The Boy Orator Read online

  (Days later, he read in a paper that Woodrow Wilson had praised the picture as “history written in lightning,” but it was history that never happened, Harry thought, history as a twisted tool designed to sow fear.)

  As he left the theater that night, he felt an awful dread. The city’s streets almost rippled with tension, anticipation, over the coming war. People were afraid to look at each other, to stop and talk; no one knew how his family was going to be affected.

  “On the avenues, my mind whirled with images from the film,” he wrote his father later. “Clearly, motion pictures are going to be the century’s most important form of communication—more influential than any single speaker could ever be. Their power is obvious—the power, among other things, to turn lies into truth. Hate into heroic action.”

  Eventually, after seeing the movie that evening, he wandered back to the hash house and ordered a cup of coffee. He huddled in a dark corner, feeling swept away in a flood of antic light from Hollywood.

  He looked up from the table and saw a man watching him from across the restaurant. The face looked familiar—round and fair. He wondered if he was being followed, if he’d glimpsed this man at rallies, in the shifting crowds, without fully registering him until this moment. He paid for his coffee and hurried outside, glancing over his shoulder every two or three blocks.

  THE ESPIONAGE ACT, PASSED by Congress in June, enabled the government to punish “whoever, when the United States is at war, shall willfully cause or attempt to cause insubordination, disloyalty, mutiny, or refusal of duty in the military or naval forces.”

  The Appeal to Reason was banned; Socialist speakers were rounded up and thrown in jail all across the country. In an auditorium called the Cozy Theater in Bowman, North Dakota, Kate O’Hare was arrested for allegedly saying, “The women of the United States are nothing more than brood sows, to raise children to get into the army and be made into fertilizer.”

  Harry knew, then, he’d never see her again. The day he read about her lock-up in the paper, he stayed in his room, crying.

  Kate. We need you. Damn it damn it damn it. Dear, stubborn woman: she’d never learned to tone things down.

  In the next few weeks, over nine hundred people were imprisoned under the Espionage Act. The New York Times ran an editorial pleading with “every good citizen” to report acts of sedition, like antiwar rallies; photos of soldiers and patriotic flag-wavers spiced the front pages. Meanwhile, people flocked to the cinema houses, grateful to be distracted, momentarily, from the world’s deadly news.

  “In this fearful atmosphere,” Andrew wrote Harry, “perhaps it’s best if you suspend all your speaking engagements. Sitting in a cell won’t serve any cause.”

  He told Harry his mother was pregnant again, watching her health. “We miss you and pray for your safety.” Harry missed them, too, and wondered if it was time to make Walters his home. He wasn’t sleeping or eating. He trusted no one. His speeches were all impromptu now, never announced. This made for small, indifferent crowds, but insured him some protection from the law.

  One rainy evening he staked out the Centurion, hoping to siphon off a few folks from the movie crowd. That week, Theda Bara was starring in A Fool There Was; posters called her a “lusty siren”—a much greater draw than a “good, loud speaker.” Harry shivered; his shoes were soaked. “Your rights are being yanked from under your feet,” he yelled. Rain spattered his face. “Today, the Postmaster General bans the Socialist press; tomorrow, who’s to prevent him from silencing you? What protections do you have? Are we going to allow this censorship, this unwarranted persecution? Hear me, friends!”

  No one stopped, except one old fellow who called him a “German.” Men emerged from the theater, laughing about the actress’s “vampy eyes,” her “pouty mouth.” They popped open umbrellas, shielded their dates. “Kiss me, you fool!” a woman called, and chuckles echoed down the block. Harry, discouraged, ran for the hash house. He was sneezing by the time he ordered his coffee. He found his favorite booth, collapsed in its seat. Water oozed from his shirt, the legs of his pants.

  Stupid, he thought. What’s wrong with me? Give it up. No one’s listening. Grab yourself a pretty young lady and treat her to the pictures.

  Stunning, the city’s women, gorgeous. Bright skirts, tight blouses. He remembered the “hoity-toity” girls Carry Nation had chased down the alley years ago, and wondered where to find such women now. He shook his head.

