Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  He turned. “Don’t you have it?”

  “Why no, I don’t.”

  He shook his head. “So that’s the real wall,” he said, turning abruptly and starting back along the drive.

  “Wait, A.Z.” Deacon Wilhite called from behind him. “What are you talking about? What wall?”

  “I mean the wall of dumbness,” he called over his shoulder. “The wall of forgetfulness—I didn’t bring her name and I don’t remember it. A bellhop would be better at this job than me.”

  “Well,” Deacon Wilhite said drawing abreast, “don’t worry about it, A.Z. Some of the ladies will remember it. You can bet on that. We’ll just come back tomorrow.”

  Halting a cab as it came down the drive, they rode silently to the hotel and as they entered the lobby he drew Wilhite aside.

  “You explain it to the others,” he said. “I’m going to stretch out for a while and try to think of another plan.”

  Turning off the lights, he lay across the bed in his shorts but his mind was too active for sleep. He thought of his failure to get into the apartment building and rebuked himself, both for having gone to the address and for having done so without anticipating the obvious problems which he found there. I must really be getting anxious, he thought, anxious and silly. Old folk’s silly….

  A feeling of anguish came over him and to fight it away he turned on the light and tried to read his Bible, but as though to mock himself he opened the well-thumbed, rededged pages at the point in the story of David and Absalom where David was watching the approach of the two runners, one bearing news of victory and the other of Absalom’s death, and he put it aside with a sigh. All they needed to do, he thought, was to be in the presence of one another, just to face up to one another and say howdy, but that was a task too large for either one, father or son. Pride turned the arrows against them, making for death and anguish….

  And as his mind dwelled upon the ancient story, his thoughts drifted back to the afternoon at the monument, and once again he saw the colossus brooding enigmatically in the shadowed coolness of its edifice, and heard his words uttered there returned, sounding small and hollow in his mind like words spoken in the depths of a well. Every time a man gives tongue to what he feels as against the doubts and restraints of his mind he’s taking a chance, he thought. He’s bared his head to foolishness and he tests his faith, and when he’s trying to guide and lead others he’s taken on a burden of guilt, because if he’s wrong he’s led them astray.

  Just the same, we shall see him and I shall see him and talk with him, he thought, and soon.

  Then, realizing that he was hungry, suddenly very hungry, he got up and dressed. He wanted ribs and leaving the room quietly he left the building and took a cab, directing the driver to a small, smoky restaurant which he had noticed earlier in the day.

  “That’s Moore’s,” the driver said. “I know the place.”

  “How are the ribs?” he said.

  “They’ll do all right—for up here.”

  “What do you mean, do they know how to barbecue or don’t they?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” the driver said, “If you don’t know too much about how ribs ought to be cooked, they’ll do. They have the hickory smoke—know what I mean?—and they baste them like they ought to….”

  “Yes?”

  “… and they serve a pretty good cole slaw and they have good greens with ham butts and bacon scraps cut up in them but not too greasy—know what I mean?”

  “Yes, that’s the way I like them.”

  “That’s right, me too. And they even have a sweet-potatoe pie which ain’t too heavy….”

  “Do they have them fried?”

  “Fried? The driver stepped on the brakes, lurching forward and looking back. “Man, where you come from?”

  Hickman laughed. “Why, I come from Georgia….”

  “You sure must be!” the driver said. “Why I haven’t even heard of a fried pie in twenty years. Now why don’t some of our people put some of them up for sale? That’s some of the best eating a man ever heard about. So you know about fried pies!”

  “I know and I love them,” he said.

  The car shot away, moving to the left lane as the driver leaned over the wheel.

