Because the leads were theirs, we gave a final performance of The Belle of Black Bottom Gulch the next night, and for the last time, Margery was the Belle and Marlin was the Hero who saved her from being robbed, seduced, foreclosed upon, abandoned, nearly raped, practically frozen, and almost bifurcated by a cardboard buzz-saw, just as it had happened when I had looked in from the lobby that first night in Floren Park. Twenty-six people came.
“Seems like all we’ve ever done this summer is say good-bye,” Sabby sighed.
I poured her another glass of wine from one of Leila’s halfgallons. It was midnight, and everyone sat in the Belle’s lowly cabin on the stage to say good-bye to Marlin and Margery, to offer our commiserations at their exile, our best wishes for their nuptials, our blessings on their baby. Everyone thought they were very brave to give up their country, though no one thought much of the country they were giving up. Everyone was scared for them, and they were scared for themselves, but no one knew what else they could, or should, do. It was an insane choice to have to make, and if you had told us at the prom, or midterms, or sit-ins that we would have to make it, it wouldn’t have made sense.
“It shouldn’t be happening,” Leila said. But it was.
Seymour counted the profits. “Sixty-five dollars tonight. Best in a while.”
Leila gave the money to Marlin and Margery. “It’s your play,” she said.
Then Verl walked in on us out of the darkness.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Leila said.
“So have I. Verl, where have you been?”
“Been in a little trouble,” he said. Verl had been arrested at a demonstration of draft-card burning. Leila moaned when he told us.
“Verl!” I yelled at him. “Why did you burn your stupid draft card? You’re a C.O.! You’re one of the few bona fide C.O.s around! He’s a Quaker,” I went on yelling at everybody else. “He’s always been a Quaker. His father’s a Quaker. His grandfather!”
He stretched his long legs up onto a box on the stage. “Devin’s giving me sort of a dramatic entrance here, isn’t he? How’s everybody doing? How’s Mr. Wolfstein? Any more wine, Leila?”
“Verl—all those articles you’ve been writing for that paper, I bet they’ve got you on some sort of list. They’re going to rake your ass over the coals,” I told him.
“Maybe not. A couple of us went in on a good lawyer.” Then he told us his court date wasn’t coming up for months, and in the meantime, he was going out to Resurrection City in Washington.
“The Poor People’s march?” Joely scoffed. “What for? You missed it. That movement was over when they shot King. What did Resurrection City manage to accomplish except to give each other the runs and sit in the rain listening to old fogies like Reverend Abernathy try to steer his mules right down the middle of every issue. You think the government’s going to listen to them? The place to go is Chicago. The Democratic Convention. That’s where I’m going as soon as we finish up here.”
This was the first any of us had heard about it. Next thing we knew, Sabby Norah would be telling us she’d decided to run guns for the Weathermen.
“You think the Democrats are going to listen to you?” Marlin asked. “Yippies and hippies and skippies and potheads?”
“They’re going to have to listen,” Joely replied solemnly.
“Play the piano, Pete. This is a wedding party,” Leila said. Pete played, “Here Comes the Bride,” and Sabby cried.
Outside, the sky was strewn with stars that gleamed outlines of the mountains. Now the long heat wave was over, and the night was cold. Verl and I sat down by the creek’s edge to talk about how he’d been, how I’d been, why he’d let himself get arrested, why I’d thought I’d never get over Jardin. My concerns seemed silly to me now beside his, or Margery’s, or Marlin’s, or Joely’s, or Leila’s, or just about anyone’s.
“Now, now,” he chuckled. “Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself for being shallow.”
“Boy,” I laughed. “You just never let up, do you? Well, just wait ’til you make a mistake!”
“Make them all the time. Like Dennis Reed. Misjudged him. Thought he was one of the good shallow people. Like you. He’s a total sleaze.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
He leaned on my shoulder and stood up. “But some people, now, I’m right about, right from the start.” He slapped my arm. “Take it easy, hear?”
I watched him whistle off to his old battered Triumph.
Back in the theater, Seymour stood beside Pete’s piano and in his clear, high voice sang “Taps.” On the stage, everyone sat in a circle, their arms crossed, holding hands. “Day is done, gone the sun.” Holding hands, just like in some kids’ camp before all the lights go out.