  Rest, he thought, imagining the pillow of a woman’s arm, rest now.…

  The steam from his cup blinded him; he couldn’t see the features of the man who suddenly joined him. “Well well well,” the stranger said.

  Startled, Harry blinked, alert again. The face settled into focus. It was the man he’d seen before, watching him here in the restaurant. He tensed. This is it, he thought. The clinker. I should have known better than to come back here.

  “Still skittish after all these years. I guess I don’t blame you. It’s a tough time for you Commies. Harry, right? Isn’t it Harry?”

  His throat went dry. He knew this voice.

  “You don’t remember me, do you, kid? I’ve never forgotten you. You spoiled a good day’s business for me once.”

  “The breathing mask man,” Harry whispered.

  “That’s right.” He held out his hand. “Bob Cochran.”

  They shook. Harry’s sleeve dripped like a sieve. Bob Cochran’s hair had thinned, his face had puffed out a little. He wore a nicer suit than he had in Anadarko, blue with gold buttons. “Still pitching a better life, I hear. Not many takers.”

  “No,” Harry said, still nervous, still shocked to see this man after so much time. “I’m afraid the country’s headed for disaster.”

  Bob Cochran laughed. “It’s not as bad as all that. You Commies are your own worst enemies. Never developed a sense of humor.”

  “I’m not, and never have been, a ‘Commie.’”

  “All right, all right. I’m not the Attorney General.”

  “What are you, then?” Harry asked. “Still a salesman?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He grinned. “State Representative. Greer County.”

  He ordered two slices of blueberry pie, one for himself and one for Harry. They ate in silence for a while then Bob Cochran waved his fork in Harry’s face. “You were a great inspiration to me, you know that?” he said. “I watched you steal the crowd from me that day in Anadarko, and I realized there was much more profit in the affairs of men than in the whims of the gods.” He sipped his coffee. “I drummed here and there for another six months or so. Everywhere I went, the preachers and the politicos were packing ‘em in, and I thought, ‘That’s the way to go.’ I didn’t think I could live clean, exactly, like a man of the cloth, so I got myself elected. Took me four tries, but I finally made it.”

  Harry played with his pie. He wasn’t really hungry.

  “But you, kid—look at you. Still out in the rain, literally and figuratively,” Bob Cochran said. “This radical message. It’s not going to get you anywhere.”

  “It’s what I believe,” Harry said.

  “Hell, what good are beliefs if you don’t have the power to implement them? You want to know how it’s done? Listen: speak softly, appeal to the mainstream, work your way into the system, then worry about your beliefs.”

  “Is that what you did?” Still hawking, Harry thought.

  “Absolutely. First—I learned this early, kid, pay attention—you’ve got to turn to the right. That’s where the money is. Then, once you’ve got the backing, retreat to the center.”

  “Why’s that?” Harry said.

  “Most folks vote middle of the road. Where you’re standing—this spot on the left—it’s nowhere, son.”

  Harry shook his head. He raised his cup, signaled the waiter for a warm-up.

  “I’ve been listening to your soapboxing,” Bob Cochran said.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  He laughed. “I don’t hav
e the authority to arrest you. But I’ll give you a little friendly advice. Leave the city.”

  “That’s friendly?”

  “Tomorrow, if you can. Governor Williams is about to pull the plug.”

  “Do what?” Harry had never heard this phrase; it took him a moment to understand it. Pull the plug. Of course. He should have thought of this before: modern inventions—electricity and the movies—were adding whole new words to the stockpile of language. Amazing! On the streets, he’d have to listen harder to the con men and hawkers. He could invigorate his talk.

  “Commies—sorry, Socialists—are going to be carted away. That’s the word I get.”

  “Why are you warning me?”

  Bob Cochran shrugged. Secure, with savvy and charm, he was hard for Harry to read. “Soon’s I recognized you the other day, I remembered you’d got me started on this path. I’m … hell, I don’t know … returning the favor, I guess. I’m serious, though. Time’s running out. The governor’s a Methodist, you know. Methodists are a little indecisive. They believe in forgiveness. If he was a Baptist, your ass’d be in the stir by now.”

