A Moment in the Sun

by John Sayles

  When she touches herself, or presses her body hard against the bed, she imagines she is Alma. Alma can do what she pleases, so little is expected of her. But Dr. Lunceford’s daughter—

  “Every eye is upon you,” he has told them, Junior most prominent under his judging gaze but Jessie just behind and included in the statement. “Your actions reflect on us all.”

  And she knows the “us all” goes beyond the Luncefords, beyond even the proper colored community here in Wilmington. But Alma, when she is Alma she can be every thrilling thing she might imagine.

  There will be a war. Her brother is sure of it, all Father’s friends look forward to it, the newspapers seem to ache for its commencement. The thought of those brave boys on the field of battle, suffering under the enemy’s fire, the thought of many of them never to return—but he will survive, he will return. The mortal danger only deepens her resolve to discover a method, first, to communicate her love to him, and then to win Mother and Father to her design. Or, failing, to throw herself into the hands of Fate.

  The melodrama continues.

  Ensign Tom, horribly tortured by the cruel Dagoes, is warned of their monstrous plot, then helped to escape by a dusky Cuban girl. The stage is black for a moment, then a spotlight catches the beaten, bloodied tenor crawling to freedom across the ground as a single cello echoes his plight. He reaches the wings and the light fades up again on the Maine, a single Jack Tar walking the deck on watch, as below, out of his sight, a sinister pair of Spanish saboteurs row out and attach a device—it looks like a metallic limpet—to the prow of the anchored ship. The sailor does not seem to hear the loud warning from the audience, Harry perhaps loudest of all, nor the call from the bedraggled Ensign who has only just arrived at the shore, does not see the sinister boatmen row away into the wings leaving their infernal machine, does not sense anything but the gentle rocking of the great vessel and the orchestra’s sweet lullaby until—

  KABOOM!

  Harry levitates with the rest of the audience, his bottom lifting completely out of his seat at the shock of the explosion, black smoke filling the stage, the white hull of the great ship suddenly engulfed in leaping red and orange flames! Many have risen to their feet in the audience, a few already bolted into the aisles, before they realize it is only another illusion, powerful stagecraft, the conflagration nothing but colored celluloid and projected light. The waves beneath the ship are churning, faster, higher, and there are at least a dozen poor sailors flailing within them, crying out for help that will not come. Harry thinks of the stage direction at the end of the one theatrical he has had a hand in producing—Tumult with all.

  The smoke clears, some of it drifting out over the first rows, and the hull of the Maine is now a verdant field sown with the white crosses of the dead, the rows trailing off in a forced perspective as the strings in the pit weep. The Ensign, back in uniform, and his sweet Aura Lee have been reunited, each with a black band of mourning on their arm. They stroll solemnly along, regarding the simple stone monuments. A small girl with a bouquet of white gladiolas in hand turns and sees them, and tugs at the arm of the naval man. It is the lovely assistant Rose again, dressed in pinafore and sun hat, and it seems that she can sing as well—

  My father was a sailor just like you

  My father was a sailor and wore a coat of blue

  My father was a sailor and I’ll ne’er see him again

  My father was a sailor sir, a sailor on the Maine

  As always it is the innocents who suffer. Harry feels that his cheeks are wet and is glad that Niles is not here to kid him for being a sap. Handkerchiefs flash among the seats ahead. Captain Sigsbee appears then, beginning to speak to the Ensign and Aura Lee, but then turning to face the audience and address them directly. An offstage chorus softly hums a familiar melody.

  “We will not allow these brave men to have died in vain,” says the Captain. “We will snatch up the torch of liberty from their fallen hand and raise it, raise it on high over that poor, benighted island that lies below our southern shore. We will battle the forces of greed and cruelty, we will rout the decadent European from his imperial lair and bring the shining light of freedom into this dark corner of the world—”

  Harry recognizes the melody now, as the voices humming it grow louder—it is The Stars and Stripes Forever that Sousa has made such a hit with.

