Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  I’m going…. I’m going … he told himself, knowing lucidly that it was most important to fall backwards if possible, out of the line of fire; but as he struggled to go down it was as though he were being held erect by an invisible cable attached somehow to the gallery from where the man, raising and lowering his arm in measured calm, continued to fire.

  The effort to fall brought a burst of moisture streaming from his pores but even now his legs refused to obey, would not collapse. And yet, through the muffled sound of the weapon and the strange ringing of bells, his eyes were recording details of the wildly tossing scene with the impassive and precise inclusiveness of a motion-picture camera that was toppling slowly from its tripod and falling through an unfolding action with the lazy motion of a feather loosed from a bird in soaring flight; panning from the image of the remote gunman in the gallery down to those moving dream-like on the floor before him, then back to those shooting up behind the man above; all caught in attitudes of surprise, disbelief, horror; some turning slowly with puppet gestures, some still seated, some rising, some looking wildly at their neighbors, some losing control of their flailing arms, their erupting faces,

  some falling floorward…. And up in the balcony now, an erupting of women’s frantic forms.

  Things had accelerated but, oddly, even now no one was moving toward the gunman—who seemed as detached from the swiftly accelerating action as a marksman popping clay birds on a remote shooting range.

  Then it was as though someone had dragged a poker at white heat straight down the center of his scalp and followed it with a hammering blow; and at last he felt himself going over backwards, crashing against a chair now and hearing it skitter away, as, thinking mechanically, Down, down … he felt the jolt of his head and elbows striking the floor. Something seared through the sole of his right foot then, and sharply aware of losing control he struggled to contain himself even as his throat gave cry to words which he knew, whatever the cost of containment, should not be uttered in this place.

  “Lord, LAWD,” he heard, “WHY HAST THOU …” smelling the hot presence of blood as the question took off with the hysterical timbre of a Negro preacher who in his disciplined fervor sounded somehow like an accomplished actor shouting his lines. “Forsaken” … forsaken … forsaken, the words went forth, becoming lost in the shattering of glass, the ringing of bells.

  Writhing on the floor as he struggled to move out of range, the Senator was taken by a profound sense of self-betrayal, as though he had stripped himself naked in the Senate. And now, with the full piercing force of a suddenly activated sprinkler, streams of moisture seemed to burst from his face and somehow he was no longer in that place, but kneeling on the earth by a familiar clearing within a grove of pines, trying desperately to enfold a huge white circus tent into a packet. Here the light was wan and eerie, and as he struggled, trying to force the cloth beneath chest and knee, a damp wind blew down from the tops of the trees, causing the canvas to toss and billow like a live thing beneath him. The wind blew strong and damp through the clearing, causing the tent to flap and billow, and now he felt himself being dragged on his belly steadily toward the edge of the clearing where the light filtered with an unnatural brilliance through the high-flung branches of the pines. And as he struggled to break the forward motion of the tent a cloud of birds took flight, spinning on the wind and into the trees, revealing the low shapes of a group of weed-grown burial mounds arranged beneath the pines. Clusters of tinted bottles had been hung from wooden stakes to mark the row of crude country graves, and as the tent dragged him steadily closer he could see the glint and sparkle of the glass as the bottles, tossing in the wind, began to ring like a series of crystal bells. He did not like this place and he knew, struggling to brake the tent’s forward motion by digging his toes into the earth, that somewhere beyond the graves and the wall of trees his voice was struggling to return to him.

  But now through the amber and deep-blue ringing of the glass it was another voice he feared, a voice which threatened to speak from beneath the tent and which it was most important to enfold, to muffle beneath the billowing canvas …

  Then he was back on the floor again and the forbidden words, now hoarsely transformed, were floating calmly down to him from gallery and dome, then coming on with a rush.

  “For Thou hast forsaken … me,” they came—but they were no longer his own words, nor was it his own echoing voice. And now, hearing what sounded like a man’s voice hoarsely singing, he struggled to bring himself erect, thinking, No! No! Hickman? But how here? Not here! No time, no place for HICKMAN!

