Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

“I’m talking about that ole prideless rascal they had sitting in a rocking chair besides that big dirty bale of cotton, and him propped up on a walking cane and holding a dinner bell!”

  “Oh, forget him, Sister Bea,” someone said, “we have other things to worry about.”

  “I might forgive him,” the woman said, “but I won’t ever forget him. Just imagine somebody in this day and age helping to insult his own people!”

  “You mean to tell me that thing was alive,” one of the men said. “I thought it was a dummy!”

  “Dummy my foot,” another man said, “that old grayheaded clown was probably pretending that ole rocking chair got him just after he made enough money to buy him a cotton-picking machine and a Cad’llac! Yeah! And so now he’s just taking his ease and watching the world flow by.”

  “That’s right!” another brother said. “And getting paid for jiving the white folks!”

  “You can laugh if you want to,” the big woman said, “but it ain’t funny. No, sir! It ain’t funny worth a damn—and may the Lord forgive me for saying so, because a thing like that is a terrible burden for the rest of us to bear….”

  Luggage in arm and hand, the group lurched ahead in short-stepping haste to one of the many taxi stands, where with the aid of the dispatcher a small fleet of taxis was assembled. Then, with the dispatcher stepping aside and looking on in bemusement, the towering dark-brown-skinned Negro man saw to it that the group arranged themselves beside the machines with a minimum of talk and milling about. This done, the big Negro made his way to a public telephone, dialed a number, and carried on a brief conversation. Completing his call, he started back and stopped short when he noted that the dispatcher’s blue wind-breaker had a pair of dice stenciled on its back. Then, shaking his head, he returned and began assigning the group their seats while pausing anxiously from time to time to consult an old-fashioned gold watch attached to a thick gold chain suspended between the widely spaced pockets of his vast expanse of vest. Communicating mostly by slight nods and gestures, his voice seldom arose above a hoarse whisper—until, just as he climbed in beside the driver of the lead taxi, the dispatcher inquired, in a manner that betrayed something more than a professional interest, their destination.

  Whereupon, clearing his throat, the big man’s mellow baritone sounded through the din of the terminal’s traffic: “We’d like,” he said, “to be driven to the offices of Senator Sunraider.”

  The effect was electric. Suddenly, with eyes widening and forehead lifting the shiny visor of his cap skyward, the dispatcher’s hands flew from the pockets of his blue windbreaker to the roof of the taxi.

  “What,” he said, bending forward. “Did you say Sunraider?”

  “That’s right,” the big man said. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Why no,” the dispatcher said, “but do you mean all of you?”

  “That’s right,” the big Negro said, “to Senator Sunraider’s office. And, sir, we’d appreciate it if you’d tell the drivers that it’s important that they get us there as fast as possible. After circling around up there in the air for over forty-five minutes we’re fast running out of time….”

  Pausing, the big man snatched out a worn wallet, removed five one-dollar bills, and thrust them out of the window. “We’d appreciate it very much,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” the dispatcher said as he pocketed the money. “Your problem is a storm from somewhere out southwest. It’s been fouling things up all morning. But don’t worry, now that you’re down to earth we’ll get you there, and fast. The building you want is only a hop and a skip away.”

  Then, looking across into the face of the driver, a small, wiry, light-skinned man who had been listening and looking his passengers over with an expression compounded of big-city condescension, disassociation, and incredulity, the dispatcher struck the taxi’s door with his palm.

  “Well,” he roared, “what’re you waiting for? You heard the man, so get them out of here!”

  “Yeah,” the driver said, his voice deliberately flat and hollow as he shifted his machine into gear. “Right on….”

  Shaking his head, the dispatcher watched until the last of the line of taxis had pulled away, then hurried to his station and dialed the number of a leading newspaper, asking for a reporter with whom he had an agreement to supply information regarding any unusual incidents that might occur at the airport, and carried on a conversation that was punctuated by wheezing intervals of laughter.

  “I don’t know who they are,” he said into the mouthpiece, “but I’m telling you that there’s quite a bunch of them.”

  “…”

  “Why? Now that you’ll have to tell me. You’re the reporter….”

  “…”

  “When? Hell, just now! That why I called you, McIntyre, they just took off….”

  “Now, how would I know what for? Maybe they’re taking him some Southern-fried chicken and candied yams. Anyway, they’re headed for Sunraider’s offices!”

  “…”

  “Yes! That’s right, Sunraider! The big fellow who seems to be the HNIC just told me….”

  “…”

  “Oh, excuse me, I forgot that you’re a Northern boy—it means the ‘Head Negro in charge’; in other words, their leader.”

  “…”

  “That’s all I know, so if you’re interested you’d better get over there!” And now, shaking with laughter, the dispatcher hung up.

  Arriving at the Senator’s office building, the big man leaped from his seat and rushed to the next taxi in line to consult with a smaller man seated beside the driver. Nodding his head energetically, the little man got out and hurried back along the line of taxis. The big man looked on, consulting his watch and looking toward the building and then back to where now, as the smaller man moved past, each of the taxis was swiftly emptied. And now as the drivers placed luggage on the sidewalk in front of the building’s entrance the owners assembled themselves silently beside their possessions. The process completed, the big man walked nimbly to the end of the line and started back, looking inside each of the vehicles to see that nothing had been overlooked. Then, after paying and tipping the drivers from his wallet, he herded the group, each with luggage in hand, into the building.