  “For we are Americans—north and south, east and west—and Americans will not long allow the iron boot of tyranny to trample upon their hemisphere! The sacrifice of these brave men shall be repaid in blood a hundred times o’er, heroes arising from all corners of our great land to strike fear into the hearts of despots everywhere! Cuba Libre! Down with treachery! REMEMBER THE MAINE!”

  Every piece in the orchestra is a part of it now, drums pounding, brass blaring proudly, fifes trilling above it all, and the players, all of them, march onstage in uniform, no blackened faces among their ranks, singing out as the cemetery view gives way to their country’s banner, enormous, red, white, and blue—

  Hurrah for the flag of the free!

  May it wave as our standard forever

  The gem of the land and the sea

  The banner of the Right

  Harry is weeping with pride now and can see he’s not the only one. Somehow they have done it, have brought all of Thalian Hall to tears by hoisting the yankee flag. Maybe it is a dream the others have kept quiet in their hearts the way he has, that something could bring the sections together, that they could march shoulder to shoulder once more on some gallant quest, could live up to the fine words of their common Fathers and clear the foul stain of contention from their souls. He wishes Niles was here to see this, to feel this. People are on their feet on the ground floor and in the balconies, clapping and stomping time and singing along in full voice—

  Let despots remember the day

  When our fathers with mighty endeavor

  Proclaimed as they marched from the fray

  That by their might

  And by their right

  It waves forever!

  Niles is halfway to Dock Street when the pony gig pulls up beside him. It is Bramley Dupree, and he is smiling.

  “The reports of your death have been premature.”

  “Wishful thinking, I suppose,” says Niles, looking as penitent as possible.

  “Hop in.”

  Bramley is a game one, always up for high times, and probably made those threats purely for the sake of form. One’s sister is one’s sister, after all, and not to be trifled with. Niles sits next to him and he switches the pony into motion.

  “If you’re headed to one of the coon houses,” says Bramley, “you’ll have to direct me.”

  “Touché.” For a time the lads had taken to calling him Nigger Niles because of his predilection, but as it was the kind of thing which would eventually reach the Judge’s ears he had curtailed the habit. “Actually, I was just taking a stroll.”

  “Searching for poor girls to dishonor.”

  Bramley is still smiling, watching ahead as they turn onto Dock.

  “And how is your sister faring?” Niles asks, deepening his voice with concern.

  “Extremely married.”

  “To Horton Lassiter.”

  “Yes.”

  “That I am truly sorry for,” Niles says as Bramley stops the gig in front of Mitchell Bannion’s resort. “Is he as—as moist as ever?”

  “A veritable swamp of a man. It is no wonder that Mae has been taken with the vapors lately.”

  “I am a degenerate and bounder. But she is far better off without me.”

  “No doubt.”

  “You’re stepping in for your medicine?”

  “Poker tournament. Quite a few familiar faces.”

  “No thank you.” Niles had, in fact, been heading for the House of All Nations to see if the medium-dark one with the spectacular aftworks was still there. It was all Alma’s fault, really, or the Judge’s, for having her bathe him till he was old
enough for schooling. The way the sweat would run down between her breasts, the sweet fullness of her lips, her voice—

  “I’ve never known Niles Manigault to turn his back on a game of chance,” says Bramley.

  Niles shrugs as he steps down to the street. “I’m tapped out, old boy. Tried to put the nip on my brother Harry, but he wouldn’t hear it.”

  “And no chest of gold from the Frozen North.”

  “I’m lucky to return with all my toes.”

  “Hold out your hand.” Bramley digs in his coat pocket, then clinks five Morgan dollars into his palm. “With a touch of moderation, that should last you all night. Or until I win them back from you.”

  “You would have made an excellent brother-in-law.”

  “You’d have ruined me, Niles.”

  Niles slips the coins in next to Harry’s bill and follows Bramley into the saloon. The House of All Nations stays open till dawn.

