Benchley, Peter - Novel 07 (41 page)

 
          
 
The lights dimmed and came up again. The crowd
fell silent as a man rose from the first row of the audience and climbed the
stairs at the side of the stage and went to the podium. He was tall and
slender, dressed in a three-piece blue pinstripe suit. His black hair was gray
in such strategically perfect places that it might have been done by a
paint-by-the-numbers artist. His buffed fingernails twinkled in the spotlights.

 
          
 
He pulled a stack of three-by-five cards from
his inside pocket and placed them before him on the podium.

 
          
 
“My name is Lawrence Tomlinson," he
began, “and as some of you know, it has been my honor to serve as chairman of
the board of trustees of The Banner Clinic." He looked down at his first
card. "Very few of us are lucky enough to be able to make a difference,
but the man we are honoring tonight ..."

 
          
 
As Tomlinson embarked upon an apparently
endless voyage across an ocean of encomia, Banner dropped his script on the
table, put his hands behind his back and paced in circles, practicing facial
expressions. With his lizard-skin boots and tuxedo jeans (a blue silk stripe
down the side of each leg) and fringed calfskin jacket filigreed with spangles,
with his rhinestone-studded ascot and diamond-studded Rolex, he looked like
Elton John imitating Liberace imitating Elvis Presley trying to walk like
Prince Philip.

 
          
 
Tomlinson was in mid-ocean, awash in
adjectives like "selfless" and "dedicated" and
"loving." There was no way to tell when he would reach the far shore.

 
          
 
They had to try again. Now.

 
          
 
Preston
peeked around the curtains and gestured to Chuck.

 
          
 
"Y'okay, boss?" Chuck whispered. The
flask was lying on its side. Chuck set it upright. "Lookin' jeeby."

 
          
 
"Shut up!" Banner said.

 
          
 
Okay.
Preston
looked at Twist and nodded. If this doesn't
work, if we have to throw him down and do it to him, we 're all bound to die.
Or at least have to move to
Bhutan
.

           
 
He tugged at Twist's sleeves, which had
gathered up beneath his elbows. He buttoned his own jacket and checked his tie.
His mouth felt full of flaking paint.

 
          
 
He stepped out from behind the curtain. Twist
stepped after him and stood behind him.

 
          
 
“Mr. Banner,”
Preston
said in a voice he hoped would demand
respect. A whisper would have signaled undue deference; full volume would have
been audible to Tomlinson.

 
          
 
Banner's head snapped up. **What? Who're
you?"

 
          
 
Preston
whipped out his wallet, flashed it. “I’m Agent Barnes. This is Agent Noble.
Need to know when you'd like the President to make his remarks, before you or
after."

 
          
 
“The Pr—? The Pr—? He's here?” Under his
makeup, Banner's color was fading like that of a day-old bass.

 
          
 
"Outside. Don't want to bring him in till
we have to."
Preston
gestured at the ropes, wires and sandbags.
"Didn't have time to sweep the place."

 
          
 
"No. . . . Sure." Banner smiled, and
his color came back.

 
          
 
"He wanted it to be a surprise, but . . .
you understand."

 
          
 
"It is…It is a surprise. I'm . . .I'm
flattered. I'm—"

 
          
 
"So what do you think? I'd recommend
after. Give you time to say your piece, then the President'll come on and sort
of be the capstone to the evening."

 
          
 
"Yes. Right. Good idea." Banner's
hands touched his hair, his ascot, smoothed his jacket.

 
          
 
"Fine. We'll go get him."
Preston
took a step back and landed on Twist's
foot. Twist jumped. "You do good work, Mr. Banner,"
Preston
said, covering. "I heard the President
say you’re a source of comfort and strength to him.''

 
          
 
“We’re a family here, Agent. . . Barnes, is
it? That's what it's all about . . . love."

 
          
 
Preston
and
Twist stepped behind the curtains, took a couple of noisy steps, then returned
on tiptoe.

 
          
 
“Hear that, Chuck?" Banner said, and they
could feel him grin. " 'Source of comfort and strength.' Jesus!"

 
          
 
Preston
peeked. Chuck wasn't saying anything, just sat there with his hand on the
flask, turned so it caught the light and glittered.

 
          
 
Lawrence Tomlinson was coming in to port. “. .
. never in my broad experience have I known so much to be done for so many by
one man. And so it is with the greatest of pleasure ..."

