To say that Ellison did not come close to completing his second novel is not to say that he failed to produce a work of fiction with scenes as fully rendered and realized as anything he had ever written. One forgets that Invisible Man was a first novel and, even in its brilliance, displayed some of the signs of an initial work. The second novel sometimes reveals Ellison working at the height of his writerly powers, in command of voice, in command of the rudiments of his prose style, in ways not seen in Invisible Man. Other times, it sees him at his lowest points—unfocused, and finally unable to master his own creation.
For all their disconnections, Ellison’s manuscripts reward the active reader. For those willing to confront the challenges of the work’s fragmentary form, for those capable of simultaneously grasping multiple versions of the same scene, Three Days Before the Shooting … offers unparalleled access to the craft of Ellison’s fiction and an unprecedented glimpse into the writer’s mind. Whether one reads this edition from start to finish or jumps from section to section, the experience involves a kind of collaboration with Ellison in the creation of the novel he left forever in progress.
PART I
EDITORS’ NOTE TO BOOK I
THE FULL PROVENANCE OF Book I is uncertain. The best information we have is a note in Fanny Ellison’s hand indicating that the most recent surviving draft was typed in 1972 and that Ellison’s editor, Albert Erskine, had read it. Drafts of individual episodes written, in all probability, during the mid-to late 1950s exist on both blue and yellow paper in the Ellison Papers.
Readers will quickly see that, unlike the thoroughly revised, apparent last typescripts of Book II and “Bliss’s Birth,” the text of Book I drifts between truly polished and rough work. Nevertheless, however rough the composition of several passages in the typescript, the prologue and fourteen chapters answer in the affirmative for Book I the question Mrs. Ellison posed for the entire novel. (“Does it have a beginning, middle, and end?” she asked in Ralph’s teeming study a few days after his death in 1994.) For, unlike Book II, and unlike the sequences of computer printouts published in Part II of this volume, Book I, even in its current form, somewhat uneven and full of small inconsistencies, unquestionably has “a beginning, middle, and end.”
In contrast to Book II, which though highly polished for the most part and put through multiple revisions over at least two decades, seems to break off in midair without any true hint of what is to come, Book I ends with a perfectly modulated sentence. The words both recapitulate the action and point toward what follows in Book II. “But at least the Senator was still alive,” McIntyre observes, recovering his reporter’s equilibrium after he watches Hickman and Hickman alone disappear through the closing door of Sun-raider’s hospital room. At once we know that the Senator has conferred special status on Reverend Hickman in the present moment and that he likely is doomed to die of his wounds. Like a crafty veteran major league pitcher, the novelist can throw any number of pitches from this delivery, and he does so by opening Book II with Sun-raider speaking extemporaneously, floridly, provocatively on the Senate floor just before an assassin’s bullets silence him.
Clearly the trajectory of Book I is true to the central narrative Ellison refers to over and over again in his notes. After the prologue’s biblically toned chronicle of Reverend Hickman and his congregation’s arrival in Washington, D.C., Book I unfolds in first-person voice from the point of view of Welborn McIntyre, a Kentucky-born and - bred white reporter who witnesses Senator Sun-raider’s assassination, and sets out to unravel the identity, mystery, and motive of the “pale young Negro” who leaps to his death after shooting the Senator. Throughout Book I McIntyre and Ellison tantalize the reader with cryptic hints of the assassin’s tie to the Senator and Sun-raider’s former life as Bliss, the boy of indeterminate race raised by Reverend Hickman and the women in his black congregation.
McIntyre roots his narrative in both the present and the past. The present episodes bring to life the fascination Sun-raider inspires in McIntyre’s journalists’ fraternity and in others, most notably the antic, tragicomic figure of jazzman LeeWillie Minifees, whose burning of his Cadillac on the Senator’s lawn lands him in the psychiatric ward of the same hospital where Sun-raider rests uneasily in critical condition. But McIntyre is also a failed novelist. And although his narrative begins focused keenly on the assassination, it is soon apparent that Ellison intends him to be an important character in his own right as well as a witness to and commentator on the life and times of the Senator and the nation. For example, McIntyre interrupts his account of the assassination and its aftermath with excursions and reveries into his own life, including his affair in the 1930s with a Negro girl, whose mother unleashes her fury on him when he comes to tell her he wants to marry her pregnant daughter and be a true father to their child. Book I also puts Hickman squarely into McIntyre’s path as a presence in his own right and as a black preacher who explodes the white reporter’s assumptions about racial boundaries and the Senator’s history.
This volume presents Book I in its totality as a draft much less polished and revised than the more finished drafts that survive of Book II and “Bliss’s Birth.” Chapters 4 and 5 of the version published here are Ellison’s drafts of “Cadillac Flambé” and “It Always Breaks Out,” episodes he published separately during his lifetime and which are included in Part III as they appeared in print, in the case of “It Always Breaks Out” considerably revised from the version in Book I.