  They stand and cheer for many minutes after, Harry sniffing back the waterworks, so moved that if he was of whole body he would rush out to find a recruiter and sign on for the fight. The orchestra continues to play as the curtain falls, and finally people begin to file out. Harry waits till the aisle ahead is mostly clear, then grabs his hat and hobbles quickly up to the stage. He tries not to use his cane in public, saving it for occasions that require a great deal of walking.

  Peachpit is guarding the steps to backstage.

  “Evenin, Mist’ Harry. Enjoy the show?”

  The old man had smallpox as a boy, his cheeks and neck cratered with scars.

  “I thought I might take a look at the apparatus.”

  Peachpit begins to shake his head. “What they tole me, Suh, is—”

  “I won’t bother the players. I’d just like to see that ship.”

  “Well, if that’s all it is—” Peachpit steps aside and Harry climbs past him. Going down stairs presents more of a problem for him than going up. “I’s awful sorry to hear about your brother.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Word is he was kilt by one of them polar bears in the gold rush.”

  “He’s still with us, I’m afraid,” Harry calls as he steps around the curtain. “He was here tonight.”

  “Praise the Lord,” says the old man, pressing his palms together in thanks. “Snatched from the jaws of perdition.”

  Backstage, a gang of men slide the enormous scrim that made the ship’s hull toward the wings, its frame slotted into a groove set with bearings. Harry loses his balance trying to keep out of their way and stumbles backward into a small man who seems not to have a task among the swarming stagehands.

  Teethadore steadies the fellow and leads him to a safer spot. He recognizes the type—a small-city Reuben dazzled by the footlights.

  “I’m afraid that the young ladies aren’t receiving visitors,” he says. “They’ll be rushing off to get their beauty rest.”

  “I was actually more interested in the device,” says the rube. There is something wrong with his legs, the sole of one shoe inches thicker than the other. “Whatever you used to make the background views.”

  “Ah,” smiles Teethadore. “An aficionado of the illusory arts. Come with me.”

  He wears a thicker sole himself, both sides equal, on his street shoes. Stature does not betoken character, of course, but at times the supplementary altitude is most welcome.

  “Did you enjoy our little extravaganza?”

  “Very much so.” The local fellow is still rubbernecking as they make their way through the maze of props and scenery. “Your turn as Roosevelt was striking.”

  Teethadore beams. They all warned him not a soul in Dixie would grasp the reference. “You’re familiar with our former governor?”

  “No, actually, I’ve never been to New York—”

  “Never been? What a tragedy.”

  “I expect I’ll be going there soon.”

  “Bully!” Teethadore presents him with one of his cards. “If we’ve completed our tour of the southlands by that time, you’ll have to look me up.”

  “Teethadore the Great,” reads the young man. “Actor, songster, and dialectician. Stoddard F. Brisbane—”

  “My given name. Civilians call me Brizz.”

  “Civilians—?”

  “As opposed to thespians.” He winks. “We have our own little rituals. A bit like the Masonic Code.”

  The young man offers his hand. “Harry Manigault.”

  “A pleasure. And this,” he says as they come to the device, “is the font of all our magic.”

  Harry Manigault bends, hands on knees, to peer at the apparatus. The beam remains fixed, pointing toward the audience, while the turret it is housed in can be cranked around in a complete circle, with a slot in which either a single diapositive can be fixed, like the flag or the cemetery scene, or the continuous vista of jungle made by gluing several views into a strip.

  “The coloring was beautifully done,” says Harry, giving the crank a little turn.

  “You’re a Kodak bug, no doubt?”

  “I built my own stereopticon when I was twelve.”

  “Impressive.”

  Young Harry shrugs. “Merely an application of the principle of binocular vision.” He picks up the fan of colored celluloid the stagehands wave in front of the beam to project the fire. “I’m working on a machine now, something like a zoopraxiscope, only—”

  “Reinventing the wheel, are we?”

