The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (32 page)

 

 

"Mine's Marratt."

 

 

"You're in the Army, aren't you?" the blonde asked.

 

 

"Yup." It was useless being sarcastic. The blonde Kathie evidently had her
troubles, too.

 

 

"Kathie Winters comes to Miami for the winter," Pearlstein said as they
walked into the lobby of the hotel.

 

 

It was typical of the hotels along Collins Avenue. Faced with white coral
and tinted pink, it rose about ten floors to a modernistic pinnacle capped
with a blinking, blue neon sign that spelled out its name in slim,
fashion-magazine lettering.

 

 

The lobby was filled with vacationers dressed in the latest cubist
patterns and colorings directly from the better stores on Lincoln Road.

 

 

Jake directed them to an elevator. They got off on the third floor. "This
room's nothing to brag about, but it's got a bed. It costs me twelve-fifty
a day."

 

 

Pearlstein called for room service. The blonde sat on the bed. Yale looked
idly around. The room was simply arranged with square cut functional
furniture. A water color of a tortured swan was the only decoration.

 

 

Yale looked at Kathie. She wasn't bad looking in an artificial way.
Her eyes were brown, but the discordance of the black eyebrows and the
cornstalk hair bothered him. "How did you ever get your hair that color?"
he asked. It wouldn't hurt to know, he thought. That interesting method
could be added to a collection of useless information that was always
wandering around in his subconscious mind.

 

 

"My hair
is
that color," Kathie said indignantly.

 

 

Yale laughed. "Okay, Kathie, I like it that color."

 

 

The set-ups were delivered by a tired looking bellhop.

 

 

"How'll you have it?" Pearlstein asked Kathie.

 

 

"Straight. I always drink it straight."

 

 

Pearlstein poured her half a tumbler. He looked at Yale.

 

 

"A little water," Yale said. "I'm a sissy."

 

 

Kathie gulped her drink in two swallows. She let out a contented "ah."

 

 

Pearlstein poured her another. "Christ, Marratt," he said, grinning and
wiping his swarthy face, "we've picked up a tank."

 

 

They drank and talked. Kathie told them she had been married to a soldier
who had been killed in Africa. She produced a telegram worn and creased.
It was the usual thing, "The War Department regrets to inform you . . ."
Yale handed it back to her. "Tough."

 

 

"Yeah. He was cute. He'd be awful mad if he could see me now."

 

 

"Maybe he can," Pearlstein said.

 

 

"Aw, don't be silly." She tumbled back on the bed. Her dress was high
above her knees. Yale's suspicions on the bus were confirmed. She wore
no panties. She giggled foolishly, feeling her drinks.

 

 

"Don't you ever wear panties?" Yale asked.

 

 

"No," Kathie said, wrinkling her nose. "They make me itchy. You don't
know what it was to have been married and then not to be married.
It gets you." She began to cry.

 

 

"Don't cry," Pearlstein said uncomfortably. "Come on, let's find a joint
where there's some music. Better still, I've got an idea. Let's take in
that 'Temple of Love' show over in Miami. Then we can head back here when
things get humming and finish the evening in one of the clubs along the
beach."

 

 

"What's this 'Temple of Love' stuff?" Kathie asked, suspiciously.

 

 

Pearlstein grinned. "Stop worrying, kid. You think we're trying to set
you up?" Kathie tried to look offended but didn't succeed.

 

 

"It's not 'Temple of Love,' Yale said. "It's 'Seek the True Love.'
At least that's what it says on the outside."

 

 

Coming back on the bus from Miami, he had seen the place Pearlstein
referred to in an empty lot a few blocks from the railroad station. Over
the tent spelled out in curved light bulbs that burned green at night were
the words "Seek the True Love." He had asked the woman sitting beside him
what it meant. The man sitting on the other side of him answered first.
"It's probably a Holy Roller show or another Aimee McPherson." The woman
agreed that it had something to do with religion. A fat, sweating lady
across the aisle joined in the conversation. She told them that she
believed it was a Nazi racket.