PROLOGUE
THREE DAYS BEFORE THE shooting, a chartered planeload of Southern Negroes swooped down upon the District of Columbia and attempted to see the Senator. They were quite elderly: old ladies dressed in little white caps and white uniforms made of surplus nylon parachute material, the men dressed in neat but old-fashioned black suits and wearing wide-brimmed, deep-crowned panama hats which, in the Senator’s walnut-paneled reception room now, they held with a grave ceremonial air. Solemn, uncommunicative, and quietly insistent, they were led by a huge, distinguished-looking old fellow who on the day of the chaotic event was to prove himself, his age notwithstanding, an extraordinarily powerful man. Tall and broad and of an easy dignity, this was the Reverend A. Z. Hickman—“better known,” as one of the old ladies proudly informed the Senator’s secretary, “as God’s Trombone.”
This, however, was about all they were willing to explain. Forty-four in number, the women with their fans and satchels and picnic baskets, and the men carrying new blue airline take-on bags, they listened intently while Reverend Hickman did their talking.
“Ma’am,” Hickman said, his voice deep and resonant as he nodded toward the door of the Senator’s private office, “you just tell the Senator that Hickman has arrived. When he hears who’s out here he’ll know that it’s important and want to see us.”
“But I’ve told you that the Senator isn’t available,” the secretary said. “Just what is your business? Who are you, anyway? Are you his constituents?”
“Constituents?” Suddenly the old man smiled. “No, miss,” he said, “the Senator doesn’t even have anybody like us in his state. We’re from down where we’re among the counted but not among the heard.”
“Then why are you coming here?” she said. “What is your business?”
“He’ll tell you, ma’am,” Hickman said. “He’ll know who we are; all you have to do is tell him that we have arrived ….”
The secretary, a young Mississippian, sighed. Obviously, these were Southern Negroes of a type she had heard of all her life—and old ones; yet, instead of being already in the herdlike movement toward the door, which she expected, they were calmly waiting, as though she hadn’t said a word. And now she had a suspicion that, for all their staring eyes, she actually didn’t exist to them. They just stood there, now looking oddly like a delegation of Asians who had lost their interpreter along the way, and who were trying to tell her something, which she had no interest in hearing, through this old man who himself did not know the languag
e. Suddenly they no longer seemed familiar, and a feeling of dream-like incongruity came over her. They were so many that she could no longer see the large abstract paintings which hung along the paneled wall. Nor the framed facsimiles of State Documents which hung above a bust of Vice President Calhoun. Some of the old women were calmly plying their palm-leaf fans, as though in serene defiance of the droning air conditioner. Yet, she could see no trace of impertinence in their eyes, nor any of the anger which the Senator usually aroused in members of their group. Instead, they seemed resigned, like people embarked upon a difficult journey who were already far beyond the point of no return. Her uneasiness grew, then she blotted out the others by focusing her eyes narrowly upon their leader. And when she spoke again her voice took on a nervous edge.
“I’ve told you that the Senator isn’t here,” she said, “and you must realize that he is a busy man who can only see people by appointment.”
“We know, ma’am,” Hickman said, “but—”
“You don’t just walk in here and expect to see him on a minute’s notice.”
“We understand that, ma’am,” Hickman said, looking mildly into her eyes, his close-cut white head tilted to one side, “but this is something that developed of a sudden. Couldn’t you reach him by long distance? We’d pay the charges. And I don’t even have to talk, miss; you can do the talking. All you have to say is that we have arrived.”
“I’m afraid this is impossible,” she said.
The very evenness of the old man’s voice made her feel uncomfortably young, and now, deciding that she had exhausted all the tried-and-true techniques which her region had worked out (short of violence) for getting quickly rid of Negroes, the secretary lost her patience and telephoned for a guard.
They left as quietly as they had appeared, the old minister waiting behind until the last had stepped into the hall. Then he turned, and she saw his full height, framed by the doorway, as the others arranged themselves beyond him in the hall. “You’re really making a mistake, miss,” he said. “The Senator knows us and—”
“Knows you,” she said indignantly. “I’ve heard Senator Sunraider state that the only colored he knows is the boy who shines shoes at his golf club.”
“Oh?” Hickman shook his head as the others exchanged knowing glances. “Very well, ma’am,” Hickman said. “We’re sorry to have caused you this trouble. It’s just that it’s very important that the Senator know that we’re on the scene. So I hope you won’t forget to tell him that we have arrived, because soon it might be too late.”
There was no threat in it; indeed, his voice echoed the odd sadness which she thought she detected in the faces of the others just before the door blotted them from view.
In the hall they exchanged no words, moving silently behind the guard, who accompanied them down to the lobby. They were about to move into the street, when the security-minded chief guard, observing their number, stepped up and ordered them searched.
