Will you feel this way about me? I wondered. I wanted to ask Grandma, but what could she say that wouldn’t sound patronizing. I wouldn’t have wanted her to be honest.
The Blue Ridge Theatre had two grand auditoriums and seven smaller ones on the second floor. It was a strapping building. On the walkway outside there were these fire-hydrant-size lampposts every five feet. The white lights normally in them had been replaced so that there was a multi-colored gumball procession of bulbs.
Who felt better than me? I belonged like an alligator in the Everglades.
My green suit would be a shamrock-shame in tasteful places, but hardly anyone was dressed well. The fine designers at Bugle Boy outfitted most fathers and brothers. The best of them wore boat shoes. Those flat plastic slippers you get with a tuxedo rental would have stood out as much too worldly here.
One man, carrying his baby to his stomach, wore a denim shirt with the masonic symbol stitched on the back. Prince Hall it was huge: the compass, that capital letter G. This was a man in a secret society and he wanted everyone to know it.
Grandma’s wheelchair bestowed influence. Wherever I pushed her the crowd cleared away. I made it a game, seeing how many times people would move, but Grandma stopped me because she wanted to get inside.
The lobby’s walls were yellow. The floor was gray with occasional large maroon painted squares; young kids stood in those boxes playing games of endurance— who could stay inside the lines the longest.
One boy was winning over everyone; a few adults even cheered him on. He had red hair and black jeans tucked into his white boots. His father walked over, ignored the game, touched his son on the back of the head and said, — I’m missing you.
Then led his son away.
There were a pair of potted rubber plants in the lobby eight foot high. Two young Marines stood next to them asking people to walk inside. One was lucky, but his partner wasn’t.
— Ma’am, would you please continue to walk, the unlucky one told an obstinate woman with hairy forearms. She was determined not to move until she’d examined everything in her purse.
— Ma’am, I’ve asked you three times.
— Well then stop, she said.
Grandma gave our tickets to yet another Marine inside the auditorium. They were everywhere. They were dignified.
When the boy who’d taken tickets from Grandma noticed that I wasn’t following, just looking around, he came back and took my arm.
— Hello sir. My name is Ahab. Please let me help you to your seat.
I tried to pull free, but he had an intimidating grip.
Grandma laughed at me when the kid went away. — He was going to strike you, she said.
— I wouldn’t have wanted that.
Grandma agreed. She pressed one thin finger on the very top of my round head. — I don’t think you would.
When Grandma started coughing I went and bought water; when she was ready to move I pulled her soles from the heel loops of the wheelchair then flipped the footrests up. Helped her out of the aisle into the auditorium seat.
There were so many women! I don’t mean that in a horny way. It just seemed like people had stopped having sons.
In the aisle in front of ours five women sat together in different dresses, but the same strange smiles. A few generations of lop-sided grins. The youngest, on the aisle, chewed gum loudly and swallowed it even louder. Making a satisfied, — huhhh-, each time. Then went back into her small handbag, unwrapped another stick from its foil, and smacked again. I only hoped she wouldn’t do it during the show or I wouldn’t be able to hear.
In twenty minutes every row had filled except ours. Grandma was in the aisle seat with her wheelchair folded beside her. Then me next to her.
White masking tape had been pulled across the ten chairs next to me. ‘Reserved’ was written on plain white sheets of paper and left on each place.
It was Grandma, me, ten open seats, and free access to these double doors. An emergency exit. The only one not decorated with servicemen.
I stood up. I went over. I touched the doors expecting to hear an alarm, but none came. They’d open easily. I pressed my hand to one.
— Not yet, a voice whispered from the other side.
It was a big auditorium. This stage wasn’t like the one in the testifying tent. It had red curtains that made a heavy thump when they were pulled together. I heard the noise from my seat and I was seventy-five feet away. A stage crew practiced opening and closing them a few times.
The stage had two sets of red curtains, one in the rear as a backdrop and one to the fore that would part during the show. When both sets were open we could see far back into the lungs of the theater.
Where a band of four boys with longish hair down over their shoulders wore dungarees with black jackets. Kids who’d rather play Bark at the Moon than Some Enchanted Evening.
Perfume floated up from the audience. The air above our heads was a pinkish-purple mist.
The lights went out and I wasn’t prepared. I thought they’d make an announcement. But the show just began without warning. I wondered how Uncle Arms was going to get in touch with my sister. Send her a sceptor in the mail?
For fifty seconds we sank into the gloom. I heard the curtains squeak as they closed in the dark. Hiding musicians and wires. The band, invisible now, dragged into a peppy tune. A doo-wop beat.
Small spotlights appeared, one then the next, each the circumference of a tea cup. A hundred of them twirled against the red curtain.
Our MC entered from the left even while the lights kept mulling around the far right. He cleared his throat, then the unseen techie swung his brights over. Once lit, the MC smiled.
— Family and friends! he said.
He wore a tuxedo and sang some awkward lyrics.
Miss Innocence, Eastern United States, 1995
You darling star
No mere happenstance or perfect chance
Have saved you until tonight.
He was very good, crooning these words so seriously that they seemed to make sense. His talent was like sausage, filling and familiar. A rich, deep voice. Reasonably tall and just barely stocky. Not handsome so much as pleasant.
The MC said, — We are here tonight because of some very talented and wonderful young ladies, aren’t we? Let’s hear it! He was so excited that he hopped.
— Yes folks, we’ve brought ladies from Florida to Nantucket to compete for the chance to represent the Eastern seaboard of the United States in the National Miss Innocence America next year.
He was a motivational speaker with top-shelf bombast. Introduced himself as Maximilian Duvet. — Tonight we’ve got a whole lot going on, don’t we?
The crowd responded, but without vim.
So he asked again. — Come on folks. Don’t we?!
He had no time for passive audiences, so he gave us a certain practiced grin followed by a handful of simple dance moves. He didn’t seem expert, only excited. Giving us license to be happy. When he did that it was as if he’d cracked our atomic bonds. We, and I include myself, whistled, clapped, emitted energy.
He grinned, punched his hand in the air. — Yes! he yelled.
The small spotlights hadn’t stopped fluttering across Maximilian’s face since he’d started speaking. More than a distraction they were making him dizzy. — Okay. He waved his hands. Fellas. Guys. Lights!
The audience laughed.
— They’re more excited than I am!