  Harry nodded. “Thanks,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

  “No no, on me,” Bob Cochran said. He looked at Harry. Then: “Have you been inside the new capitol building?”

  “No.”

  “It belongs to you—to every concerned citizen.”

  “I don’t think so,” Harry said. “Not to me.”

  Bob Cochran smiled. “Things’re drying off outside. Come on. Let me show you.”

  Before Harry could answer, the man started off. Harry followed him down a brightly lighted city block. They walked for twenty minutes, not talking. People nodded to Bob Cochran as he passed. He moved with dignity, importance. Harry felt jealous, and a little disgusted. This fellow was just running another scam—yet people respected him now. Harry wore his lungs out every day, but it didn’t matter. Men spat at him, called him names. Just yesterday, he’d been chased down a wretched alley by a gang of newspaper boys: “Kaiser lover! Coward!”

  American politics.

  “Here we are,” said Bob Cochran.

  The capitol had only recently been completed, all except the dome: that would be added later, when extra funding was available. Harry stood gazing at the thick round columns in front of the door. All his angry feelings fell away. The walls were creamy white, almost weightless in appearance, but with a gravity of presence, an austerity grounded in the very plainness of their lines. Harry nearly wept at this glorious expression, this solid home, of political will.

  “Session’s over, but we’re just now moving into our offices,” Bob Cochran said. “This way.” He opened the massive front door, led Harry inside. Their voices echoed in the vast, dark hall, in the rarefied air. Bob Cochran pushed another door and they stepped into the House chamber. He flicked a switch: a sudden, silent blaze.

  My God! Harry was overwhelmed by the beauty of the lights on the walls, the dignity of the desks in their strict, even rows, the solemnity of the room’s muted colors. Above the main floor, a gallery for spectators ringed the chamber, with wall paneling as green as a lake. On either side of the House Speaker’s chair (a massive black slab made of leather), cream-colored columns of wood rose toward the shadows of the ceiling.

  Bob Cochran smiled. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  Harry swallowed. “It is.”

  “And you know what? No Commie will ever get to work here.

  Think about it.”

  Harry glanced at him furiously But he did think about it.

  He knew his father wouldn’t approve of this place; Andrew remained convinced that “money men” had stolen the capital from Guthrie, that the state’s business was wholly corrupt. But the podiums! Tall and polished, so new they smelled of their origins still: bottomland woods, thunderous skies over golden rods of grain. Gingerly, Harry sat at one of the desks. He looked ahead at the Speaker’s seat. I’m an American, he thought. An Oklahoman. He cleared his throat, as if readying a motion. Goosebumps prickled his skin.

  “Feel at home?” Bob Cochran said.

  Harry felt his face flush.

  “It’s not all fun, you know. Last month the First Regiment of the National Guard arrived here from Mexico. Did a fine job—chased Pancho Villa all the way to Hell and back. The men have earned a rest, but we’re sending them straight to Texas to train with the Thirty-Sixth Division. God knows where they’ll end up. France, maybe.” He stroked the wisp of beard on his chin. “Dead, some of them.”

  “And your beliefs?” Harry said, watching him carefully. “Where do they figure in all this?”

  Bob Cochran shook his head. “I don’t always know. But right or wrong—like it or not—this is where the real business of the people gets done.” He waved a finger in the air. “Your street-talk … it’s just noise. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “So you say.”

  “So say the people.”

  Harry tapped his fingers on the desk. “Indians?”

  “What about them?”

  “Are they among the people you represent?”

  “Sometimes. It depends.”

  “On what? Money? Influence?”

  Bob Cochran smiled. “You’re not as naive as I thought.”

  “What happened to Sue-Sue?” Harry said.

  The man laughed. “Sue-Sue. You still remember. Amazing. You liked her, didn’t you?”

  “She was very pretty,” Harry said.

  “That she was. The color of her skin, eh? Her hair?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “I see. Fond of squaw sugar, are we, kid?”

  “I just asked—”

  “Something else we’ve got in common.”

  “No,” Harry said. “I don’t care.”