  “It’s a sound principal. And if you’ve only got access to normal cameras—”

  “I know Dickson.”

  Harry Manigault lays the color fan down. “Mr. Edison’s Dickson?”

  Teethadore smiles. “Dickson, Brown, Paley, the whole gang of them over in Jersey. I made a comic view with them—portraying Governor Roosevelt on one of his hunting expeditions. Quite a droll scenario with a shotgun and a small bear in a tree.”

  “I’ve never seen the moving ones—”

  “We use them for entr’actes in our New York performances. But on the road—the equipment is difficult to maintain.”

  “It’s only a kinetoscope, what could be difficult—?”

  “You should speak to our stage manager, Mr. Giles.”

  “I should.”

  A keen fellow, not at all what he expected to find in this section. Teetha-dore adjusts the spectacles he has begun to affect, the lenses only clear glass but the resemblance uncanny when he puts them on and flashes his choppers. “I trust that the temperance biddies have held no sway in your city?”

  “You’d like a drink?” asks Harry.

  “Sir,” Teethadore replies, spreading his arms in his Need you ask? gesture, “I am an actor.”

  Afterward, when the breeze through her window cools her mind, Jessie lies hugging her pillow in her arms. Alma has left her now, she is Jessie again and she is holding him, just holding.

  “Royal,” she says out loud, as loud as she dares, and knows that in the saying of it she is forever transformed.

  Crows are in the sycamore, already rasping their cries, when the Judge is awakened by banging at his door. The girl, the new one, doesn’t come till seven, and he is greatly out of sorts by the time he finds his slippers and makes it down to see what the racket is.

  Maxwell stands at the door, looking red-eyed and sheepish.

  “Sorry, Judge.” Maxwell is a competent clerk, but believes he can still burn the candle at both ends.

  “What calamity, may I ask, can possibly merit waking me at this hour?”

  “It’s your son,” he says, not quite meeting the Judge’s eyes. “There’s a—a situation brewing that I felt you should be informed of.”

  He knows not to ask which one it is. Even if he hadn’t seen Harry drag in late last night with whiskey on his breath and preposterous schemes of northern travel on his mind, he would know it was Niles. Three children and only the daughter with a speck of common sense. “Where is he?”

  “One of the resorts on Dock Street. I jus
t happened by on my way to—”

  “He’s in one piece, I take it?” Maxwell lacks the somber cast of the bearer of truly bad tidings. This is some new embarrassment.

  “Presently, yes. But imprecations have been forwarded, ultimatums delivered—it involves a sum of money.”

  “He’s been playing cards.”

  “Unfortunately. And imbibing, Your Honor, or else I’m sure his judgment would have—”

  “Niles hasn’t any more judgment than a cat in a fish shack. How much has he lost?”

  “Thirty-five dollars. Beyond what he carried to the table.”

  “These card sharps don’t believe I’m good for thirty-five dollars?”

  Maxwell looks down at his shoes, which seem to have had something spilled on them. “They don’t believe your son is good for his word. Apparently he’s mentioned your name in association with gaming debts in the past, and—and failed to inform you—”

  “They could have come to me directly.”

  “Given the nature of some of the debts, of the loci in which they were incurred, the gentlemen involved were reticent to bring—to bring an officer of the Court into the conversation.”

  “There are no ‘gentlemen’ involved in this business. They are a group of ruffians, holding my son for ransom—”

  “They’ve convinced Niles it would be unwise to depart before matters are settled.”

  It is a cold morning. The Judge turns back into the parlor. “Thirty-five dollars.”

  “Cash would be appreciated. Under the circumstances.”

  He turns back to glare at Maxwell. The man looks as if he has slept in his clothing. There is a stain on his bowler and he is shaking slightly, frightened perhaps of his employer, or merely chilled without an overcoat at this hour.

  “I would not have become involved,” he says apologetically, “but for the fear of scandal.”

  “Everybody in Wilmington knows he’s a damned fool, Maxwell. Wait while I go up to the safe.”