 

 

"It's just like them Silver Shirts at home, where I come from," she said,
mopping her red face, pleased at the sudden interest the other passengers
displayed.

 

 

Yale asked her if she had ever been inside the tent.

 

 

"Hell, no, soldier. There's enough fakers in Miami ready to grab your
money without you asking for it. Annie McFeeley went there last week and
what happened to her . . . well . . ." The fat woman looked ominously
at the other passengers. She waited to be prodded.

 

 

Yale rose to the bait. "What happened to Annie McFeeley?"

 

 

The woman looked at them with narrowed eyes. She now had an audience of
six. She gauged their interest and appeared satisfied. "Well, Annie came
to Miami looking for something. Not what you might think, mister." She
spoke to Yale who grinned back. "Everyone in Miami is looking for
something. Anyway, Annie didn't find it. So she climbed on the usual
merry-go-round. It was all right for awhile. Soldiers pay for the first
few meals. There were a few laughs, but I guess Annie figured she was
living in sin." The fat lady paused, extracted a sweaty handkerchief
from the slot between her breasts. She mopped her face. "Hell," she said,
"that's a laugh. Living in sin. Miami is the original city of sin. Anyway,
Annie went over to that 'Tent of Love' the other night. I don't know
what happened. All she kept saying was . . . 'It's so beautiful. It's
so beautiful.' And 'He's so right. He's so right!' Annie cried for a
couple of days, and then she packed her bags and went home. . . ." The fat
lady ignored the is-that-all expression in the eyes of her audience. She
got up for her stop. "Guess that won't happen to you, eh, soldier?" she
remarked as she got off the bus.

 

 

"Do you really want to go there?" Yale asked. He thought for a moment
that he would ditch these two and spend the evening alone. It was obvious
that "Seek the True Love" was something sponsored by some religious cranks.
Tonight, he was in no mood to listen to a crack-pot leading a bunch of
stupid people down the sawdust trail.

 

 

"Oh, come on," Pearlstein said, nudging them toward the door. "What have
you got better to do, Marratt? Drag the chippie around awhile. Get her
in the mood. You can have her, then. I'm too old."

 

 

"I don't want her," Yale laughed. "You're not that old. She can probably
show you a few tricks. She looks as if she knew how to start the kettle
boiling."

 

 

Pearlstein flagged a taxi. They all sat in the back.

 

 

"This is kind of nutty, I think," Kathie said. "What kind of a place
is it?"

 

 

Yale told her about Annie McFeeley. Kathie listened with her mouth
half-opened.

 

 

"I hear that it ends in a strip act," Pearlstein said. Yale looked at
him sourly.

 

 

"No kidding! You wait and see."

 

 

The taxi driver stopped across the street from the tent. A large crowd
of well-dressed people were milling around trying to reach a booth where
tickets were sold. The green light bulbs blinked out the message,
"Seek the True Love." Glowing garishly over the crowd, they colored
everyone's face with an unearthly hue.

 

 

"What's it all about?" Yale asked an elderly lady who stood just in
front of him in the ticket line.

 

 

"You haven't heard him?" the woman asked.

 

 

Yale shook his head. "What's he selling?" That was a good question,
he thought. Everyone in Miami was selling something. As far as he had
been able to determine, if you had the money, there was nothing in Miami
that wasn't for sale including the trim blonde women driving Cadillacs
around the islands in Miami Bay.

 

 

The woman smiled. "This is one place you don't buy anything. What's
more you get a lot more than the price of your ticket. You'll see,"
she promised.

 

 

They moved closer to the ticket booth. Jake Pearlstein got in front
of Yale. "Tickets are on me," he said. The woman turned and smiled at
Jake. "A very good investment," she said.

 

 

"Ha! Ha! A shill." Pearlstein grinned. He was about to ask how much she
got paid for promoting the joint when the woman introduced the man in
front of her as her husband. He was wearing powder blue slacks with a
rainbow colored shirt. A typical Miami vacationer. When he returned to
his home town he probably discreetly put his Miami clothes in the closet
until next year.

 

 

Pearlstein introduced Yale, Kathie and himself.

