Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  And now in the sonorous shadows beneath his widespread arms they bowed their heads and prayed.

  [RETURN]

  PRECEDING THE BROTHERS AND sisters in their descent from the memorial, Hickman paused on its steps to look far across the Mall to where the broad Tidal Basin mirrored the sky. The banks of the basin were accented by trees whose branches were pale pink with blossoms, and above the curve of its southernmost bank the Jefferson Memorial loomed majestic and white in the sunlight. Then turning back to the steps below he looked beyond the reflecting pool to the Washington Monument and on to the far distant dome of the Capitol. Reflected in its pool Lincoln’s marble-clad memorial rippled and swayed, and the reflections of visitors arrayed on its steps were bobbing and weaving in the breeze-ruffled water like figures in a dream sequence from a historical movie. And far beyond the pool and the Mall’s stretch of stone structures and trees the nation’s grand Building of State glowed in a brilliance of light that reduced scrambling people and lines of traffic to hazy meshes of fluid silhouettes.

  The scene was marked by an aura of grandeur, but in viewing it now through the mixed emotions evoked by the great sculpture behind him he was suddenly disheartened. And as he continued his descent of the memorial’s steps there came from somewhere behind and above him the choked sobbing of a sister who gave mournful voice to his depressed state of mind.

  Nor were he and the mournful sister alone, for as he observed the others descending in silence it was as though they too were measuring the harsh realities which now shaped their lives against the high hopes inspired by the man whose image sat brooding behind them in stone. And this after he had anticipated that visiting the memorial would mark the high point of their tour through the shifty hall of mirrors called “history.” But after assuming that a visual contact with its ambiguities would leave them exalted and refreshed for the task still ahead, he now realized that his thoughtless enthusiasm had been a mistake. For having long regarded the memorial as the nation’s troublesome commemoration of its moment of high tragedy he had failed to prepare them for its emotional impact, and thus left them exposed to moods marked by grave doubts and deep sadness.

  Yes, and he himself had darkened that mood with his own uncontrolled response to the edifice. Clearly, he was responsible; for in giving voice to a conflict of feelings inspired by the man whom he considered the greatest of the nation’s heroes he had dimmed their hopes and defeated his motive for leading them there.

  Yes, Hickman, he thought, you were so eager to give them bread that you’ve ended up giving them stones….

  In keeping with Wilhite’s arrangement, the bus was waiting for their return to the Longview. And after all were seated he climbed aboard and responded to questioning glances with smiles and nods as he made his way to the rear of the bus, where Wilhite and the brothers had gathered.

  The bus moved slowly, stop-and-go in the now heavy traffic, and as he sat meditating on his response to the memorial he found himself listening, at first remotely and then with attention, to Wilhite holding forth on the subject of Abraham Lincoln’s mixed attitude toward slavery and the consideration which the President had shown for the defeated owners of slaves. And suddenly he recalled looking up in the shadows of the edifice to see tears in his old friend’s eyes.

  But now a note of contention in Wilhite’s argument suggested that his old friend was struggling to throw off the memorial’s spell and sounding a warning, both to himself and his listeners, against confusing the emotion aroused by the sculpture with the present-day realities that denied in millions of contentious ways the cost in blood, sacrifice, and hopes unfulfilled that accounted for its presence, there on the Washington Mall.

  Pretty soon, he thought, Wilhite will be applying an antidote like the one we used in the old days when we marched from the saddest of burials playing happy tunes to rhythms that swung. So after my dampening their spirits he’ll try to give them a lift with an equivalent of “Oh, Didn’t He Ramble.”

  “Looking at it hard and cold,” Wilhite was saying, “and in the light of what’s happening to us these days, no matter how a man might feel in his heart he has got to be at least as skeptical about what happened back there as Old Uncle Ned….”

  “… Ned?” one of the brothers said. “Are you talking about old Uncle Ned Wilhite?”