They submitted patiently, amused that anyone should consider them capable of harm, and for the first time an emotion broke the immobility of their faces. They chuckled and winked and smiled, fully aware of the comic aspect of the situation. Here they were, quiet, old, and obviously religious black folk who, because they had attempted to see the man who was considered the most vehement enemy of their people in either house of Congress, were being energetically searched by uniformed security police, and they knew what the absurd outcome would be. They were found to be armed with nothing more dangerous than pieces of fried chicken and ham sandwiches, chocolate cake and sweet-potato fried pies. Some obeyed the guards’ commands with exaggerated sprightliness, the old ladies giving their skirts a whirl as they turned in their flat-heeled shoes. When ordered to remove his wide-brimmed hat, one old man held it for the guard to look inside; then, flipping out the sweatband, he gave the crown a tap, causing something to fall to the floor, then waited with a callused palm extended as the guard bent to retrieve it. Straightening and unfolding the object, the guard saw a worn but neatly creased fifty-dollar bill which he dropped upon the outstretched palm as though it were hot. They watched silently as he looked at the old man and gave a dry, harsh laugh; then as he continued laughing the humor slowly receded behind their eyes. Not until they were allowed to file into the street did they give further voice to their amusement.
“These here folks don’t understand nothing,” one of the old ladies said. “If we had been the kind to depend on the sword instead of on the Lord, we’d been in our graves long ago—ain’t that right, Sis Arter?”
“You said it,” Sister Arter said. “In the grave and done long finished molding!”
“Let them worry, our conscience is clear on that ….”
“Amen!”
On the sidewalk now, they stood around Reverend Hickman, holding a hushed conference, then in a few minutes they had disappeared in a string of taxis and the incident was thought closed.
Shortly afterwards, however, they appeared mysteriously at a hotel where the Senator leased a private suite, and tried to see him. How they knew of this secret suite they would not explain.
Next, they appeared at the editorial office of the newspaper which had been most critical of the Senator’s methods, but here, too, they were turned away. They were taken for a protest group, just one more lot of disgruntled Negroes crying for justice as though theirs were the only grievances in the world. Indeed, they received less of a hearing here than elsewhere. They weren’t even questioned as to why they wished to see the Senator—which was poor newspaper work, to say the least; a failure of technical alertness, and, as events were soon to prove, a gross violation of press responsibility.
So once more they moved away.
Although the Senator returned to Washington the following day, his secretary failed to report his strange visitors. There were important interviews scheduled, and she had understandably classified the old people as just another annoyance. Once the reception room was cleared of their disquieting presence, they seemed no more significant than the heavy mail received from white liberals and Negroes, liberal and reactionary alike, whenever the Senator made one of his taunting remarks. She forgot them. Then at about eleven A.M. Reverend Hickman reappeared without the others and started into the building. This time, however, he was not to reach the secretary. One of the guards, the same who had picked up the fifty-dollar bill, recognized him and pushed him bodily from the building.
Indeed, the old man was handled quite roughly, his sheer weight and bulk and the slow rhythm of his normal movements infuriating the guard to that quick, heated fury which springs up in one when dealing with the unexpected recalcitrance of some inanimate object. Say, the huge stone that resists the bulldozer’s power or the chest of drawers that refuses to budge from its spot on the floor. Nor did the old man’s composure help matters. Nor did his passive resistance hide his distaste at having strange hands placed upon his person. As he was being pushed about, old Hickman looked at the guard with a kind of tolerance, an understanding which seemed to remove his personal emotions to some far, cool place where the guard’s strength could never reach them. He even managed to pick up his hat from the sidewalk, where it had been thrown after him, with no great show of breath or hurry, and arose to regard the guard with a serene dignity.
“Son,” he said, flicking a spot of dirt from the soft old panama with a white handkerchief, “I’m sorry that this had to happen to you. Here you’ve worked up a sweat on this hot morning, and not a thing has been changed—except that you’ve interfered with something that doesn’t concern you. After all, you’re only a guard, you’re not a mind reader. Because if you were, you’d be trying to get me in there as fast as you could instead of trying to keep me out. You’re probably not even a good guard, and I wonder what on earth you’d do if I came here prepared to make some trouble. You think of trouble as coming from numbers, but you’re wrong. It comes in all sizes.”
Fortunately, there were too many spectators present for t
he guard to risk giving the old fellow a demonstration, and he was compelled to stand silent, his thumbs hooked over his cartridge belt, while old Hickman strolled—or, more accurately, floated—up the walk and disappeared around the corner.
Except for two attempts by telephone, once to the Senator’s office and later to his home, the group made no further effort until that afternoon, when Hickman sent a telegram asking Senator Sunraider to phone him at a T Street hotel. A message, which, thanks again to the secretary, the Senator did not see. Following this attempt there was silence.
During the late afternoon the group of closemouthed old folk were seen praying quietly within the Lincoln Memorial. An amateur photographer, a high-school boy from the Bronx, was there at the time, and it was his chance photograph of the group, standing with bowed heads beneath old Hickman’s outspread arms while facing the great sculpture, that was flashed over the wires following the shooting. Asked why he had photographed that particular group, the boy replied that he had seen them as a “good composition ….
I thought their faces would make a fine scale of grays between the whiteness of the marble and the blackness of the shadows.” And for the rest of the day the group appears to have faded into those same peaceful shadows, to remain there until the next morning—when they materialized shortly before chaos erupted.
BOOK I
CHAPTER 1
UNDERSTAND ME, I was there; sitting in the press section at the start of the shooting. I had been rereading M. Vannec’s most unexpected letter when suddenly it was as though a certain long-forgotten night of violence to which he referred had flared from the page and accelerated into chaotic life.
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 4