Free Heart of Stone by James W. Ziskin Page A

seism among the pamphleteers. They didn’t quite know how to react to interest in their cause. The first man, seated at the table, jumped to his feet and turned to his comrades, who were standing behind him, signaling furiously that they should close ranks with him. I picked up a pamphlet, the Communist Next Door , and examined it with feigned interest. Isaac waved to Waldo Coons, who stared blankly at him for several seconds as if he’d been anesthetized by the whack of a shovel to the back of the head. Finally the penny dropped, and he moved his hand in some kind of primate greeting.
    â€œHow are you, Waldo?” asked Isaac once we had initiated a palaver behind the pamphlet table.
    â€œOkay,” he said.
    â€œThis is a friend of mine. Ellie.”
    I said hello. Waldo didn’t speak. He gaped at me and shuffled on the grass, raking his gnawed-off fingernails over his scabby arms.
    â€œWell, just wanted to say hello,” said Isaac. “We’ll be going now.”
    â€œNice chatting with you,” I said, and we moved away.
    About twenty yards past the John Birch table, a large group of men, women, and children dressed in their Sunday finest were handing out pamphlets of their own. There were three skirted card tables, manned by unsmiling, middle-aged ladies. Above each table, a different banner announced the good news: “The Tommy Grierson Crusade” with smaller slogans trailing underneath: “Jesus is the Way!” and “Jesus Died for Us. Let Us Live for Him,” and “There Are No Reds on the Green of Palmer Square!”
    We stopped a short distance away to observe. A tall, thin man of about forty, dressed in a rumpled white suit, shuttled from one end of the three tables to the other, whispering instructions or admonishment—it was hard to tell for sure which—to his charges. He was handsome, with a long, thin face and a mane of prematurely silvering hair. Quite dramatic looking. The ladies nodded at him, all serious, lips pursed, as if poised to defend all Christendom from invading hordes of Red infidels. A little old lady with bluish hair asked one of them for a pamphlet. Then an old man in coveralls approached and read the banner for a long minute without saying a word. He looked more a lonely soul than a lost one. Several children milled about near the tables, some picking their noses, others scratching their rear ends. None was saved that day.
    â€œLook at that girl,” I whispered to Isaac. “The one sitting behind the tables near Billy Graham, there,” I said, referring to the man in white.
    â€œWhere?” he asked, scanning the group. Then he spotted her. “She’s pretty. And quite bored. Bored to tears, I’d say.”
    I shook my head. “That’s not boredom. She’s been crying, poor thing. I wonder what happened.”
    â€œI still say she’s bored. I’d weep too if I had to sit in the sun all day peddling religious pamphlets to lonesome old farmers.”
    â€œI’m going to talk to her,” I said and started toward the tables.
    Isaac caught my arm and asked if I was really serious. “Let’s go down to the dock and have a swim instead.”
    â€œThis won’t take a minute,” I said, well aware that it was going to take much longer.
    I approached the tables casually and was set upon as if by a swarm of starved mosquitoes, only these blood-suckers attacked with outstretched arms and mimeographed pamphlets. I excused myself, pushed past them all, and arrived face-to-face with a girl of about fifteen or sixteen. She was dressed in a gray skirt and white blouse, buttoned up to her neck. Her light-brown hair was tied back in a low ponytail with a piece of yarn.
    â€œHi,” I said, smiling. She stared off into space. “I’d like some information about Jesus.”
    She continued to gaze, catatonic, at nothing in particular. I waved my hand before her eyes, and she