And now, stepping to the side, Hickman nodded to Deacon Wilhite and stood looking each of his group in the eye as they stepped into the lobby.
With luggage in hand the group stood waiting as the captain stood back and began looking them over.
“How many do we have?” he called to the guards behind him.
“An even fifty,” a guard called back; “I just made the count.”
“And exactly just what did she say they were doing?”
“Nothing in particular,” the guard Nelson said. “They just refused to leave.”
“So what does she want done with them?”
[TROMBONE]
“ALL SHE SAID WAS get them out of the reception room.”
“And that was it?”
“Yes, sir; that’s all she said.”
“These secretaries are a pain in the butt,” the captain said, “and especially the Senator’s. Last time it was a worm in an apple, and now this!”
And as he gazed at the new source of trouble he turned abruptly to Hickman.
“Just what,” he snapped, “are you folks doing with all that luggage?”
“Our plane was late,” Hickman said, “so rather than miss our appointment we came here directly from the airport….”
“Airport? Did you just arrive in the city?”
“Yes, sir, we did.”
“From where?”
“From Atlanta …”
“From Atlanta! And you came all that distance to see Senator Sunraider?”
“Yes, sir; we did.”
“Now isn’t that interesting,” the captain roared as he wheeled toward the guards, “a flock of … of … A flock like this flies all that distance to bug the Senator, and you let them get up to his offices! I wouldn’t believe it, but it sure gives this thing a different complexion!”
And turning to Hickman he roared, “Okay, mister preacher, since you-all come from Georgia I’d better have a closer look at you. So have your people line up against that wall over there.”
“Good Lord, Reverend,” Sister Gipson groaned, “after all that time in the air we end up getting no-wheres!”
“What was that?” the captain barked as he whirled to face her.
“That’s right,” Sister Gipson said, “because up here we’re being treated no better than back in Georgia.”
“You should have thought about that before you flew up here causing trouble! Now get over there with the rest of the girls and form me a line standing shoulder to shoulder!
“And you-all,” he barked as he turned toward the brothers, “get over there and join them!”
“Do as he says,” Hickman said. And as the members moved toward the wall and began placing their luggage on the floor before them he kept an eye on the captain.
From his accent this fellow sounds Southern, he thought, but he’s surely no gentleman. And now that he’s feeling his power we’d better make use of our self-control….
And as he watched the captain dramatizing his sense of superiority by approaching each of the members with a stare which was meant to intimidate he reacted with a feeling of disgust and irony—until, seeing him reach Brother Jefferson and stare down at his trombone case, he tensed with a frown.
“What have you in there?” the captain said.
“It’s a slide trombone,” Brother Jefferson said.
“A trom-bone? So you’re a musician!”
“No, sir,” Brother Jefferson said. “It belongs to our pastor.”
Turning abruptly, the captain called, “Reverend, are you the owner of this instrument?”
“Yes, sir,” Hickman said, “it’s mine.”
“But aren’t you a preacher?”
“That’s true, but I’m also a musician….”
“And you play the trombone?”
“Yes, sir; for many years, both before and after….”
“… Before and after—what does that mean?”
“I meant before and after I entered my ministry.”
And seeing the captain take the hands-on-hips stance of a general, he thought, So now it’s coming….
“You sure you don’t have something other than a trombone in there?” the captain said. “Maybe a machine gun?”
“A machine gun? Well now, if that’s what you think, maybe you’d better have a look and see for yourself…. But Captain, I’m telling you in front …”
“… You’re telling me what?”
“That you’ll have to be satisfied with looking.”
“Oh, yeah? And how do you figure that?”
“Because I’m not even about to prove to you that I know how to play that instrument. The case is unlocked, so go ahead and satisfy yourself.”
And bristling with anger the captain snatched up the case.
“I’ll do just that, and since you came here creating a disturbance I’m having every damned one of you searched—bags, baggage, and picnic baskets!”
Watching the captain kneel and begin opening his trombone case, Hickman surged with annoyance. Because evidently the captain was of the type who would regard his trombone as nothing more than an absurd device he used in exploiting what many whites disdained as a heathenish form of religion. But whatever the captain might think, his trombone had long been the agency through which he gave lyrical expression to his emotions, hopes, and spiritual gropings. And from his boyhood it had been the magical instrument through which he had sought to achieve a sense of himself, and in seeking to master its capacity for giving expression to moods, ideas, and inspirational moments he had come to recognize and express the spiritual dimension of his innermost being. Thus, over the years his trombone had become the instrumental extension of his God-given voice and the agency through which he had become skilled in defining and projecting his dreams, hopes, and yearnings. And this whether they took the form of the blues, the spirituals, or improvised jazz. And through the broad sweep of its range, tone, and timbre he had learned the secret of moving his listeners beyond the deceptive limitations of words and into those misty regions of existence wherein all things, whether sacred or profane, time-bound or timeless, were constantly mingled. Thus for years his trombone had served as his rod and his staff, and like Jacob’s ladder an earthly vehicle of spiritual transcendence. And in watching its transcendental aura being profaned he could barely resist snatching it out of the captain’s white hands.