  “You can say that,” Wilhite said, “although he was better known simply as ‘Uncle’ or ‘Ned.’ Now, I don’t maintain that Uncle Ned was right, and in fact I know that he wasn’t. But I do have to sympathize with him because of what was happening back there when the South and the North were fighting. Anyway, on this particular day Uncle Ned was struggling down a muddy backcountry road pulling his old bone-dry cow along on a rope that was hardly more than a string. He was looking for some grass and doing his best to get her off that road because it was used by white folks on horses. But as luck would have it, here come some Yankee cavalry men busting out of the woods, and after looking him over one of them yells, ‘Hey there, Uncle, on which side of this ruckus are you?’ And with that Uncle Ned knew he was in trouble. But when his ear tells him that they’re Northern white folks he smiles and says, ‘Yas, suh, Captain, suh, but before I tell you that kin I ask you a question?’

  “‘Why sure,’ says the Yankee in charge, ‘go right ahead.’

  “‘Thank you, Captain, suh,’ says Uncle Ned, ‘but before I tell you there’s one thing I’d like to know. And that’s if you ever seen two dogs a-fightin’ over a bone?’

  “‘Why, yes,’ the Northern white man said, ‘many times—but I can’t see what that’s got to do with whose side you’re on….’

  “‘Naw, suh, Cap’n’, said Uncle Ned, ‘but that’s only because I ain’t finished my questioning. So now heah’s the rest: When them dogs was tryin’ to kill each other in order to see which one would get it, did the bone jump in there and start taking sides?’

  “‘Well I be dog!’ the Northern white man said. ‘I never thought of it in those terms. Uncle, you’ve got something there. Yes, sir!’ And he took his men and rode away.

  “‘You doggone right, I have,’ says Uncle Ned, and headed down the road pulling his bone-dry cow as fast as he was able….”

  And while the other brothers laughed, Wilhite looked on with a blank expression.

  “Now Uncle Ned was using his thinking piece,” someone said with a laugh.

  “Yes,” Wilhite said, “and he got out of that one scot-free. But hardly are those Yankees out of sight than he looks up and here comes a bunch of Confederates riding out of the woods at breakneck speed.

  “‘Hey there, uncle!’ the leader of the Confederates yells as he leans down from his horse, ‘Whose cow is that you leading?’

  “‘She belongs to ole Mistress, Cap’n suh,’ says Uncle Ned.

  “‘Oh, yeah? And whar you takin’ her?’

  “‘Oh, just down the road a-piece, Cap’n suh; got to find her some grass….’

  “‘Don’t lie to me now,’ the white man said, ‘are you sho she belongs to yo’ white folks?’

  “‘Yas, suh, Cap’n,’ says Uncle Ned. ‘And what’s more, she’s the last one we got. The soldier boys done et all the others.’

  “So the Confederate cavalryman looks Uncle Ned over a while then waves him on his way. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘if that’s the case, you can go; just see to it that you take good care of your white folks’ property—you hear?’

  “‘Yas, suh,’ says Uncle Ned, ‘and you can count on it ‘cause I shorely will.’

  “So Uncle Ned starts off—but, brothers, before Uncle Ned can get that cow’s engine revved up and moving he hears the white man calling after him, ‘Whoa up there, uncle, ‘cause I got me one more question to ask you….’ ”

  “Oh, Lord,” one of the brothers said, “that cracker’s done caught up with Uncle Ned!”

  “Please, brother,” Wilhite said, “I’m telling this truthful lie…. ‘Yas, suh,

  Cap’n,’ says Uncle Ned, and he looks
that white man dead in the eye and says, ‘I’m listenin’.’

  “Then the white man says, ‘Uncle, whose side of this war you on?’

  “‘Me, Cap’n?’ says Uncle Ned, ‘ain’t I heah taking care of ole Mistress and lookin’ out for her cow and the chillen and all?’

  “‘Well now,’ the Confederate says, ‘but that’s what you niggers is supposed to do while us menfolks fight the damn Yankees. So what Ahm asking you is: Whose side of the war is you on!’