  “Look,” he said, “I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to take you to a place where you can get some real ribs. Moore’s is okay for squares and folks in a hurry, but forget it—I know a place where they have the real hick’ry log fire, cole slaw, collards, spaghetti, potato salad, and some of the best hot sauce you ever et. That’s what Moore’s doesn’t have, the real honest-to-goodness down-home hot sauce. You go up there and you smell that smoke and see the meat laying out there on the rack and you say, ‘Uh huh, this man knows his business,’ but then you bite into some of that meat and something’s missing. That’s the hot sauce. Now as I see it, this here is hot weather and if a man is going to eat him some ribs then they ought to be the best he can get. And I’ma take you to the best you can get. I mean here in Washington. Because if you want some real barbecue you have to go to Virginia for that….”

  “I’ll settle for your place,” he said. “I’m too hungry and it’s too late to go to Virginia.”

  “Well, now, you just hold on! We’re going to Moore’s!”

  Leaving the cab, he could smell hickory smoke on the nighttime air, the bite of grease. The room was narrow and dimly lit and through the window he could see a long counter at which a number of men in shirtsleeves sat with heads bowed reverently over plates of food. From the rear, the blades of a large pedestal-mounted fan caught the light, droning loudly as it blew a warm, steady breeze toward the door, and as he entered he removed his topcoat and started toward a booth located to the side of the room and was startled to hear a voice call his name:

  “A.Z., what are you doing here?”

  It was Deacon Wilhite.

  “Me,” he laughed, “that’s what I should be asking you. I thought you were in bed.”

  “I was, but I must have gotten homesick because I woke up with barbecue on my mind, and since I was still worrying about seeing that boy I thought I’d just go somewhere and do my worrying over a plate of ribs….” He broke off, seeing a huge, dark-skinned, weary-looking waitress approaching as though on sore feet.

  “That’s all right, miss,” he called, “there’s no point in tiring yourself, just bring me the same thing my friend here has.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything, only you can make the servings a little heavier and see that all the ribs are little ends. And, miss, don’t hold back on the ice tea. I drink it by the gallon.”

  “Now, at this hour you’re the kind of customer I like,” she said. “A man who knows what he wants.”

  Smiling, she propped herself against the back of a swivel stool and called back to the kitchen, reading the order from a pad, and he could hear the cook answering as she sang out in a deep contralto voice,

  “A hefty breast of guinea hen …”

  “Yes!”

  “All from the little end….”

  “Uh huh!”

  “And make it nasty and sassy, ‘cause it’s for a coal heaver!”

  “Right! For a boarder and a heavy loader!”

  “Hit him with some swamp seed and let it come by Charleston with black eyes looking up at him … ‘cause he’s guilty.”

  “Guilty of what?”

  “Of being peckish!”

  “So he can use some swamp seed—and why not by New Orleans?”

  “It’s got to be from Charleston, I say, because he’s big and reachy and just might be Geechi….”

  “Yes, mam!”

  “A side of little Italy!”

  “Sing on!”

  “And a mound of Irish with the Bermuda to talk sweet to him! And make his collards easy ‘cause he knows that pig meat’s greasy!”

  “You mean he’s been around and had his ups and downs so now he wants his vittles,” the cook called.
“What else?”

  “That wraps it, darling,” the waitress called, “and don’t forget to sauce that breast.”

  Hickman laughed. “Wilhite,” he said, “it’s a good thing I dropped in here, because if you’re eating all the things she just ordered for me you’re liable to hurt yourself. How’re the ribs?”

  “Here,” Wilhite said, pushing his plate forward, “try some; they’re not the best but they’ll do.”

  Nibbling silently on the bone, he watched Wilhite enjoying his food, the gold edge of an open-faced crown catching the light as he stripped the meat delicately from a bone.

  “Look, A.Z.,” he said, “I’m sorry about the way things turned out today and I guess I said too much about the members too.”

  “No,” he said, “you were right; I shouldn’t have thought about using that address—even though I might have to do it as a last resort. And you told the truth about how the members feel about the boy. I know that it’s been years since most of them stopped expecting him to bring up the big fish that would feed the multitude. In fact, they only want him to explain what caused him to cut bait and run.”

  Suddenly Wilhite’s napkin flew to his mouth as he lowered his head over his plate and laughed.