  Then the very idea that Hickman was there somewhere above him raised him up, and he was clutching onto a chair, pulling himself into a sitting position, trying to get his head up so as to see clearly above as now there came a final shot which he heard but did not feel….

  He lay on his back, looking up through the turbulent space to where the bullet-smashed chandelier, swinging gently under the impact of its shattering, created a watery distortion of crystal light, a light which seemed to descend and settle him within a ring of liquid fire. Then beyond the pulsing blaze where a roiling darkness grew he was once more aware of a burst of action.

  Now he could hear someone shouting far off. Then a voice was shouting quite close to his ear, but he was unable to bring his mind to it. There were many faces and he was trying to ask them Why the hell’d he do it and who else was it?

  I can’t understand, can’t understand. My rule was graciousness, was politeness in all private contacts, but hell, anything goes in public. What? What?

  Harry said if it gets too hot hop out of the pot. I say, if the tit’s tough no one asks for milk when the steaks are high.

  Lord, Lord, but it’s hot. HOT! It hurts here and here and there and there, a hell of a clipping. How many rounds?

  Lawd … Say Lord! Why? Ha! No time to go West but no time to stay East either, so blow the wind westerly, there’s grease for the East.

  I said, Donelson, crank it, man! Who broke the rhythm of the crowd? Old fat, nasty Poujaque! Don’t accuse me; if I could pay them I could teach them! If they could catch me I could raise them up. That’s their god-given historical, wood-pile role! Where was Moses, I mean to say?… No, let the deal go down. And if the cock crows three, I’m me, ME!—in the dark.

  Roll the mammy-scratching camera, Karp! On with the lights! Hump it, now! Get them over to the right side. It hurts, it was worth something in the right body for the right hand …

  Then I said, Politics is an art of maneuvering, and to move them you must change home base. Now you tell ‘em because Ah stutter, Donelson said. But minds like that will

  never learn…. Hell, I’ve out-galloped gallup—New Mexico, wasn’t it? What happened

  to Body? Well, so long old buddy, I missed touch, lost right hand but didn’t forget. How the hell explain stony-going over stony ground?

  Karp, you high-minded S.O.B., will you please get some light over here! And keep the action going! …

  Yes, Yes, Yes! I’m all cud, bud; all chewed up like a dog! Like a dog. It was like shooting fish in a barbell. Fall! Fall! Take a dive! Green persimmons …

  She said “mother” and screamed and I said “mother” and it shot out of my throat and something ran like hell up the tent and I doubled back and when I lifted the flap—dark again!

  Roll the cameras!

  What? What?

  Perhaps you’re right, but who would have thought what I knew on the back of my neck and ignored was ripening? A bird balled! That was the way it was. Oh, I rose up and she said “mother,” and I doubled back and he looked down upon the babe and said, “Look, boy, you’re a son of God! Isn’t that enough for you?”

  But still I said “mother” and something ran up the tent like a flash and then they came on, grim-faced and glassy-eyed, like the wrath of God in the shape of a leaping, many-headed cat … a stewardess’s cap …. What dreams … what dread …

  Don’t ask me, please. Please do
n’t ask me. I simply can’t do it. There are lines and shadows we can’t stand to cross or recross. Like walking through the sharp edge of a mirror. All will be well, Daddy. Tell them what I said.

  ROLL THE CAMERA!

  What? What?

  Who was? Who did that against me? Who untuned Daddy’s fork when he could have preached his bone in all positions and places? I might have been left out of all that—Ask Tricky Sam Nanton, there’s a preacher hidden in all the old troms—Bam! Same tune in juke or church, only Daddy’s had a different brand of anguish.

  Lawd, Lawd, Why?

  What terrible luck! What a sad kind of duck! Daddy strutted with some barbecue and the hot sauce on the bread was red and good—good—good. Yes, but in Austin they chillied the beans.

  “Mother,” she said.

  “But weren’t the greens nice in Birmingham,” Sister Lacey said.

  And she said “mother” and I came up out of the box and he said “Let there be light”—but he didn’t really mean it. And she said “cud” and that should have been worth the revival. But he wouldn’t tell.