  Upon their entrance, the several uniformed security men stationed in the lobby exchanged quick glances and came to attention, surprised by the sudden influx of Negroes. Then as the big man saw two of the guards detatching themselves and starting forward he raised his hand, gesturing for the group to halt where they were. They complied immediately, whispering and gazing at the tall pillars and high ceiling, while he continued forward and asked that the security men direct them to Senator Sunraider’s office.

  Once again his very mention of the Senator’s name appeared to arouse first surprise and then puzzlement. However, the guards were polite, and after checking and recording the big man’s identification, he was instructed to have the group fall in behind the guard who would escort them to the elevator.

  Following in a silent mass, the group matched the guard’s military pace with a bustling show of informal discipline as he led them through the broad sweep of the lobby to a bank of elevators.

  “What are you people,” the guard said, addressing the big Negro, “some kind of delegation?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” the big Negro said.

  “A protest group?”

  “Us?” The big Negro looked suprised. “Don’t tell me that that’s what we look like to you….”

  The guard grinned. “Well … not really,” he said, scanning the group with a quick glance over his shoulder.

  “I certainly hope not,” the big Negro said.

  “But what are you?”

  The big Negro looked down and smiled. “You might say that we’re just a group of friends.”

  “Friends? You mean you’re Quakers?”

  “Oh, no, sir, I didn’t mean that kind—although I’ll have to admit that we have been k
nown to do a little shaking from time to time. Yes, sir! But all I meant was that we’re ‘well-wishers’—that type of friends. The kind that stick closer than brothers.”

  “To Senator Sunraider?”

  “That’s right,” the big Negro said, looking at the guard with a blank face, “at a bit of a distance, maybe; but still friends….”

  “Here we are,” the guard said as they had reached the bank of elevators where one of the doors was sliding open.

  “So you’re friends,” the guard said, looking up at the big Negro with his thumbs stuck in his Sam Browne belt. “So now I can truly say that I’ve heard everything.”

  “Well at least some of everything,” the big Negro said, stepping aside as the group started into the elevator, “but as you must know, there’s nothing really new under the sun, it’s a matter of how old things fit together under different conditions. Ain’t that right?”

  “Yes, I guess so,” the guard said. “Sure.”

  “All the way to the rear, folks,” the big Negro said with a chuckle, “all the way….”

  Thanks to the sudden illness of the regular receptionist, and the failure of the switchboard operator to warn her, the group was received by no less than the Senator’s confidential secretary, a middle-aged blonde who was totally unprepared for their arrival. Thus, hearing a stir from her office, she entered the reception room and stopped short, visibly dismayed by the group who continued to enter.

  Looming like phantoms out of her deep Southern past, the sudden intrusion of Negroes appeared about evenly divided between males and females. And as the group pressed in from the hall she noted that the women were dressed in severe white uniforms and wearing small ruffled caps worn tied beneath their chins with flat ribbons which she knew to be traditional to deaconesses of certain Protestant denominations—but why here? There was also a uniformity about the men that centered in their black summer suits, white shirts, and black ties, that was relieved only by the variety of their hats. Which, as the bucks stood looking somewhat ill at ease in the mellow, walnut-paneled elegance of the reception room, were held pressed against their left chests in a formal Southern gesture of respect commonly displayed at funerals or on occasions calling for grave patriotic decorum. It was a sign of deep respect, but the fact that the regular receptionist’s absence made it necessary that she perform, even briefly, in a capacity beneath her official status (and this on behalf of the most unexpected and least desired of visitors that it had ever been her fate to receive) was so annoying that the men’s solemn gesture aroused instant feelings of distrust and resentment.

  As she stood scanning their inscrutable faces she could not recall ever having encountered any of the group before, but their sudden unannounced presence in the reception room was so dream-like that it evoked a background of emotional issues that marked them as automatically suspect—exactly of what, she had no idea. But there was no question in her mind that they had not arrived for a prayer meeting. And since she could not believe that such as they could ever associate anything having to do with the Senator with patriotic emotion their solemn appearance was simply illogical. For the Senator’s sentiments regarding their race were widely known, if not notorious. Therefore, their very presence was enough in itself to arouse suspicion, and their acting as though they had come to pay him their respect suggested motives that were dark and devious. Indeed, she could feel it at work behind their bland nigra faces.

  They can’t possibly feel the way they’re pretending, she thought in her native vernacular, but whatever they’re up to it isn’t going to work. Not with me! The nerve of their barging in here!

  But here, nevertheless, they were—the last of them, an old man, now closing the door—and had to be dealt with.

  By quick calculation there were about fifty, all peering silently into her face with that depressing nigra-solemn, nigra-patient yet demanding stare they always assumed when insisting—and against all logic, power, and tradition—upon having their own nigra way. They looked the same way on the breadlines back during the Depression except these didn’t seem hungry. Nigras!

