tourists for tips.
“This isn’t merely abolitionist fervor. My entire life is affected by his shameful philosophy.” She paused to let the dramatic tension build. As I mentioned, she knew her stuff. “For I must also consider the mulatto bastards his seed has produced—”
A gasp from two protective parents arose. The crowd opened to let them and their children scurry through, the boy and girl lagging behind, eyes glued to the ground lest anyone assume the totally dorky choice to vamoose 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