  “A.Z.,” he sputtered, “every time I think you’re down in the whale’s belly I bat my eyes and, praise the Lord, there you are, laughing on the shore!

  “Well, A.Z., maybe you always expected too much from that child. Maybe the best he’s ever to do was done when he got your hopes and expectations aroused over the possibility that he would become a great preacher and leader….”*

  “No, it wasn’t him alone; it was the idea, the hope, maybe even the gamble. Anyway, I couldn’t have been completely mistaken in my hopes, because look where he is today.”

  “You said something there, A.Z. I don’t know what he was doing all the time we lost sight of him, but he’s caught his tens of thousands and what’s more, they don’t even seem to know that they’ve been hooked.”

  “Yes, you have to give the little devil his due,” Hickman said. “He’s really gone through some changes. Just the same, I’ve got to catch him because if I fail, it won’t be enough that the members might let me off the hook and forgive me for all the waste of time and emotion, I still have to be true to myself and to my promise to the Lord.”

  “You will, A.Z., and when you do there’s one thing I hope you’ll do for me….”

  “What’s that?”

  “I hope that after all these years you’ll tell me where on earth you got that baby. I’ve wondered about it and kept my peace for all these years, but now that things have come this far I’d like to know….”

  Hickman raised his head, seeing a wistful half smile on Wilhite’s face, the serious, almost pleading expression of his eyes, and put down his fork.

  “You deserve to know,” he said. “You were almost as close to him as I was and you went along with me on the basis of faith and friendship. But, Wilhite, it just ain’t my story to tell….”

  Wilhite waved his hand. “Now, I’m not pressing you,” he said, “but, A.Z., when this is settled with I want you to think about telling me. Just think about it, that’s all I ask.”

  “Very well, I’ll think about it, but right now we’d better come up with a plan, otherwise I’m going to be in serious trouble. Our people tend to treat us preachers with a strictness that they never would think of applying to a politician or a protest leader. It’s a weakness, as far as I’m concerned; one of our worst weaknesses. We don’t demand nearly as much from even those few white politicians who use us as a left-handed source of power.”

  “Yes, A.Z.,” Wilhite said, “and maybe that’s why among the original band of members no one except old Sister Caroline Prothoroe feels really bitter about the boy. The others accepted the fact that he turned politician a long time ago and let him off the hook. But after all these years that old woman still insists that he’s nothing but a backsliding minister. That’s why she’s never forgiven him for what he’s done.”

  “I know, and I hope I’m not being unfair, but I think that as far as Sister Caroline is concerned the boy could go to hell unredeemed; her main interest in our being up here is that it’s an opportunity for me to get some word concerning her brother.”

  “What brother?”

  “You remember her brother, Aubrey McMillen.”

  “You mean the one they used to call ‘Race Hoss’ McMillen?”

  “Yes, that’s what we used to call him. His real name is Aubrey.”

  “That’s right, A.Z., that fellow hasn’t been home in years! And you mean he lives here in Washington?”

  “That’s what she thinks. She asked me to try to persuade him to come to see her before she dies. He’s been living here ever since he and a white fellow got chased out of Kentucky over something they did that had to do with fixing a horse race. I promised her to see him, but if our boy keeps giving us the runaround, I don’t see how I’m going to do—”

  Suddenly he stopped, staring into his plate of ribs as he slapped his thigh with his palm.

  “Look, Wilhite,” he said, “I just had an idea.”

  “I’m glad it’s that,” Wilhite said, “because you look like you just saw a cockroach in your greens.”

  Hickman stood up, reaching for his coat and calling to the waitress, “Miss, may I have our check, please?”

  “Where’re you going, A.Z.?”

  “I’ve got a hunch and I’m going to play it. Now put aside those meatless bones and let’s get out of here.”

  Paying and tipping the waitress, they went outside into the heat of the night.

  “A.Z.,” Deacon Wilhite said, “where are you thinking about going at this hour?”

  “We’re going to find Aubrey McMillen.”

  “But why, man? With all we have to do in the morning?”