 

 

"Glad to know you all," the man said. "My wife and I are from Little Rock.
Down here for the winter. It's not the same this year, somehow. The Army
or Navy's got everything. Of course," he added, no doubt with a feeling
of guilt at seeing Yale's uniform, "it's the only right thing to do. Miami
is ideal for the boys. They deserve it."

 

 

Yale asked him what the show in the tent was about.

 

 

He looked apologetic. "My wife goes for this stuff. Me . . . I'd rather be
over at the dog track. But you know how it is. You've got to please the
women. On the other hand this guy isn't bad. He's sort of a John Anthony
-- you know that guy on the radio that answers all the questions. Except
this guy doesn't interview anyone. He's wasting his time really. If I could
speak like this guy, I'd run for something. . . ."

 

 

At the entrance to the tent a thin girl of about eighteen, her hair waved
peasant style around her head, was selling tickets. Pearlstein paid for
three. Yale didn't protest. At least he wasn't going to be bored on his
own dough.

 

 

The inside of the tent was lighted with the same pale green bulbs. Pine
bleachers arranged in circular tiers filled the entire tent except for
the center where a circular stage had been built up so high that those
in the front rows would have to look up to see the speaker. Whoever stood
in the center of the stage could dominate the entire audience. It was an
extremely clever arrangement. A speaker on this stage would have most of
his audience below him putting them at a psychological disadvantage.

 

 

The five of them worked their way into one of the back rows. Kathie
sat between Yale and lake Pearlstein. Yale was aware of music softly
flooding the tent. He recognized César Franck's "Symphony in D Minor." The
yearning notes of an oboe grew louder. The volume of sound swelled until
it encompassed the audience chatter. Yale looked around. The tent was
filled to capacity. He tried to examine the faces of the audience. They
were blended together in the soft green light; no one characteristic
stood out. There were young faces and old faces. But not the faces you
would expect to find in a group of fanatics. These were people who seemed
intensely interested in what was to happen. Yale leaned forward on his
knees. He waited.

 

 

Suddenly the pale lights along the walls of the tent were turned off
entirely. A moment of utter darkness and then a large green spotlight
flooded the circular stage.

 

 

The silence in the tent was intense. Then a voice was heard speaking
over the microphones. The stage was still empty. The voice sounded all
persuasive. It was a deep, resonant voice with hollow overtones that
seemed to vibrate inside each listener. The man is a genius, Yale thought.

 

 

It was like listening to your own voice, your inner thoughts, bouncing
off some distant mountain cliff. Yale felt shivers run completely
through his body. He had heard that voice before! Where? Where? He
wondered . . . feeling a moment of panic at not being able to place it.
The crowd was on edge as the voice continued. Then Yale remembered! He
must have sworn out loud because Kathie nudged him. He couldn't help
it! He
had
heard that voice before. Mat Chilling! Like a violent slash
of wind-driven rain, the voice tore across his memory. For a second the
image of Cynthia flashed so strongly on his mind that Yale wanted to
scream his hatred at the voice.

 

 

For a moment, he was once again a kid walking across the Midhaven campus
on his way to a date with Cynthia Carnell. In love . . . happy . . .
listening to the warmth of the spring night. Sounds of voices coming
from open dormitory windows . . . scratches of a match as some student
lighted a cigarette on the veranda. The warm, human sound of female
laughter blending into the spring evening like a polyphony to the dominant
theme of his love. And now it was gone . . . lost! Like Thomas Wolfe's
"wind-grieved ghost" . . . hauntingly, the past had reached out. It was as
if a window shade had unexpectedly snapped up on its roller . . . dizzily
vibrating; revealing things on the other side of the window best left
forgotten.

 

 

Yale wanted to pull the shade back down again but Mat's voice penetrated
his reverie. Almost eerily, Mat, himself, appeared on the stage. He had
evidently come up through a trap door. The audience clapped wildly.
The voice on the microphone stopped. Yale realized that it had been
recorded. Despite himself Yale marvelled at Mat's showmanship. Mat
welcomed the audience. He waved for silence.