… It depends on the size of the church, Bliss. You listening to me?
Yes, sir.
Well, now when you hear me say, Suffer the little children, you sit up slow and, like I tell you, things are going to get quiet as the grave. That’s the way it’ll be.
He stood silently for a moment, one hand on his chin, the other against his hip, one great leg pushed forward, bending at the knee. He wore striped pants.
Bliss, I almost forgot something important: I better have the ladies get us some flowers. Roses would be good. Red ones. Ain’t nobody in this town got any lilies—least not anybody we know. I’m glad I thought of it in time.
Now, Bliss. We’ll have it sitting near the pulpit so when you rise up you’ll be facing to the side and every living soul will see you. But I don’t want you to open your eyes right off. Yes, and you better have your Bible in your hands—and leave that rabbit down in there. You won’t forget that, will you?
No, sir.
Good. And what are you suppose to say when you rise up?
I ask the Lord how come he has forsaken me.
That’s right. That’s correct, Bliss. But say it with the true feeling, hear? And in good English. That’s right, Bliss; in Good Book English. I guess it’s ’bout time I started reading you some Shakespeare and Emerson. Yes, it’s about time. Who’s Emerson? He was a preacher too, Bliss. Just like you. He wrote a heap of stuff and he was what is called a philosopher. Main thing though is that he knew that every tub has to sit on its own bottom. Have you remembered the rest of the sermon I taught you?
Yes, sir; but in the dark I …
Never mind the dark—when you come to Why hast Thou forsaken me, on the me, I want you to open your eyes and let your head go back. And you want to spread out your arms wide—like this, see? Lemme see you try it.
Like this?
That’s right. That’s pretty good. Only you better look sad, too. You got to look like you feel it, Bliss. You want to feel like everybody has put you down. Then you start with, I am the resurrection and the life—say it after me:
I am the resurrection …
I am the resurrection …
… and the life …
… and the life …
That’s good, but not too fast now. I am the lily of the valley.…
I’m the lily of the valley.…
Uh-huh, that’s pretty good—I am the bright and morning star.…
… the bright and morning star.
Thy rod …
Thy rod and thy staff.
Good, Bliss. I couldn’t trap you. That’s enough. You must remember that all of those I’s have got to be in it. Don’t leave out any of those I’s, Bliss; because it takes a heap of I’s before they can see the true vision or even hear the true word.
They pain here and here and there and there. How far the sight? The Scene?… In Tulsa, after the tent meeting, they gave me a Black Cow, sweet teat of root beer and cool glob of ice cream.… He taught me to ha and ah deep in my throat like a blues singer. Horehound honey and lemon drops. Cool against the heat of all that fire … It hurts here and here and there and there. Long nails.
“Senator, can you see me?”
Ha! The merry-go-round broke down!
Up there on Brickyard Hill the octagonal tents shimmered white in the sunlight. Below, my God, sweet Jesus, lay the devastation of the green wood! Ha! And in the blackened streets the entrails of men, women and baby grand pianos, their songs sunk to an empty twang struck by the aimless whirling of violent winds. Behold! Behold the charred foundations of the House of God! Oh, but then, in those sad days came Bliss, the preacher … Came Bliss, the preacher … No more came Bliss.
Daddy Hickman, I said, can I take Teddy too?
Teddy? Just why you got to have that confounded bear with you all the time, Bliss? Ain’t the Easter bunny enough? And your little white leather Bible, your kid-bound Word of God? Ain’t that enough for you, Bliss?
But it’s dark in there and I feel braver with Teddy. Because you see, Teddy’s a bear and bears ain’t afraid of the dark.
Never mind all that, Bliss. And don’t you start preaching me no sermon; ’specially none of those you make up yourself. You preach what I been teaching you and there’ll be folks enough out there tonight who’ll be willing to listen to you. I tell you, Bliss, you’re going to make a fine preacher and you’re starting at just the right age. You’re just a little over six and Jesus Christ himself didn’t start until he was twelve. But you have to go leave that bear alone. The other day I even heard you preaching to that bear. Bliss, bears don’t give a continental about the Word. Did you ever hear tell of a bear of God? Of course not. There’s the Lamb of God, and the Holy Dove, and one of the saints, Jerome, had him a lion. And another had him a bull of some kind—probably an old-fashioned airplane, since he had wings—he said under his breath, and Peter had the keys to the Rock. But no bear, Bliss. So you think about that, you hear?