  “But that’s just it, Wilhite. I have to keep my promise to Sister Caroline and it just came to me that with liars like McMillen usually being such good observers, and that since he was around when the boy was a baby and has lived up here as long as he—”

  “Oh, so that’s it; you think he might have seen him operating up here and recognized him?”

  “That’s it, and isn’t it possible? I’m pretty sure a lot of our people have recognized him and have been watching him and kept quiet—so why not Aubrey? Maybe he can tell us how to reach him….”

  “I can think of a few reasons,” Wilhite said. “For one thing, he never paid attention to anything except women and horses—but since you’ve made up your mind, let’s go. I don’t suppose you forgot the address?”

  “No, Sister Caroline saw to that.”

  Taking a cab, they found the address in the middle of a quiet dark block, the silent three-story building located behind a shallow yard bordered by a hedge, and thanks to a glowing fanlight they had no difficulty in seeing the number 1369 above the entrance.

  “A.Z.,” Deacon Wilhite said, “if I were back in my old days policy playing and hadn’t been dreaming right I think I’d have some reservations about going in there.”

  “Yes, but now you’re a deacon, so come on. I don’t like to disturb a man at such an hour, but maybe when Aubrey hears why we’ve come he’ll understand….”

  Then, taking a step inside, he stopped short and caused Wilhite to stumble against him before he could thrust out his hand in warning but not in time to prevent Wilhite from stumbling against him.

  He had expected an empty vestibule with a row of apartment bells. Instead, he was looking upon a hall that was filled with men and women dressed in nightclothes. Crowding the dim stairs which led to the floors above, they pressed in a neck-craning mass around the brightly lit doorway of a room located a few feet down the hall to his right. A strong odor of whiskey was in the air, and seeing the crowd so intensely preoccupied by something happening inside he froze, signaling again for Wilhite to wait. Whereupon a shout from inside the room caused the crowd to move back and
he was surprised to see the backlighted form of a white man appear in the doorway.

  The man wore a narrow-brimmed straw hat, and as he gestured toward the crowd Hickman saw the cloth of his gray suit of synthetic silk rippling metallically in the light and then, hearing the man asking in an exasperated voice, “Didn’t I tell you people to clear this hall?” he thought, detective! and watched the man come forward.

  “That was over fifteen minutes ago,” the man said, “and here I come back and you’re still hanging around. Now this time I mean it—MOVE! Get back upstairs or I’ll place the lot of you under arrest!”

  “A.Z.,” said Wilhite, behind him, “is that a policeman?”

  But as he turned, saying “yes,” a shrill, feminine voice knifed down from the shadow of the stairs:

  “You do it, mister! You just go ahead and do it!”

  And now looking up through the dim light to the top of the stairwell he saw a tiny, dark-skinned woman who was blazing down at the white man out of a pair of extremely crossed eyes. Standing beneath a bare electric bulb, she wore a coarse haired, oversized auburn wig, an assortment of bunched curls, loops, and dangling sidepieces which sat awkwardly atop a narrow, intense face. The wig gave her the air of a mad duchess and as she stared down imperiously at the white man she screamed, “Why don’t you go on and get started? We all know that you’re just burning to get brutal with us. So why don’t you go ahead? It’s your trade, isn’t it—brutalizing folks like us? So go ahead and arrest us! ARREST US! We know you won’t be satisfied until you’ve done something violent to somebody. But, mister, before you start your head-whipping let me tell you one doggone thing: We live here, you hear that? This is our home! We pay taxes and we pay rent and we have the right to know what’s been happening to our neighbors. And what’s more, we don’t need you coming in here interfering with our rights. This is a community!”

  “Look, lady,” the white man said, “if you don’t want the law on your premises all you have to do is to keep them orderly. Meanwhile, there’s an investigation going on inside there and I have my orders. So now get back to your rooms because I want this hall cleared!”

  Turning now, he took a step backwards, bumping into Wilhite as he whispered, “Move out, Deacon, this is no place for us….”