“And what’s this thing you have in here with it?” the white man said as he fingered a round rubber object.
“That’s a matter of the user and how he employs it. Attached to a stick it’s a tool for suction….”
“… Suction? Hell, this damned thing is a toilet plunger!”
“That’s right, but not on a bandstand….”
“So what’s it doing in here?”
“Now that,” Hickman said as he seized the opportunity for striking back at the captain, “is because of a miracle….”
“A what?”
“That’s right, a miracle which occurred long ago during a big public dance in New Orleans. And it came to pass after one of the musicians made the mistake of misplacing his mute. Which for the musician was terribly upsetting, because he was famous for the voice-like effects which his mute provided his playing. Therefore the idea of disappointing his listeners became so disturbing that it sent him speeding on a trip to the men’s room. But he was still upset, and when he saw one of those you’re holding standing beside the toilet a miracle took place….”
“Now wait!”
“That’s right, but only after the musician underwent a fierce inner struggle. He couldn’t figure why he was doing such a thing, but being desperate to maintain his fine reputation and artistic standards, he removed the rubber cup from its wooden stick and washed it. And then, still puzzled by his sudden urge to handle something so filthy, he dried it, stuck it in his pocket, and returned to the bandstand. But it wasn’t until he’d pressed its flexible end to the bell of his horn that he began to understand just why his
hands had moved so much faster in the men’s room than his mind was able. But when his time came to improvise on one of his favorite tunes, he arose in the spotlight with his horn in one hand and the toilet plunger in the other, he started to sweat and tremble. And no wonder, because when folks on the dance floor saw him they began laughing so hard that he felt like a fool. But being a professional he bowed and signaled the drummer to accelerate the rhythm and come to his aid. And once he got blowing and muting his horn with that plunger the sound it produced was so thrilling that he brought down the house.”
“Amen,” one of the members shouted. “Amen!”
“‘Amen’ is right,” Hickman said, “because now folks were applauding with pleasure and dancing like mad. So with that an ordinary toilet plunger moved from bathroom to bandstand and became a musical instrument of spiritual dimensions….”
“Now look here,” the captain said, “are you trying to kid me?”
“No, sir, I’m just describing one of the many miracles that happen and go fairly unnoticed. As when a simple tin can becomes a fine vase when it’s filled with beautiful flowers. By the way, you weren’t always a captain, or were you?”
Looking up with his face suddenly crimson, the captain glared.
“I’m asking the questions,” he growled, “and don’t you forget it!”
And holding the trombone’s slide in one clumsy hand and its bell in the other, the white man drew erect.
“What the hell,” he growled. “Is this all there is to this thing?”
And seeing the captain frown as though examining a dangerous weapon, Hickman lost patience.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “that’s all except for the mouthpiece, the lips, the lungs, and musicianship that’s needed to sound it. You’ll find the mouthpiece in the little compartment at the end of the case. And don’t get upset by the fluid you see in the bottle that’s with it, it’s only the oil I use in lubricating the slide.”
Bending again, the captain took a brief look. And now, pulling erect, he thrust the ungainly trombone toward Brother Jefferson.
“Never mind,” he said with a glare at Hickman. “Forget it.”
“Does that mean you’re letting us go?” Hickman said.
“No, not even as far as you could tilt Lincoln’s monument!”
And turning to the guards behind him the captain growled, “You, Kim-brough, get on with it! Open the rest of those bags. And Macklin, you and Traver give him a hand. And you, Nelson, start searching their bodies!”
“Not the women,” Nelson said with alarm. “You don’t really mean that, do you, Captain?”
With a stare at Hickman the captain grinned.
“The hell I don’t! In a situation like this they could be dangerous gun molls, so get on with it!”
And now, seeing the captain approach, Hickman raised his arms and remained silent lest he trigger the brothers’ resistance. And with a blank expression he watched as the group began quietly submitting.
In spite of the captain’s insults the sisters appeared amused that anyone should consider them dangerous, and for the first time he saw a release of tension which was usually concealed by their quiet immobility. It was as though being subjected to a familiar pattern of their lives had released their self-protective capacity for irony; which, supported by their religion, had made their lives endurable. So now they were responding to the absurdity of being searched for weapons by exchanging sly winks and looks of astonishment.
Thank the Lord, he thought, that we’re still able to laugh at things intended to intimidate and insult us. It’s been a harsh discipline but without it, how could we hope to face up to even the routine, everyday insanity of folks like this captain? Where any reasonably sane person would look at our age and attitude and see that we’re law-abiding, he insults us by treating us like criminals. And simply because we came here to speak with a senator. And not to accuse or rebuke him, or ask for favors, but in order to help him. But hardly do we open our mouths than we’re in a struggle of words with that woman who’s so wrapped up in the white folks’ games of Who’s in Charge, and Keep the Nigger in His Place that she can’t get our message for worrying about the blackness of the messengers. And it didn’t help that we’d learned to deal with that kind of game so long ago that we politely ignored it, she still jumps salty and calls for the guards—so we end up down here being pawed over by a gang of flunkies loaded down with blackjacks, pistols, and billy clubs!