He looked at me with that gentle, joking look, smiling in his eyes, and I felt better.
You think you could eat some ice cream?
Oh, yes, sir.
You do? Well, here; take this four bits and go get us each a pint. You look today like you could eat just about a pint. What I mean is, you look kind of hot.
He leaned back and squinted down.
I can even see the steam rising out of your collar, Bliss. In fact, I suspect you’re on fire, so you better hurry. Make mine strawberry. Without a doubt, ice cream is good for a man’s belly, and when he has to sing and preach a lot like I do, it’s good for his throat too. Wait a second—where’d I put that money? Here it is. I thought I’d lost it. Ice cream is good if you don’t overdo it—but I don’t guess I have to recommend it to you though, do I, Bliss? ’Cause you’re already sunk chin deep in the ice cream habit. Fact, Bliss, if eating ice cream was a sin you’d sail to hell in a freezer. Ha, ha! I’m sorry, now don’t look at me like that. I was only kidding, little boy. Here, take this dime and bring us some of those chocolate marshmallow cookies you love so well. Hurry on now, and watch out for those wagons and autos.…
Yes, the Senator thought, that was how it began, and that was Hickman. When he laughed his belly shook like a Santa Claus. A great kettledrum of deep laughter. Huge, tall, slow-moving. Like a carriage of state in ceremonial parade until on the platform, then a man of words evoking action. Black Garrick, Alonzo Zuber, Daddy Hickman.
God’s Golden-voiced Hickman
Better known as
GOD’S TROMBONE,
they billed him. Brother A.Z. to Deacon Wilhite, when they were alone. They drank elderberry wine beneath the trees together, discussing the Word; me with a mug of milk and a buttered slice of homemade bread.
It was Waycross.
I came down the plank walk past the Bull Durham sign where a white, black-spotted dog raised his leg against the weeds and saw them. They were squatting in the dust along the curb, pushing trucks made of wood blocks with snuffbox tops for wheels. Garrets and Tube Rose but all the same size. Then I was there and one turned, fingering for a bugger in his nose, saying:
Look here, y’all, here’s Bliss. Says he’s a preacher.
They stood, looking with disbelieving eyes, dust on their knees, making me like Jesus among the Philistines.
Who, him? One of them pointed. A preacher?
Yeah, man.
Hi, I, Bliss said.
He looked at me, one eyebrow raised, his lips protruding. A dark, half-moon-shaped scar showed beneath his left cheekbone. The others were ganging up on me, their faces closing in.
What he doing all dressed up like Sunday for? he said.
Who?
Him.
’Cause he’s a preacher, fool.
Heck, he don’t look like no preacher to me. Just looks like another li’l ole hi-yaller. What you say’s his name?
Bliss. They swear he’s a preacher.
Sho do, the bow-legged one said. My mama heard him preach. Grown f
olks talking ’bout him all over town. He real notoriety, man.
Shucks! Y’all know grown folks is crazy. What can this here li’l ole jaybird preach? A.B.C.? Hell, I can preach that just like ole Revum McDuffie does and he’s the best.
I watched his hands go behind his back, his chin drawing down and his eyes looking up, as though peering over the rims of spectacles as he frowned.
Brothers and sisters, ladies and what comes with you, my text this mawning is A.B.C. Y’all don’t like to think about such stuff as that but you better lissen to me. I said A—whew, Lord! I says A! Just lissen, just think about it. A! A! Aaaay! In the beginnin’ there was A. B. and C. The Father, the son, and the son-of-a-gun! I want you to think about it. Git in it and git out of it. I said A.B.C., Lawd.…
He shook his head grimly, his mouth turning down at the corners, his tone becoming soft then rising as he hammered his palm with his fist. A.B.C.—double-down D! Think about the righteous Word. Where would we be without A? Nowhere ’cause it’s the start. Turn b around and what you got? I’ll tell you what you got, you got a doggone d! Y’all better mind! I say you sinners better mind y’all’s Abc’s and zees!
