Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  I shook my head, shamed. Oh, the tyranny of King Cotton….

  And it won’t be but a few minutes, Bliss. You can even take your teddy with you—no, I guess you better take your toy Easter bunny. With your Easter bunny you won’t be afraid, will you? Course not. And like I tell you, it will last no longer than it takes the big boys to march you down the aisle—I’ll have you some good strong, big fellows, big ones, so you don’t have to worry about them dropping you.

  Now, Bliss, you’ll hear the music and the boys will march in and set it down right in front of the pulpit. Then I’ll say, “Suffer the little children,” and you sit up, see? I say do you see, Bliss?

  Yessuh.

  Say Sir.

  Sir.

  Good. Don’t talk like I talk, Bliss; talk like I say talk. And use your ears. Words are your business, boy! not just the Word. Words are everything and don’t you forget it, ever.

  Yes, sir.

  Now, when you rise up you come up slow—don’t go bolting up like a jack-in-the-box, understand? Because you don’t want to scair the living daylights out of everybody. You just want to come up slow and easy. And be sure you don’t mess up your hair. I want that part to be still in it, neat. So don’t forget when we close you in. And don’t be chewing on no gum or sucking on no wine balls! You hear me? Hear me now, boy!

  Yes, sir, I said. I was watching it. I couldn’t turn my eyes away.

  Can you hear me?

  Hear, the Senator thought, Here it must have been a forty-five, no thirty-thirties in here…. It hearts here, four cross. Here and hear and there and air. Light-throbs…. Chandelier…. How high the night? How far? Far …

  It all depends on the size of the church, Bliss. You listening to what I’m saying?

  Yes, sir.

  Well, when you hear me say, “Suffer the little children,” you sit up slow, and like I tell you, things are going to get as quiet as the grave. Yes, and I better have the ladies get us some flowers. Roses would be good. Red ones. Nobody in this town would have any lilies. Least not anyone we know. So now, we’ll have it sitting near the pulpit so when you rise up you’ll be facing forward and every living soul will see you. It’ll be something, Bliss. It’ll be astounding!

  Yes, sir.

  So now 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.

  Yes, sir.

  So 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. You ask him, Why hath Thou forsaken me? But say it with the true feeling, hear? And in good English. That’s right, Bliss, in Good Book English. I guess it’s about time I started reading you some Shakespeare and some Emerson. Yeah, it’s just about time…. Who’s Emerson? Why, he was a preacher, Bliss, and a philosopher too. He knew that every tub has to sit on its own bottom—which is a fact that a lot of folks would like to forget. He wrote a lot of good stuff. Poetry and all. Have you remembered the rest of the sermon I taught you?

  Yes, sir, but in the dark I don’t think I…

  Never mind the dark, Bliss. 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, slow. 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 a bit sadder, more solemn. Things have gotten to you, remember—those Roman soldiers and all, you see?—and you’re sad and bewildered by what’s happened. And although you know it had to happen because the prophets had predicted it, you just can’t help but ask the question. That’s the human in you. So you want to look like you feel it, Bliss. So I want you to spread your arms out slow, like this. Then you start with I am the resurrection and the life. Say it after me:

  I am the resurrection…

  I am the resurrection.

  And—

  An’ the life …

  Good, but not too fast, now. I am the Lily of the valley…

  I am the Lily of the valley…

  Uh huh, 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 in the rhythm. All right, that’s enough. You remember all those I’s have got to be in it. Don’t leave out those I’s, Bliss, because it takes a heap of I’s before the folks can see the true vision or 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 have 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 much braver with Teddy, because Teddy’s a bear and bears aren’t afraid of the dark….

  Never mind all that, Bliss. And don’t you start preaching me no sermon—especially none of them you make up yourself. You just preach what I been teaching you and there’ll be enough folks out there tonight who’ll be willing to listen to you, and some will even be saved. 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 even Jesus Christ didn’t get started until he was twelve. But you have got to leave that bear alone! Why, I even heard you preaching to that bear the other day. Bears don’t give a doggone about the Word, Bliss. Did you ever hear of a bear of God? Of course not. Now there was the Lamb of God, and the Holy Dove, and one of the saints, Jerome, he had him a lion, and another had him some kind of bull with wings—a flying bull, that is—it was probably some kind of early airplane; and Peter had the keys to the Rock. But, Bliss, no bears! So you think about that, you hear? You find yourself another mascot.

  He looked at me with that gentle, joking look then, smiling with 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 kinda hot. Just look at you, Bliss, I can see the steam rising right out of your collar. In fact, I suspect you’re already on fire. You better hurry and get that ice cream fast. Make mine strawberry. Ice cream is good for a man’s belly and if he has to sing and preach a lot like we do it’s good for his throat too. Wait a second, where’d I put that money? Here it is. 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 deep in the ice-cream habit, aren’t you? In fact, Bliss, if eating ice cream was a sin you’d sail to hell in a freezer…. Ha!

  Ha! Now, now, don’t look at me like that, Bliss. I was only kidding. Don’t look at me that way, old 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 the wagons and those autos….

  Hickman? How here? Long past. From far off he could hear the tinkl
e of ice in a glass. When he laughed his belly shook like Santa Claus. Huge, tall, slow-moving, like a carriage of state in ceremonial parade, until on the platform, then a man of words. Black Garrick, Alonzo Zuber, “Daddy” Hickman. Reverend Doctor Mixeddiction, Dialectical Donne, Shookup Shakespeare….

  GOD’S GOLDEN-VOICED HICKMAN

  BETTER KNOWN

  AS GOD’S TROMBONE

  they billed him. Brother A.Z., to Deacon Wilhite, when they were alone. Drank elderberry wine beneath the trees together discussing the Word, and 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 snuff-box tops for wheels. Garrets and Tube Rose but all the same size. Then I was there and one turned, fingering for a booger 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 in 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 lil ole high-yaller. What you say’s his name?

  Bliss. They swear he’s a preacher.

  Sho do, the bowlegged one said. My mama heard him preach. Grown folks talking ‘bout him all over town. He real notoriety, man.

  Shucks! Y’all know grown folks is crazy. What can this here lil ole jaybird preach? A.B.C.? Hell, I can preach that just like ole Rev-um 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 listen, just think about it. A! A! Assay! 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.D.E.F.—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 nowhere d! Y’all better mind! I say you sinners better mind y’all’s A.B.C.s and zees!

  He grinned. 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 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 chillen.

  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 tom cat jumped the she-cat

  By the bank of a stream

  Started howling and begging for that

  Natural cream.

  Soo
n 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 conjur 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 Rev’s name to a guy throwing rocks at you and he couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a wiffle tree! 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….

  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.