Benchley, Peter - Novel 07 (36 page)

 
          
 
They were shepherded aboard the bus like
inmates from a prison farm. They had been told to wear clean shirts and comb
their hair, and if any of them felt the urge to speak during the meeting—and
Gwen urged them all to rise and tell their stories and "get in touch with
the higher power of a group of sympathetic souls" if the spirit moved
them—they were to watch their language.

 
          
 
Preston
tried to sit beside Priscilla on the bus, but she had already boarded and was
squeezed into a comer by Butterball, who knew nothing about what had happened
to Priscilla and nattered on about her plans to start a holistic hair-care
center when she got out.

 
          
 
What did he care if Lupone had Banner whacked,
or if Twist wanted to go up the hill and maim him? It wasn't his business.

 
          
 
Yes, it was.

 
          
 
Four weeks ago, this had been a good place,
staffed by good people who lived by a rule
Preston
had come to respect: If you help other
people, you help yourself. Give, and you will receive. Take without giving, and
you will live in the splendid aloneness that leads to self-loathing.

 
          
 
He had taken—a new sense of himself, a new
regard for people the likes of whom he had never known existed, and, at least
on a day-to-day basis, a clarity of mind he hadn't known since he was a child.

 
          
 
Now the place had gone bad, and it was
stinking, like the proverbial fish, from the head down. The head had to be
removed, and maybe there would be enough good will left so the body could live.

 
          
 
For lagniappe, of course, there was always the
sweet prospect of pure vengeance.

 
          
 
But killing Banner was no answer, maiming him
no solution. They had to bring him down and let him crush himself before the
world whose adoration was his sustenance.

 
          
 
The problem was,
Preston
mused as the bus cruised through the
twilight toward the dim orange glow on the horizon that signaled the town of
Monte Vista
, he and the others existed in a vacuum
surrounded by a substance about which they knew nothing.

 
          
 
They didn't know what had happened to Natasha.
They suspected that Chuck knew, but where was Chuck? Normally, he was
ubiquitous, driving Banner here and there, delivering patients to the clinic,
subduing the unruly and discouraging the curious.

 
          
 
Nobody had seen him since the blowup with Duke
over the Porsche.

 
          
 
They didn't know what had happened to Marcia,
except that she had been fired. Where was she? Was she lodging a complaint? Was
anybody ever going to look into anything that happened at the clinic?

 
          
 
They didn't know what Banner's soft spots
were, where he was vulnerable, if he was vulnerable.

 
          
 
Marcia might know. Possibly. If they could
find her.

 
          
 
But Chuck was the key. He was Banner's beard,
Preston
was sure of it. If there was any way to get
to Banner, Chuck would know it.

 
          
 
And he was gone. Probably ordered to drive to
Canada
to break in his Porsche.

 
          
 
The bus pulled up before the church, a
forty-year-old run-down replica of the
Alamo
, and after a final admonition about
cleanliness of mind, body and mouth, Gwen and Just Mel permitted them to file
off the bus and descend directly into the basement.

 
          
 
Preston
thought he had stepped into history, perhaps into an old Eric Sevareid
documentary about a Bierstube Bund meeting. The low-ceilinged room was a
thirty-foot square packed with folding chairs. A folding table held a coffee
um, three boxes of doughnuts and a cereal bowl into which those who chose to
dropped change to pay for their coffee. Knots of men and women stood around
gossiping and smoking, and their exhalations gathered in a blue layer that hung
like fog below the ceiling. A.A. exhortations had been tacked up beside
Sesame Street
posters, children's drawings (the room
probably doubled as a day-care center) and a full-length life-size four-color
portrait of the Savior sporting what looked to
Preston
to be the most monumental hangover in the
history of Christendom.

 
          
 
Gwen and Just Mel ushered their charges into
three rows of seats, then stood against a wall, watching, like warders.
Preston
felt like a mental patient on an outing at
a shopping mall.

 
          
 
A bald man with rimless glasses, checked
trousers, a powder-blue polo shirt and two-tone shoes detached himself from his
group, walked to the front of the room and stood behind a rostrum made of a
milk crate overturned atop a desk. He cleared his throat, and the gossipers
quieted down and took seats.

 
          
 
''Hi there,'' the man said genially. "I'm
Walter and I sure am an alcoholic."

 
          
 
“Hi, Walter!" shouted everybody but the
contingent from Banner, some of whom mumbled but most of whom looked at the
floor.