  Oh, Maggie, Jiggs and Aunt Jemima! Jadda-dadda—jing-jing! I miss those times sometimes….

  This game of politics is fraught with fraud, Ferd said—And a kiyi yippi and a happy nappy! So Pappy now praise the Lord, and pass the biscuits! Oh, yes, the A.G. said, Give ole Razorback Bill a guitar and the room to holler nigger and he’ll forget about trying to pass for an intellectual…. A slow train through East Razorback on a Captain Billy’s Whizbang more pious than the Pharisees…. Hell, it was easy, easy. I was working as the old gentlemen’s chauffeur and he caught me in bed with his madam. He was amazed but calm. Who are you, anyway, he said. And I thought fast and said, I’m a nigger; so you can forget it, it don’t count. I’m outside the game. What? he said. Yes, I said, I am—or at least I was raised for one. So what are you going to do about it? And he said, Do? Hell, first I’m going to think about it. And then I’ll decide. Was she satisfied? I don’t know, I said, but I’ve had no complaints. Well, he said, taking that into consideration you might as well continue until she does. I’m a busy man and no old fool. Meanwhile I’ll think about making you a politician. That should teach you to obey the Commandment…. So because she was years younger than the old gentleman I made a classical entry into the house. Bull-rushed the bully raggers…. Yes, but you just wait, he said. The spades’ll learn to play the game and use their power and the old war will be ended….

  Oh, no! We’ll legislate the hell against them. Sure, they must learn to play the game but power is as power does. Let’s not forget what the hell this is all about. They’ll have to come in as I did—through the living gate and sometimes it’s bloody. But they ought to know from back in seventy-four.

  Mister Movie-man … she said.

  God is love, I said, but art’s the possibility of forms, and shadows are the source of identity. And Donelson said, You tell ‘em, buddy, while I go take a physic….

  Hold the scene, don’t fade, don’t fade…. Seven’s the number, Senator, I said. Fiscal problems come up seven, remember? Even for Joseph…. So she said, “mother” and I said me and she said cud was worth all that pain. But he still wouldn’t tell.

  Back away from me! Cat … cat … what’s the rest?

  I simply refused, that was all. Chicken in a casket was a no good-a union like-a da cloak. Too dark in there. Chick in this town, chick in that town and in the country. Always having to break out of that pink-lined shell.

  No, not afraid after a while, but still against it. I was pretty little—little though not pretty, understand? Saw first snow in Kansas. The wind blows cold, but I can’t tuck it.

  Look, I have to climb out of here immediately, or the wires will flash Cudworth moos for Ma—a hell of a note from now on. And on the other side there’s the dark. Daddy? Hic, hic, what day?

  To hell with it, I’ve stood up too long to lie down.

  Lawd, Lawd, why?

  Inevitable? Well, I suppose so. So focus in the scene. There, there. The right Honorable Daddy—where?

  Karp! Karp, pan with the action—See! See! He’s riding right out from under his old Cordoba. But watch him, Stack wore a magic hat—Listen for a bulldog!

  Beliss?

  No! What do you know about that? I can’t hear him bark…

  Bliss be-eeee thee ti-ee that binds…

  For an instant the Senator was aware of being lifted up and then he heard a voice speaking to him out of blackness. Straining to hear through the clamor of voices sounding in his head, he felt himself entering a region of blacks and grays which seemed now to revolve slowly around him like a cloud of smoke. And yet he felt in the presence of an unyielding center of darkness which seemed to speak to him words that were weighted with meanings he dreaded to grasp.

  It hurts here, shadowless, his mind went on. If only the throbbing would stop….

  Who-what-why—Lord? Why, why, the smithereening heart…

  Then from far away someone was calling to him, “Senator, do you hear? Senator?”

  And yes, the Senator did; very clearly now. Yes…. But when he tried to answer he seemed to fall into a dream, to recall to himself a dream….

  It was a bright day and he said, Come on out here, Bliss. I’ve got something to show you. And I went with him through the garden past the apple trees and on beneath the grape arbor to the barn. The bees were around us and yellow butterflies. And there it was, sitting outside the barn on two sawhorses.

