Free Franklin Affair by Jim Lehrer Page A

now because Wally lived.”
    Then Clymer shouted to the crowd, “Onward to Christ Church Burial Ground!”
    The band struck up “Seventy-six Trombones” again and, with Clymer and the platform group walking five abreast in front of the band, the procession stepped off for the last act.
    Leading the procession was Billy Heyward, Philadelphia’s popular faux Ben Franklin, a local actor who made a living dressing up and playing Ben Franklin for civic, student, and tourist groups. He had also done some recordings of Ben’s writings and, though he was not of Pat Hingle’s caliber as an actor, R thought he was a serious person. There had been some spirited debate among the planning committee about using Billy this morning. A Quakerlike consensus finally concluded that, considering Wally’s own dress-up exit, such a thing would have appealed to him. Billy might even help draw a crowd.
    But it hadn’t worked.
    As best as R could tell from glancing behind, most of the folks on the green did fall in for the walk. But that was about it, except for people who were out on the streets anyhow and the cops who were stopping traffic at the intersections.
    R’s attention and thoughts went immediately beyond what was there in the present. That’s what always happened to him when he walked in Philadelphia, on London’s Craven Steet, or anywhere else where he knew the history well. It went with being a historian, particularly one trained by Wally Rush. “You must not only be able to see and read history,” went the Wally mantra, “you must also feel it, smell it, hear it, speak it.”
    Now, as they moved west on Market, a major downtown street, R did not really see the stoplights or the cars, the office supply stores, banks, and restaurants. Instead, he saw a narrow brick and dirt roadway teeming with horse-drawn carriages and gentry in long coats and skirts. He saw Ben making his way from his print shop, passing by the home of the Reads, most particularly Deborah Read, who became Ben’s common-law wife. R considered calling out to him, “Hey, Ben, how’s the day going?” At the peak of his own research and particularly at Craven Street, R often had conversations with Ben.
    Now Ben turned into the courtyard halfway between Third and Fourth to the house a couple of hundred feet off Market where he, Deborah, and various members of their extended family lived. The house was destroyed in the early 1800s, but the Park Service had constructed an underground Franklin museum and other tourist structures on the site. R imagined the real thing, the way the house and the courtyard looked when Ben was there.
    Then, when the procession turned up Fourth, there came into R’s imagined sight pairs of wigged, arguing men on their way south toward the State House, later called Independence Hall, for debate on the Declaration of Independence.
    About the time they got to Arch Street and turned back west toward the burial ground, R realized that he had not said more than a few words to his march companions, Clara Hopkins, who was carrying Wally’s ashes on his left, and Evelyn Ross-Floyd on the right. If it had been a Georgetown dinner party back in Washington, he would have been in trouble for not talking to the ladies in proper alternating order.
    â€œI loved what you said about Wally,” R said to Evelyn.
    â€œThank you, R. You were right in saying Ben is finally getting the attention he deserves. I blame most of what happened before on Adams and Jefferson, don’t you? They poisoned the well, and it’s taken us this long to clean it up.”
    R agreed and turned to Clara.
    â€œDon’t drop it,” he said, nodding toward the bowl she was holding tightly with both hands against her stomach. Clara was given the honor of carrying the ashes after Harry Dickinson had argued that it was poignantly fitting for a pretty young woman to perform that duty; Elbow