  And what a lot! Old mammy nigras dressed in uniforms made from surplus nylon parachute material and loaded down with satchels, picnic baskets, and fans. And old nigra uncles standing in awkward military postures beside a collection of suitcases, baskets, battered briefcases, and what looked like a trombone case that stood upright in front of one of them. Then she saw that most of the group was clutching firmly in his or her gnarled hands a worn and much battered Bible!

  And wouldn’t you know it, she thought, forever trying to mix religion into any and everything. What on earth do they think they’re up to, bringing their ignorant nigra religion into this office? The calls we’ve been getting from nigra leaders here in Washington are bad enough—and now these!

  Then, as someone in the rear cleared his throat, she noted that the group had arrayed themselves in a neat semicircle according to sex, and it occurred to her that they might be gospel singers. Perhaps that was the answer. They were a group of old-time nigras who’d come to Washington hoping to sing for their supper. If so, they’re in for a disappointment because Senator simply can’t stand that—or any other—kind of nigra yelling….

  Now, as she looked around, so many nigras had crowded into the reception room that its Williamsburg funiture, its collection of early-American paintings, framed facsimiles of historical documents, and pedestal-mounted white marble bust of Vice President Calhoun were overshadowed. It was as though the nigras had brought with them an atmosphere of such incongruous dissonance that the room’s usual tranquillity now resonated discord. So much so that she restrained herself from ordering them to leave only by reminding herself that the Senator’s role as legislator made it imperative that even such undesirable visitors as these were to be accorded at least a formal show of politeness. Well, she thought, I am being polite, so why don’t they speak their piece and get it over with? But of course! Being nigras they’re recognizing that it is, after all, my prerogative to have the first word….

  “I,” the secretary said, “am Miss Pryor, Senator Sunraider’s secretary. May I help you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you can,” a deep voice said—and she was aware of a big, brown-skinned nigra man who was moving away from the group and coming to stand a few feet before her.

  “Miss Pryor,” the big nigra said, “my name is Hickman … Reverend Alonzo Hickman …”

  “… Who’s better known,” a woman added in a voice which throbbed with pride, “as God’s Righteous Trombone….”

  “Who,” the secretary began with a blink behind her glasses then caught herself. “Oh I see,” she said, suppressing a smile as her eyes flashed to the instrument case. “And so, Reverend, what is your business with the Senator?”

  “First, ma’am,” the nigra Hickman said, “I’d like to introduce the gentleman on my right, who is one of our leaders, Deacon Wilhite….”

  “I’m most pleased to meet you, ma’am,” the short intense nigra on the nigra Hickman’s right said, and bent with a courtly bow.

  “And the rest of our group,” the nigra Hickman continued, “are all leading members of our congregation. We arrived in Washington just a few minutes ago from Georgia, and—”

  “… Did you say from Georgia?” the secretary said.

  “Yes, ma’am; all the way from Georgia, our home state. And we hurried here as fast as the taxis could bring us without breaking the law….”

  “That’s very interesting,” the secretary said with a smile, “but for what purpose?”

  “So that we could have a brief talk with Senator Sunraider, ma’am.”

  “And may I ask the subject of your proposed talk?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you certainly may. It’s about a development that is most important to the Senator….”

  “Important? And does the Senator know about it?”

  The nigra Hickman cocked his head, his eyes glancing thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Yes, ma’am
, he knows about it, but he hasn’t been informed about what has recently developed because of it.”

  “I don’t understand—because of what?”

  “Because of the matter we came up here to see him about.”

  “Are you saying that he’s familiar with the matter in question?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he is.”

  “Then why was it necessary …”

  “… For us to come here?”

  The secretary nodded, searching the bland nigra face through horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Because, ma’am, there has been a new, very urgent development that came to our attention only a few days ago.”

  “And you came all the way to Washington to tell him about it?”

  “That’s right, ma’am….”

  “But why didn’t you simply write him; wouldn’t that have been more convenient?”

  “Well, ma’am, it might have been for us, but not for him; that’s because it has to do with something that’s so private that we felt that he should hear it directly from us.”

  “Private to whom, may I ask? Yourselves?”

  “I meant to the Senator, ma’am.”

  Behind her glasses the secretary’s eyes widened in a gesture of disbelief. “But for a group as large as yours such a trip must have to be terribly expensive,” she said. “Are you sure that you aren’t really thinking of yourselves?”

  Suddenly the nigra Hickman smiled as though caught in a trick. “There was a bit of that, ma’am, but only to the extent that receiving the information the way we did, and knowing what we already knew of its background forced us to think beyond simply knowing what we knew and sitting on it and on to the point where we had to recognize that knowing it placed us under the pressing obligation of getting our information to the Senator as fast, and as directly, as possible. So, yes, ma’am, you might say we were thinking about ourselves. But, like I say, that was only because we were thinking about him.”

  Sorting the confusing answer in her mind, the secretary reddened, shifting her feet, and decided to try a different approach.

  “Doctor Hickman,” she said, stressing the “doctor,” “are you at all acquainted with the Senator? Have you ever met him?”