Alex Cross's Trial

wear, we laughed because someone had once forced us into Sunday clothes too.

    Occasionally Twain landed with both feet in an area that made this audience a little restless, as when he said:

    “We had slavery when I was a boy. There was nothing wrong with slavery. The local pulpit told us God approved of it. If there were passages in the Bible that disapproved of slavery, they were not read aloud by the pastors.”

    Twain paused. He looked deadly serious. I saw men shifting in their seats.

    “I wonder how they could be so dishonest…”

    Another long pause. And then: “Result of practice, I guess.”

    The laughter came, and I saw Elizabeth dab at her eyes.

    After more than an hour of effervescent brilliance, it became clear that Twain was exhausted, clinging to the podium. A man pushed an armchair in from the wings, and Twain asked our permission to sit down.

    He sat down and lit a cigar, which drew another round of applause.

    He was finishing up. When he spoke this time, I felt he was speaking directly to me.

    “There’s a question I’m interested in,” he said. “ You-all might have an opinion on this. Why does a crowd of people stand by, smitten to the heart and miserable, and by ostentatious outward signs pretend to enjoy a lynching?”

    The room fell so quiet you could hear the nervous cough of one man at the back.

    “Why does the crowd lift no hand or voice in protest?” Twain said. “Only because it would be unpopular to do it, I think. Each man is afraid of his neighbor’s disapproval—a thing which, to the general run of the race, is more dreaded than wounds and death.”

    Still the audience sat rapt, unmoving.

    “When there is to be a lynching, the people hitch up and come miles to see it, bringing their wives and children,” he said. “Really to see it? No—they come only because they are afraid to stay at home, lest it be noticed and offensively commented upon.

    “No mob has any sand in the presence of a man known to be splendidly brave. When I was a boy, I saw a brave gentleman deride and insult a mob, and drive it away.

    “This would lead one to think that perhaps the remedy for lynchings is to station a brave man in each affected community. But where shall these brave men be found? That is indeed a difficulty. There are not three hundred of them on the earth.”

    That’s exactly what Mark Twain said that night. I looked around and saw almost everyone in that audience nodding their heads, as if they all agreed.

    Chapter 57

    APPARENTLY ELIZABETH’S CARRIAGE HORSE had never encountered an automobile before, at least not after sundown, and not in such profusion.

    With all the sputtering and clanging and light-flashing and honking in the streets around the Lyric Theatre, the frightened old horse bucked and snapped at the air. It took some fancy rein work to get us safely back on the road to Eudora.

    The trip home made the trouble worthwhile. The stir of a breeze in the sultry night. A fat full moon that seemed stained yellow around its edges.

    “I saw Charley’s Aunt in that theater,” Elizabeth said. “I saw Maude Adams in Jackson when she came through as Peter Pan. And they were both wonderful. But they didn’t touch my heart the way Mr. Twain did. Or make me laugh until there were tears.”

    “It’s a very special evening,” I said. “Couldn’t have been any better.”

    I waited. She didn’t answer.

    “It is,” she finally said. “It’s very special to me too.”

    These last words caught in her throat. I glanced at her: even in the faint moonlight, I could see the shine of tears in her eyes.

    “What’s the matter?” I asked.

    “Oh, you know what it is, Ben,” she said. “I should be riding home with Richard. I should be sharing memories of Mark Twain with him. I should be in love… with Richard.”

    I knew what I wanted to do then. I wanted to tell Elizabeth my own troubles, Meg’s and mine, tell her how lonely I felt, how devastated when Meg proposed (by letter, no less!) that we put an end to our marriage.

    Instead, I drove along in silence. The breeze disappeared, and the moon went behind a cloud.

    “Why did you ask me to go with you tonight?” she said.

    “I thought you would enjoy it,” I said. “And I guess I’ve been… lonely.”

    “Oh, Ben,” she said. “Oh, Ben.” Then she took my hand in hers, and held it for a long moment.

    We were riding past the town limits sign now. It was late; Commerce Street was deserted. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoed off the