Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [81]
“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