While the officials of the local union were welcoming Cubbin, Fred Mure walked over to the squad car. He held out his hand to the cop behind the wheel and said, “Thanks, you guys.”
The cop felt the folded bills and grinned at Mure. “Anytime, Mr. Mure.” He glanced down and saw that Mure had slipped him two twenties. “We’ll be glad to stick around a little while, if you think you might need us.”
“No, we can find our way back all right,” Mure said and patted the sill of the car door.
“Well, thanks a lot,” the cop said.
“Sure thing,” Mure said and turned away, reaching for his notebook. He went back to his own car and used its interior light to write down, “Chicago Police Escort, $75.” Then he moved over to join Cubbin and the local union’s welcoming committee.
“Well, you’re sure looking good, Don,” the local union president was telling Cubbin for the fourth time.
“Feeling fine, Harry, really fine. You got a pretty good crowd?”
“Packed,” Harry said. “Right up to the roof.”
“What’s the schedule?”
“Well, you’re the big attraction, just like I told you you’d be. No other speakers except me when I introduce you and I’m gonna make that sweet, but short. Of course we’re gonna pledge allegiance to the flag and then we got some fella who used to sing with Fred Waring who’s gonna lead us in ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and then after I introduce you well, you’re on.”
“When did he sing with Waring?” Cubbin said.
“I think back in forty or forty-one.”
“Huh,” Cubbin said. “What’s he do now?”
“He teaches music here in the high school and sings around at funerals and weddings and stuff like that. I guess he’s over sixty now but he can still carry a tune pretty good.”
They led Donald Cubbin through a side door to the high school and down a corridor to the backstage entrance of the auditorium. The group made its way down the corridor, with the local union officials jockeying for advantageous positions close to either Cubbin’s right or left elbows.
Inside the auditorium Charles Guyan found that all three networks had already set up their cameras, lights, and sound equipment. The three newsmen were standing together near the stage. Guyan went over to them and said, “Welcome to Calumet City, gentlemen.”
“We’re all atremble,” the CBS man said and shook hands with Guyan who then shook hands with the two men from ABC and NBC.
“I thought you were down in Guatemala or some such place,” Guyan said to the ABC man.
“I was in some such and now I’m being punished. You got a copy of his speech?”
“Here,” Guyan said and gave each of them two copies. “The more brilliant passages are noted in the margin in case you don’t want to read the whole thing.”
“Who’s writing his stuff now?” the NBC man asked.
“Don still writes his own,” Guyan said. “He stays up all night and writes on parchment with a quill pen. I thought you knew that.”
“I forgot,” the NBC man said as he scanned the speech. “Where’s he reply to Sammy?”
“It’s not in the speech,” Guyan said. “He’ll probably say something about it in the beginning.”
“He say anything else?” the CBS man said.
“He makes a passing reference to what a wonderful job he’s done for the union,” Guyan said.
“Anything nasty about Sammy?” the ABC man said.
“Page five,” Guyan said. “I think he calls him a man with a ‘chronic case of the can’ts.’”
Guyan moved off toward the cafeteria table that had been set up in the space just beyond the stage for five men whose professionally bored expressions told Guyan that they were gentlemen of the press. Nobody else in the world, he thought, can look quite that bored.
Backstage in a small dressing room Donald Cubbin was combing his long silver hair. He wore a dark blue suit, a blue and white polka dot tie, and a white shirt. He had slept for two hours that afternoon and after that he had gone down to the hotel barbershop for a shave and a massage. Now he looked rested, pink, and sober, which he almost was. He turned from the mirror and asked his son and Fred Mure, “Do I look okay?”
“Fine,” Mure said. “You look great, Don.”
“Kelly?”
“Great.”
“Where’s my speech?”
“Here,” Kelly said, handing him the ten-page speech that had been typed on a special machine in twenty-four-point capital letters. Cubbin glanced at the first page and then flipped quickly through the rest of it. He glanced up at the ceiling and moved his lips silently. Then he nodded to himself and looked at Fred Mure.
“Well, shit, Fred, I guess I’ll have one for the road,” Cubbin said and glanced at his son as if to see how Kelly would take the news. Kelly grinned at his father. “You don’t have to check with me.”
“Well, I don’t like to drink in front of you like this,” Cubbin said as he reached for the half-pint of Ancient Age that Mure held out to him.
“I’m not my father’s keeper,” Kelly said.
“Yeah, well, by God, I’m beginning to think he needs one,” Cubbin said as he handed the bottle back.
There was a knock at the door and Fred Mure answered it after slipping the half-pint into his coat pocket. It was the local union president, a little nervous, but trying to conceal it.
“I guess we’re ready if you are, Don.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Cubbin said.
“Well, you get in here behind me in the middle and then we’ll go out and sit down on the stage.”
There were twelve men standing around outside the dressing room in dark suits and white shirts and ties, all of which seemed to have too much red in them. They were the officers and board members of the local union.
“Here, you mean?” Cubbin said, indicating a space between two men.
“No, just up there ahead of Dick.”
“Here, you mean?”
“Yeah that’s fine.”
The local union president looked around and decided that they were in as much of a line as they would ever be. “Okay,” he said, “let’s move on out.” The twelve local union officials and their international president, all wearing expressions that were grim enough for such a solemn occasion, expressions that indeed would have been appropriate for a hanging, moved out onto the stage to scattered applause and took their seats in folding chairs that were placed against the green backdrop that bore a large white paper sign that read “WELCOME, PRES. CUBBIN.”
“You coming out front?” Kelly asked Fred Mure.
“No, I’ll stay back here in case Don needs me.”
Kelly nodded and left. By the time he reached his seat in the front row of the auditorium between Guyan and Imber, the young Methodist preacher had finished his prayer for the general welfare of everyone assembled there that night, and especially for their national leaders, and the local union’s secretary-treasurer was introducing his twelve-year-old niece who was going to have the privilege of leading the audience in the pledge of allegiance.
After the pledge of allegiance the music teacher who had once sung with Fred Waring was introduced and he led the audience in the first verse of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” accompanied by his wife on the piano. Cubbin thought that for an old guy, the music teacher did pretty well on the high notes.
Cubbin got a nice hand as he strode to the podium after his introduction. As the applause died Cubbin stood there, his head bowed, not looking at the audience.