  Bob Cochran shrugged. “Pretty little Sue-Sue became a liability. It was a shame. I liked her too, but the first time I ran for office, my opponent made an issue of the fact that I kept company with a Kiowa woman. I lost by a landslide.”

  “Was it the ‘keeping company’ or the Kiowa part the voters didn’t like?”

  He shrugged again. “You can represent Indians. But you sure as hell can’t sleep with them. Not if you want to serve in this chamber.”

  Harry’s chest tightened.

  “You’re drawn to this place, aren’t you?” Bob Cochran said. “I thought you’d be. Let me tell you something.” He took a seat next to Harry. “A lot of men think they want to serve, but it’s like the Puritans used to say: ‘Few are chosen.’ You’ve got a great raw talent, a full spirit. I saw that years ago and it hasn’t changed. You’ve stuck with it—that, by itself, is impressive.” He leaned close. “But the state’s changing, kid. Modernizing. I told you it would. You need a better horse to ride. Socialism—and this is the best advice you’re ever going to get—has reached the end of its trail.”

  “We’ll see,” Harry said glumly.

  “Yes we will, we will.” He laughed. “Well. Take a last look around.”

  Harry did.

  Outside, on the capitol steps, Bob Cochran warned him, “Remember what I told you about the governor.”

  A fresh drizzle had started to fall. Harry, missing the chamber’s warmth, raised the collar of his damp white shirt. “This isn’t just your way of running the competition out of town, is it?” he asked.

  Bob Cochran grinned. “That’s what politics is all about, kid.” He offered his hand. “Good luck to you. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

  IN THE MORNING HARRY packed, then cleared his room bill. As usual, someone had left a Times on a couch in the lobby. This would be his last chance, at least for a while, to see a New York paper. He thumbed through it, looking for news of Kate O’Hare. Sure enough, her picture appeared on page three. The tone of the accompanying article convinced him she wouldn’t stand a chance at her trial. She was described as an “active seditionist” interfering with the war effort. Bowman, North Dakota, she said, was a “little sordid, wind
-blown, sun-blistered, frost-scarred town on the plains.” Jurors would love that, Harry thought.

  He read that the Masses, under pressure from the Postmaster General, had ceased publication; Art Young, an artist whose work Harry had admired, had been called on, in court, to justify his political cartoon in which a newspaper editor, a minister, a politician, and a capitalist whirled in a gleeful war dance, flinging handfuls of silver coins, while the devil led a cannon-playing orchestra behind them. Young explained, glibly, “I‘m simply illustrating the fact that war is hell.”

  Harry left the city with a mighty sense of failure. The world seemed determined to bloody its own face; no amount of talk could save it from itself.

  He hitched a ride with a traveling salesman: pots and pans, mostly, a few garden supplies. The man, about Andrew’s age, Harry guessed, with startling blue eyes and a thick black beard, asked him what had brought him here.

  Harry hesitated. The word “Socialist” could get a man killed these days. “Just looking for work,” he said. “No luck, so I’m going home.”

  The wagon bumped over dusty, rutted roads. “There’s a salesman where I’m from, man named Avram,” Harry said. “Nice fellow, same goods as yours.”

  “Sure, I know Avram. Greenbaum, right? Jewish?”

  “Yeah. Must be him.”

  “Tough bargainer. But he’s fair. I hear he’s off the road now.”

  “Really? Doing what?”

  “Got hisself a store. Saved rent money for ages. Lord, how he used to dream about it, ever’ time I saw him! Finally got hisself a stake.”

  This was the first pleasant news Harry had heard in months. “Good for him,” he said. He began to relax a little. The beauty of the rivers and trees astonished him after so much time in the city. The sky was free of soot. He felt he was learning blue again. With no movies or rope tricks to distract them, men understood, right away, that life was tied to the soil, Harry thought. Cars and signs and eastern newspapers had nothing to do with it. They were all just entertainment. Real life was here. In the woods, on the farms.

  Stop it, he told himself. What was he doing? Convincing himself he’d never take to town. But he had to give it a chance: that’s where his family was now. That’s where the future was.