He grinned. If I had me a Bible and a pulpit I could really lay that stuff, he said. Is that the kind of preachin’ he does?
And one in a blue suit and tettered head defended me on heard words.
You crazy, man. ’Cause he really preaches.… Any of us can do what you doing.
That’s what you say. So what do he preach?
Salvation. What all the grown preachers preach.
Salivation? Hey, that’s when your mouth gits sore and your teeth fall out, ain’t it? Don’t he want folks to have no teeth?
I said sal-vation. You heard me.
Oh! Well tell a poor fool!
Don’t you min’ him, Bliss. He’s just acting a clown.
He grinned and picked up a pebble with his toes.
No I ain’t neither, I just ain’t never seen no half-pint preacher before. Hey, Bliss, say “when.”
“When” what?
Just “when.”
Why?
Just ’cause. Go head on, do like I tole you; say “when.”
So maybe I wouldn’t have to fight him—And blessed are the peacemakers—“When,” I said.
Aw come on; if you a preacher say it strong.
WHEN!
WHEN THE HEN BREAKS WIND—See, I got you!
They laughed. I tried to grin. My lip wouldn’t hold.
I sho got you that time, Bliss. Hell, you can’t be no preacher, ’cause a preacher’d know better than to git caught that easy. You all right though. You want to shoot some marbles? Man, dressed up the way you is, you ought to be a real gambler.
Not now, I have to go to the store. Maybe I can tomorrow.
Say, Rev, if you so smart, what’s the name of that dog who licked those sores poor Lazarus had?
He didn’t have a name, I said.
Yes he did too. He name Mo’ Rover! Dam’, Rev, we got you agin!
I said, you mean more-over.
He said, Shucks, how can you have Mo’ Rover when he ain’t got no Rover?
They laughed.
He a nasty dog, licking blood, someone said.
Sho, there’s a heap of nasty things in the Bible, man.
Hey y’all, he said, even for a yella he’s a good fella. Let’s teach him a church song before he goes. They crowded around.
Sing this with me, Rev, he said, beginning like Daddy Hickman lining out a hymn:
Well, ah-mazing grace
How sweet
The sound …
A bullfrog slapped
His grand-mammy
Down.…
He watched me, grinning like an egg-sucking dog. I looked back, feeling my temper rise.
Hey, whatsamatter, Rev, he said. Don’t you like my song?
Man, Bowlegs said, you know don’t no preacher go for none of that mess. Bliss here is a real preacher and that stuff you singing is sinful.
Oh, it is, he said. Then how come nobody never tole me? I guess I better hurry up and sing him a real church song so he’ll forgive me. What’s more, come Sunday I’m going to his church and do my righteous duty. Here’s a real righteous one, Rev!
Well, I’m going to the church house
And gon’ climb up to the steeple
Said I’m going to Rev’s little ole church house
Gon’ climb up on the steeple
Gon’ take down my britches, baby,
And doo-doo—whew, Lawd!—
Straight down on the people!
I looked at him and gritted my teeth. My face felt swollen. No bigger’n me and trying to be a great big sinner. I thought: Saint Peter bit off an ear but still got the keys. Amen! I looked on the ground, searching for a rock.
Boy, I said, before you were just pranking with me; now you’re messing with the Lord. And just for that He’s going to turn you into a crow.
Shoots, he said. Who? You can’t scair me. Less see you.
I said He will do it, not me. You just wait and see.
Hell, I can’t wait that long. Goin’ on a cotton-pick next month. Goin’ hear all those big guys tell all those good ole lies. See, he said bending over and patting his bottom. I ain’t no crow. Can’t see no feathers shooting outta my behind.…
They laughed, watching me. I reproached him with all the four horses galloping in my eyes.
Suddenly Bowlegs stepped close and looked him up and down, frowning.
Yeah, man, you might be right about your behind, he said. But while I don’t see no feathers, your mouth is getting awful long and sharp. And while you always been black now I be dam’ if you ain’t begun to turn blue black!