 
          
 
Do it! Do it, damn you!. . . DO IT!

 
          
 
Banner said, "I can't remember ..."

 
          
 
Chuck said, “You don't look so good,
boss."

 
          
 
“I think this is an emergency. Chuck."

 
          
 
“I agree, boss. I sure do agree." Chuck
unscrewed the cap and passed the flask to Banner.

 
          
 
Banner tipped the flask back, and
Preston
saw his Adam's apple bob. Banner closed his
eyes and waited. The recollected feeling swept over
Preston
: the creeping suffusion of warmth and
comfort.

 
          
 
Thank you.

 
          
 
Then Banner tipped the flask again and took
another draft, deeper this time.

 
          
 
My God! They d better evacuate the women and
children.

 
          
 
Chuck's eyes were as large as cue balls as he
reached to take the flask from Banner.

 
          
 
“. . . ladies and gentlemen,” Tomlinson said,
“your friend, my friend . . . Stone Banner!"

 
          
 
Banner popped a big breath and marched out
onto the stage. The audience rose to its feet, cheering and applauding.

 
          
 
Preston
and
Twist eased from behind the curtains and walked over to stand beside Chuck.

 
          
 
Banner and Tomlinson embraced. Tomlinson
draped a gold-colored medal on a silk ribbon around Banner's neck. The applause
grew louder. Tomlinson shook Banner's hand, descended the steps and returned to
his seat.

 
          
 
Banner stood alone at the podium and bathed in
the waves of adoration.

 
          
 
There was a peephole in the curtains at the
side of the stage, and
Preston
looked through it and scanned the audience. In the first few rows he recognized
a couple of athletes, a
U.S.
senator, some television actors and a rock
singer wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with his own name.

 
          
 
The patients from Banner were in the sixth and
seventh rows. Priscilla sat between Duke and Crosby. None of them applauded.
Priscilla's face as she looked up at Banner was a blank, a death mask.

 
          
 
Don’t go yet, I beg you, stay awhile.

 
          
 
At last, Banner raised his arms, and gradually
the applause subsided. A couple of people coughed, and then there was silence.

 
          
 
Banner put a hand on the podium and smiled at
the audience. He looked fine, cool, in control.

 
          
 
“Before I begin," he said, “I hope you'll
all join me in the Serenity Prayer. It's my rock, as I know it is for many of
you." He closed his eyes and extended his arms, as if holding hands with
the congregation.

 
          
 
“God grant me the serenity to accept the
things I cannot change . . .”

 
          
 
The sound of a thousand voices was like surf
on a rocky shore.

 
          
 
“. . . the courage to change the things I can
. . .”

 
          
 
Suddenly Banner's eyes opened and he pointed
at the ceiling and said—not alarmed, not panicked, just commenting—"Wow!
Flutterbugs at
ten o'clock
!"

 
          
 
Here we go.
Preston
felt his heartbeat double. Did anybody hear
him? He looked through the peephole at the audience. A few people were
startled, two or three gazed at the ceiling, but most were immersed in the
prayer and deafened by their own voices.

 
          
 
Duke had heard it, though, and
Crosby
. They looked at each other, Duke grinning,
Crosby
frightened.

 
          
 
Preston
couldn't
tell about Priscilla. Her expression hadn't changed, but her eyes, wide and
cold, were fixed on Banner.

 
          
 
By the time
Preston
looked at Banner, his eyes were closed
again, his arms outstretched.

 
          
 
"... wisdom to know the difference."

 
          
 
Banner opened his eyes, dropped his arms and
started to smile. Then, as if he had forgotten something, he frowned. One of
his hands flew to his throat, and he tore off his ascot and threw it on the
floor.

 
          
 
"Hot mama tonight," he said.

 
          
 
Preston
heard scattered murmurs from the audience.

 
          
 
Banner shuddered, shook his head and began to
speak. "I accept this award, humbly and with gratitude, on behalf of
everybody . . ." He stopped. He looked down at his ascot. His eyes bugged,
and he shouted, "Hey!" He stomped on the ascot, first with one foot,
then with the other, then with both, grinding it into the stage. “Who let them
in here?" he yelled. He turned to the audience, grinned and said, “Lucky
thing I was on duty."

 
          
 
There were some awkward laughs, as if they thought
they should appreciate a joke that had eluded them.