  “So now with all those Rebels staring him dead in the eye, Uncle Ned starts to hemming and hawing and scratching his head, pretending to think—until finally he perks up and says, ‘Cap’n suh, do you mind if Ah ask you a question?’

  “‘Go ahead, ask it—but be quick about it,’ the Rebel white man says, ‘’cause we got us some mo’ fightin’ to do up ahead!’

  “‘Cap’n, suh,’ says Uncle Ned, ‘d’you ever see a couple of hongery hound dogs a-fightin’ over a bone?’

  “‘Course Ah have,’ the white man said, ‘so what about it?’

  “‘It ain’t you, Cap’n,’ said Uncle Ned, ‘it’s me. ‘Cause just this morning I seen a couple of ‘em fightin’ over one but for the life of me I still can’t figger just which side that damn bone was on.’ ”

  Suddenly Wilhite paused and shook his head with a mournful expression.

  “Come on, Deacon,” a brother said. “You can’t just leave Uncle Ned suspended in the air like that—what happened?”

  “Now, brother,” Wilhite said, “you know what happened: That white man cursed a blue streak and charged Uncle Ned with being a no-good, nappy-headed, ignorant nigra. And before they dragged his cow away they told Uncle Ned, ‘Nigger, this will teach you what to say the next time a white man asks you whose side you on!’ ”

  “Poor Uncle Ned Wilhite,” Brother Roscoe said with a note of mock sadness. “He’d been thinking he was neutral, but now he was caught between a rock and a hard place, and in looking both ways he was forced to realize that neither side, North or South, was letting him get away as easy as that.”

  “That’s right,” Wilhite said, “And Abe Lincoln wasn’t there to back him. So no matter what either side really thought about him, Uncle Ned was still a bone of contention.”

  “Yeah,” Brother Roscoe said with a frown, “and even today they’re still gnawing on him—which means that we’re all Uncle Neds!”

  But now, knowing the old story and hearing another voice take up the theme, Hickman ceased listening.

  Looking back through the rear window he could see traffic creeping forward bumper to bumper. Up front the sisters were quietly talking, the young white girl reading a book, and from the look of his reflection in the rearview mirror the bus driver was cursing the traffic under his breath.

  So now, he thought, the brothers are protecting themselves from the endless complexity of our situation by laughing at stones. But while Wilhite was discussing Abraham Lincoln as a creature of politics—which he truly was, thank God, and no doubt about it—I was speaking of the man who changed history by executing God’s will under disheartening conditions. Wilhite would like for him to have been a perfect hero and probably thinks of Robert E. Lee as a perfect villain—ay! But since perfection is reserved for God the Father, I’ll take the man who did the best he could for us and came out the winner.

  Nevertheless, seeing the memorial in the presence of old friends and companions in Christ had affected him in ways that he hadn’t foreseen. And now, back in his room at the Longview, he prepared to shower before dinner still brooding and troubled in mind.

  But it wasn’t for myself that I led them there, he thought, and I certainly didn’t intend to preach them a sermon. But then the spirit of the place took over and I lost control. And it wasn’t as when you’re playing your horn and get grabbed by a riff that sends you flying—or when you’re in the pulpit working a familiar text and suddenly find yourself inspired by the Spirit and giving voice to a stream of eloquence that strikes fire in the hearts of your listeners. This was something else, and there was also that strange sense of insolation about it, as though I was struggling to purge myself of any conflict of ideas and emotions I held regarding the man’s story. And doing it not so much for the brothers and sisters as for my own relief. But they were on the receiving end, and the effect of my outburst is yet to be seen—unless what Wilhite was saying on the bus is an indication. If so, getting their spirits back to where they’ll be willing to face up to more disappointment is going to be a strain.