Man, he said, taking a swing at Bowlegs, you better watch that stuff ’cause I don’t play with no chillun.
Hey, Rev, he said, here’s a church song my big brother taught me. He up in Chicago and this one’s really religious:
Well, the tomcat jumped the she-cat
By the bank of a stream
Started howling and begging for that
Natural cream.
Soon the she-cat was spitting and
A-scratching and a-kicking up sand
Then the he-cat up and farted
Like a natural man.
The she-cat she jumped salty, looked around
And screamed,
Said, Hold it right there, daddy,
Until your mama’s been redeemed.
As they laughed he joined in with his juicy mouth, rearing back with his thumbs thrust in his suspenders.
Hell, he said, I’m a poet and didn’t know it.
He did a rooster strut, flapping his arms and scuffing up the dust.
Hey, y’all, he said, listen to this:
Bliss, Bliss
Cat piss miss!
He flicked his fingers at me like a magician, taking my name in vain.
Man, you sho got a fine kinda name to put down a conjure with. If a man was to say your name at two dogs gitting they ashes hauled the he-dog’ll git a dog-knot in his peter as big as a baseball! They be hung up for ninety-nine days. That’s right y’all. You say ole Rev’s name to a guy throwing rocks at you and he couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a whiffletree! Heck, Bliss, you say your name and hook fingers with another guy when a dog’s taking him a hockey and you lock up his bowels like a smokehouse! Yeah, man, the First National Bank! Constipate that fool for life!
They laughed at me. I saw a good egg rock now and looked at him, mad. I was going to sin. Saint Peter, he got the keys.
Since you think you’re so smart now here’s one for you, I said. Meat whistle. That’s for you.
What?
He puzzled up his face.
You heard me, I said. Meat whistle.
He bucked his eyes like I had hit him. It was quiet. I bent and picked up the rock. Someone snickered.
What you mean, he said, I never heard of no meat whistle.…
&n
bsp; They looked at us, changing sides now. Ha, he got you! one of them said. Ain’t but one kind of meat whistle and us all got one, ain’t we, y’all?
Yeah, yeah, that’s right, they said.
The whites of his eyes were turning red. I backed away. What kinda dam’ whistle is that, he said. It bet’ not be what I think it is.
He doubled up his fists.
I watched his eyes.
It blows some real bad-smelling tunes, don’t it, Bliss? one of the others said.
I watched his eyes, red. You ain’t the only one who knows stuff like that, I said. Just because I’m a preacher, don’t think you can run over me.
They were laughing at him now.
Tell him ’bout it, Rev!
Ole Bliss is awright!
Watch out now, ole Rev’s colored blood is rising.…
Indian, man! Look at him!
Ole Bliss is awright! Look at him, y’all. He probably got him some mean cracker blood too, man!
He looked angry, his lips pouting. Maybe you know this one, I said.
Clank, clank, clank, I said and waited, watching his eyes.
What you mean, “clank, clank, clank,” little ole yella som’bitch?
Clank, clank, clank, I said, that’s your mama walking in her cast-iron drawers.
Seeing his face looming close I moved.
He came on at me but too late, I wasn’t there. Always switch the rhythm—
Watch out, Bliss! they called, but I missed him not. I struck hard seeing his surprise as the blood burst from his forehead like juice from a crushed blackberry. His face went gray as his hand flew to his forehead. I looked, then I ran backwards with sin running with me in my eyes. I held the rock cupped in my hand like an egg, feeling his blood on my fingers. On this rock I will build my … Kept it with Teddy, my leather-bound Bible.
You shoulda used some cat piss, man, their short cries sounded behind me. ’Cause he ain’t missed nothing. Look at ole Rev run! Zoooom! Barney-O-Bliss, man! Barney-O-Blissomobile.
Put some salt on his tail. You aim to catch him you got to turn on the gas, man.
Man, he may be a reverend but he runs like hell!
Taking it on the lamb chop, man.
Aches, breaks. Crackers and wine, you’re out, Bliss. Out!
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