 
          
 
Gwen, peeved that her lessons had been so ill
learned, nudged Crosby with her foot, and like a twitchy frog, he jumped and
squeaked, ''Yo, Walter ..."

 
          
 
"We have a couple birthdays," said
Walter. "Bessie R. . . . Where's Bessie R.?"

 
          
 
A huge women in a pansy-print dress as large
as a king-size bedspread wheezed to her feet.

 
          
 
"Bessie R. has been sober for . . . sixty
days!"

 
          
 
Everybody applauded—everybody but the
spoilsports from Banner.

 
          
 
Gwen kicked Crosby, who yelled, '*Yeah,
Bessie!”

 
          
 
"And here's a whop-doozer," said
Walter. "Lester V. Where you at, Lester?"

 
          
 
Preston
heard a chair scrape somewhere behind him, and a voice say,
"Rahcheer."

 
          
 
"Lester V. has been in God's platoon,
sober as a judge, hasn't had a drop, for three thousand, six hundred and fifty
days . . . that is ten years today!"

 
          
 
People whistled, applauded, stamped, and
Preston
thought, I will never be sober for ten
consecutive years. Not if I live forever.

 
          
 
"Did you ever think you could go ten
years, Lester?" asked Walter.

 
          
 
"Never did," said Lester. "Just
go one damn day at a time, though, and them suckers do pile on up."

 
          
 
"Come see me after," Walter said.
"We got a cake for you, and we'll all sing 'Happy Birthday.' "

 
          
 
"Look forward to it," said Lester,
and he sat down.

 
          
 
" 'Course, we could do the cake
now"—Walter grinned—"but I 'spect with all our fine young friends from
The Banner Clinic, theren't be none left for you, Lester." When his
thigh-slapper didn't receive the uproarious laughter he evidently expected,
Walter coughed and continued. "Which reminds me: You all prob'ly know but
I'll remind you anyways, tomorrow night Stone Banner's gonna receive the
President's own special medal for contributions to humanity and a drug-free
America
."

 
          
 
Preston
had
been barely paying attention, had let his mind begin to drift. Now he froze and
focused.

 
          
 
"It'll be over to the civic center in
Promised Land.

 
          
 
They gonna be all sorts of celebrities there
and dignitaries, they say maybe even Dick Van Dyke—he's a personal favorite—and
the television'11 cover it so you can go home and see yourself on TV. Anyhow,
we're all invited, and it s important that we get a real good turnout for our
very own Stone, so I hope to see you all there. Tomorrow night.
Seven o'clock
."

 
          
 
There is no justice in the world.

 
          
 
"Better get there early, though,"
Walter said, trying another joke, "else all the Banner people gonna get
the good seats and get themselves on TV."

 
          
 
Preston
looked at Gwen. She was beaming and applauding, forcing the rest of the audience
to applaud with her. She caught him looking at her. He raised his eyebrows and
pointed to himself: Are we going? She winked at him and nodded vigorously.

 
          
 
Well. There's something to chew on.

 
          
 
Preston
felt that someone was looking at him. He turned his head. Halfway down the row,
Lupone was leaning forward and staring at
Preston
, and when he saw that he had
Preston
's attention he extended a fist and shot him
a thumbs-up sign.

 
          
 
"Okay," Walter said, "who wants
to get things rolling?" He looked over the room. "How 'bout one of
the folks from Banner?"

 
          
 
Sixty people held their breaths at once. Sixty
pairs of eyes tried to drill holes in the floor.

 
          
 
"Maybe later, then. Somebody? Nobody? Hey
listen, folks, I'll tell my story till I'm blue as a dead calf, but I know
you're all sick to pukin' over it."

 
          
 
A man in the second row stood up. He was thin
as a pencil and had hair to his shoulders. "I'm Ferlin," he said,
"and I'm one sorry sumbitch of a drunk."

 
          
 
Walter led the room in a chorus of "Hi,
Ferlin!"

 
          
 
While Ferlin ambled into his story (he was the
son of a waitress and a pass-through cowboy; his mama fed him whatever she
could scrounge from the cafe where she worked, which turned out to be mostly
beer), Preston pondered their options.

 
          
 
They could try to get to Banner before the
ceremony, could knock him out and tie him up, prevent him from getting there.

 
          
 
What would that accomplish?

 
          
 
Nothing.

 
          
 
They would be escorted to the ceremony, put in
their seats and watched over like serial murderers. What could they hope to do?
Produce secret placards and face them toward the TV cameras, proclaiming Banner
to be a hypocrite?