Lair of Dreams

Page 188

By the time the wet, bedraggled Evie returned to the radio station, the Pears Soap Hour had ended. She hid behind the thick, fanned leaves of a potted plant, watching a group of men smoking in the lobby, and listened to Mr. Forman’s voice piped through the loudspeakers as he explained to the audience sitting by their radios that “Miss O’Neill has taken ill, overcome by the spirits from beyond.”
“Overcome by spirits, all right,” one of the smoking men quipped.
Mr. Forman reminded listeners that Sarah Snow’s Mission Hour was coming up next. The Wireless Wonders Orchestra played the Sweetheart Singers on, and they sang an inoffensive tune to make housewives happy.
Evie waited in the ladies’ lounge until her audience had cleared out and a new one came in. Sarah Snow’s soothing voice reverberated in the Art Deco fortress of WGI.
“Evie, there you are.” It was Helen, Mr. Phillips’s secretary. She looked a bit stricken, like someone delivering a bad telegram. “Honey, Mr. Phillips wants to see you.”
“Oh. Pos-i-tute-ly,” Evie said without fizz. “Let me just freshen up.”
Helen patted her arm. “I’ll let him know.”
In the mirror, Evie dabbed at her face and hair with a towel. She wiped away the spidery mascara beneath her eyes and put on a fresh coat of red lipstick. She trudged down the forever hallway, her heels clacking across the gleaming marble floors. She reached Mr. Phillips’s office and kept walking, all the way to the back door. Then she broke into a run.
ANNOUNCER
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of our listening audience. This is Reginald Lockhart, coming to you from the WGI studios in New York City. Wherever you are, the Black Hills of South Dakota or the rugged plains of the Heartland, whether you are a weary worker building the great towering monoliths of our cities or a businessman who has built an empire… all can find comfort and salvation through Miss Sarah Snow, God’s messenger on the wireless.
(Organ music plays out. Smiling grandly, Sarah Snow, in a dress and cape, a spray of white orchids pinned to her left shoulder, steps to the microphone and opens her arms wide, as if to embrace her audience.)
SARAH SNOW
Thank you, Mr. Lockhart. Welcome, brothers and sisters! Now, I know that it has been a rather unsettling evening. But there is nothing that the power of prayer cannot soothe.
I know you will join me in praying for Miss O’Neill. Worry not—for the Lord is with thee. Brothers and sisters, as you know, there is no greater country than ours. “America, America, God shed his grace on thee / And crowned thy good with Brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.…”
Yes, from sea to shining sea, we are an example to nations. The bright torch of liberty in a dark and troubled world. God has tasked us to be the gatekeepers, and each and every one of us is a steward of Americanism.
(A lone man shouts “Amen.” This is followed by ripples of embarrassed laughter at the man’s impulsive exclamation. Sarah Snow smiles good-naturedly.)
SARAH SNOW
Oh, hallelujah, amen! That’s right, brother—don’t be shy about showing that the Holy Spirit moves in you. Don’t hide your light under a bushel! Rejoice and sing! Hallelujah!
(Silence.)
SARAH SNOW
I said, “Hallelujah!”
(Isolated calls of “Hallelujah!” ring out.)
SARAH SNOW
Yes, yes, hallelujah, indeed, friends. (Pause) What does it mean to be a steward of Americanism? What does God ask of us here in this most blessed of nations? God says, “Be shepherds to the flock of freedom! Turn back that old, crafty Mr. Wolf and keep my precious flock safe!” And what do we answer? Do we answer, “Gee, Lord, that wolf doesn’t seem like such a bad fellow? He might take a sheep now and then; that’s what wolves do. I’m busy over here with my own concerns. Let someone else tend to the flock.”
(Sarah Snow looks into the audience, allowing her gaze to travel across the room slowly. A woman answers, “No.”)
SARAH SNOW
Oh, amen, sister, amen! We answer, “Yes, Lord! We will be your shepherds of freedom! We will watch over your flock and see it grow, see it spread into every land! We will defend the borders of that freedom from all threats, by whatever means we must.”
(A stagehand produces a handkerchief, which Sarah Snow puts to her brow, blotting. She drinks from a glass of water.)
SARAH SNOW
But sometimes, brothers and sisters, sometimes we don’t know what the wolf looks like. Sometimes that wolf creeps in wearing sheep’s clothing, with false papers or an anarchist’s heart, or with the ability to read your deepest secrets from your personal property. Sometimes the wolf smiles a friendly smile and says, “Why, I love these sheep, I love freedom,” and waits for you to turn your back.