And yes, he thought with an inward smile, with sawed-off Gatling guns! And seeing the captain squat with a grunt and begin slapping him about his calves and his ankles he looked down at the white, recently shaved neck and saw traces of talcum.
Hickman, he thought, it seems that no matter whatever a man’s brain orders his body to do out of vanity it can only obey according to its condition and structure. And sometimes the result is ridiculous. Just look at the position it’s put this one in! So busy showing off his power that he can’t see that he has to get down on his knees to do it!
But now with a grunt, the captain arose and moved to where his men were examining lunch boxes and baskets and finding nothing more lethal than Southern-fried chicken, hard-boiled eggs, store-cheese, soda crackers and bologna, peanut-butter and pork-chop sandwiches, and desserts consisting of chocolate cakes and fried sweet-potato pies. And warmed by the members’ good humor he thought, Hickman, maybe this clown has a bit of truth going for him after all, because a bad fried pie can be deadly!
And with a blank expression he watched two of the older ladies making light of the situation by responding to one of the guards’ orders with coquettish smiles and spinning on the floor in their flat-heeled shoes. A gesture which caused their ankle-length skirts to whirl flirtatiously as they giggled as gaily as green young girls. And now, a bit farther down the line, Brother Matt Smith was sharing their mockery.
With shoulders braced and head erect, Brother Matt was high-stepping in place and performing a straight-faced put-down of the guards’ military manners by barking, “Yas, suh! Right, Suh! Very good, Suh!” and punctuating the guard’s commands by stamping his foot on the floor.
I guess that’s as good a way as any of reminding a youngster that you fought and survived a couple of wars, Hickman thought. But now, seeing a guard step close to Brother Provo, he recalled the reputation which the old man had acquired during his days on the Galveston docks and prepared for trouble.
Wearing a black felt hat and standing far back in his knees with his slanting shoulders relaxed and arms hanging loosely, Brother Provo’s flat-nosed, lean-jawed head looked as though it had been squashed into the collar of his shirt by the weight of a boulder. In profile he appeared to be dozing—but now as the guard bent forward and gave a command, it was as though a warning signal had flashed in the path of a highballing train. For now in a flurry of movement, Brother Provo’s outstretched arms were pumping the air as though he intended to clasp the guard to his bosom. But instead, leaping backwards, he assumed the crouch of a veteran street fighter—from which, balancing lightly on the tips of his nob-toed shoes with hands at the ready, he watched the guard out of fierce narrow eyes. And as Hickman moved to intervene he saw the guard’s hand fly to his holster and froze, looking on.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the guard said. “You hard of hearing or something?”
“What do you think you’re doing,” Brother Provo said, “coming up on a man like that! And never mind my hearing, my ears is as good as yourn—yeah, and a heap more experienced!”
“Then you know that I told you to remove your hat, not show me your combat moves!”
“Yeah, and that’s what I thought you said.”
“Then why don’t you do it?”
“Because I like to think a bit before I take off my hat to any man, that’s why. Especially when he giving me orders like I got no choice except to obey him. But in case you don’t know it, a man can always choose when to die!”
And in the sudden hush Hickman’s
voice boomed as though shouted through a bullhorn, “BROTHER PROVO!”
“I’m hearing you, Reveren’,” Brother Provo said. “What is it?”
“Look at me, Brother….”
With eyes still fixed on the guard, Brother Provo shook his head.
“Reveren’, I said I’m listening, ain’t that enough at a time like this?”
“Very well, I understand,” Hickman said, “but listen carefully: I sympathize with how you feel, but since our business here is important, don’t you think you ought to take your hat off so that we can end this foolishness?”
For a long interval Brother Provo remained silent, but just as he started to repeat his question Hickman saw the brother’s narrow eyes shift to his own.
“Revern’, maybe you’re right,” Brother Provo said, “but this fellow’s coming up on a man all of a sudden and telling him to off with his hat raises some questions. This here’s supposed to be Washington, D.C., ain’t it?”
“Right! And if this was down home he wouldn’t tell you to remove your hat, he’d knock it off. Otherwise everything you’re signifying is true. But when you remember that this man is only following orders you can afford to indulge him….”
“All right, so I’ll do it. But some day I hope you’ll explain why it is that we’re always the ones who have to do the indulging!”
Glancing away to catch sight of the captain’s reaction, Hickman saw him looking over the shoulder of a sister who had stepped out of line for a better view, and looking back he saw Brother Provo removing his hat from his bald, battle-scarred head. And now slowly turning the black hat upside down Brother Provo was extending it toward the guard.
Careful now, Hickman thought, because if I heard him right he’s changed his strategy but still resisting—and saw Brother Provo wait until the guard’s fingers reached out, and reaching inside the hat and flipping out its leather sweatband he turned the crown upright and gave it a tap which sent a small green wad to the floor in a flash.
“Would you look at that,” Brother Provo said with mock surprise as the guard dropped to one knee in retrieving the green object.
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 78