  Look at that, he said.

  It was some kind of long narrow box. I didn’t like it.

  I said, What is it?

  It’s for the services, Bliss. For the revivals. Remember me and Deacon Wilhite talking about it?

  No, sir.

  Sure, you remember. It’s for you to come up out of. You’re going to be resurrected so that the sinners can find life everlasting. Bliss, a preacher is a man who carries God’s load; and that’s the whole earth, Bliss boy. The whole earth and all the people thereupon. And he smiled.

  Oh, I said, I remember. But before it hadn’t meant too much. Since then Juney had died and I had seen one. Juney’s was pine, painted black, and without scrolls; this one was fancy, covered with white cloth. I felt cold. He held his belly in his hands, thumbs stuck in trousers top, his great shoes creaking as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

  So how you like it? he said.

  He was examining the lid, swinging it up and down with his hand. I couldn’t see how it was put together. It seemed to be all white cloth bleeding into pink and pink into white again.

  I said, Is it for me?

  Sho, didn’t I just tell you? We get it all worked out the way we want it, and then, sinners, watch out!

  I could feel my fingers turn cold at the tips. But why is it so big? I said. I’m not that tall. In fact, I’m pretty little for my age.

  Yeah, but this one has got to last, Bliss. Can’t be always buying you one of these like I do when you scuff out your shoes or bust out the seat of your britches….

  But my feet won’t touch the end, I said. I hadn’t looked all the way inside.

  Yeah, but in a few years or two they will. By time your voice starts to change your feet will be pushing out one end and your head out the other. I don’t want even to have to think about another one before then.

  But couldn’t you get a smaller one?

  That’s just what we don’t want, Bliss. If it’s too small they won’t notice it, or think of it as applying to themselves; if it’s too big they’ll laugh when they see you come rising up.

  No, Bliss, it’s got to be this size. They have to see it and feel it for what it is, not take it for a toy like one of those little tin wagons or autos. Down there in Mexico one time I saw them selling these here in the form of sugar candy along with skulls and skeletons made out of sugar candy, but ain’t no use trying to sugarcoat it. No, sir, Bliss. They’ve got to see it and know that what they’re seeing is where they’ve all got to end up.
Bliss, that thing sitting on these saw hosses there is everybody’s last clean shirt, as the old song goes; and they’ve got to realize that when that sickle starts to cut its swath it don’t play no favorites. Everybody goes when that wagon comes, Bliss. Babies and grandmaws too, ‘cause there simply ain’t no exceptions. Death is like Justice is supposed to be. So you see, Bliss, it’s got to be of a certain size…. Hop in there and let’s see how it fits….

  Lord, Lord, Why Hast…

  Then he was being lifted up and struggling, trying desperately to make himself heard:

  No, please, please, Daddy Hickman. PLEASE!

  Oh, it’s just for a little while, Bliss. You won’t be in the dark for long, and you’ll be wearing your white dress suit with the satin lapels and the long pants with the satin stripes down the sides. You’ll like that, won’t you, Bliss? Sure you will. In that pretty suit? Of course!

  Now you see, you breathe through this here tube we done fixed here in the lid. See? It comes through right here, only the opening is hidden by this scroll. You hear what I’m saying, Bliss? All right, pay attention. Look here at this tube! All you have to do is lay there and breathe through it. Just breathe in and out like you always do, only through the tube. And when you hear me say, “Suffer the little children …” you push it up inside the lid, so’s they can’t see it when me and Deacon Wilhite open up the lid.

  But then I won’t have air.

  Don’t worry about that, Bliss; there’ll be air enough left inside and Deacon Wilhite will open it right away.

  But I’m scaird. In all that darkness and all that silk cloth around my mouth and eyes….

  Silk, he said, Silk? He looked down at me steadily. What else you want it lined with, Bliss? Cotton? Would you feel any better about it if it was something most folks have to work all their lives for and wear every day, weekdays and Sunday too? Something that most folks never get away from? You don’t want that, do you?