  Control, Hickman! Yes, and most of all, self-control! Because without it you try to make music and end up blowing wind! You try to lead the people by preaching the Word and you end up whooping and hollering and beating your gums. And then all you do is lead them into more trouble and disappointment! What kind of church did I think I was in—out there blowing my heart out without a lick of supporting rhythm or a single heartfelt echo of “Amen” to affirm my rambling? So without it they just listened, they just cried…. Well, I was never one for preaching “Take the World, Just Give me Jesus”—oh, no! This is His, our Father’s world, and in our searching we have to find Him in it and through it. So maybe I made a mistake out there, but then again I’ll have to wait and see. Maybe I blew better than I thought, and if I didn ‘t, one thing is sure: I can depend on Wilhite to tell me….

  Adjusting the shower, he allowed the water to flow over the back of his hand, testing the temperature before stepping into the tub. And now with water sprinkling down upon his head he grinned, thinking, Hickman, you’ve already wasted enough water to baptize a whole church full of Methodists, where for a Baptist like you it’s only the beginning of a shower bath. So I guess folks like us are much more steeped in sin.

  Then, grinning at his moldy fig of a joke, he stood soaping himself beneath the swift drumming of the shower and gave himself over to the ritual of cleansing.

  At first he hummed inaudibly, his mind flashing with faces and scenes from his earlier years: St. Louis Square in New Orleans in springtime, Ma Rainey and Georgia Tom Dorsey crossing a street with a royal air in Memphis; Jelly Roll Morton seated at the piano flashing a thin-lipped, diamond-toothed smile; the dim faces of audiences seen from behind the footlights of the old State Theater in Chicago; Piney Brown and George E. Lee standing on the corner of Eighteenth and Vine in Kansas City; Jimmy Rushing in his less heavy days dancing a forgotten step called Falling Off the Log with his amazing, floating, fat-man’s grace … John Bubbles of Buck & Bubbles singing “Make Me a Pallet on the Floor” to the pounding of Buck’s piano; and a sad, broken King Oliver leaning wearily across the green felt of a pool table racking balls for a couple of hustlers because too ill to earn a living with his once famous horn…. Then beneath the random rhythm of the water’s splash his mind flowed from half-formed thoughts to the mute lyrics of a song:

  Well I was standing

  On the corner

  When I heard my bulldog bark

  Stackalee and Billy were gambling—

  Oh, yes!—In the dark.

  And suddenly aware of what was happening he paused, staring down at the soap-bubbling washcloth in his watery hands.

  Hickman, he thought, you must be nigh exhausted to let something like that slip out of you! Oh, how the sins of a man will find him out! That’s one out of those wild, thoughtless, shimmy-she-wobbling times long gone…. Still, it was a good ole swinging tune. And amusing too, even though based on a terrible incident…. A ballad? No. More a blues-ballad or ballad-blues—but in those days who needed such fancy names? It sure wasn’t an anthem or a hymning tune—Hey, now, Mister Preacher! Oh, yes, I’m guilty! Even made up my own version—added all those blams and slams. What was it called? Didn’t know then, but learned much later and still cant remember—something like “onomatopo” something or other. Japanese-sounding Greek word…. We invent it, then the college boys come along and give it a name. Anyway, had the drummer taking rim shots on his drum to a fare-thee-well—“rim shooting”?
No, fool, “rim shots,” like I said—though probably then not in the dictionary. But the audience knew what was going on. Rim shots, as in the sound of pistols and sudden death; the agony of dying, farewell to life and death’s confusion, the bang that ends the clamoring world…. Yes, and the knock of conscience and the roar of John Law the Tax Collector backed by Uncle Sam, the Regulator…. How did I have it? Well, a-rooty-toot-toot, I heard Stackalee shoot! And the drummer going Blam-blam-blam! Blam-blam-blam! Folks doing sixty in shoe and boot (Blam-blam-blam!) They call for the Sheriff / and his Black Maria / (Blam-blam-blam!) Stackalee starts running for that Dixie-flyer! / (Blam-blam-blam!) Billy’s lying dead / Bleeding from his head / (Blam-blam-blam! Blam-blam-blam!) / After pleading for his life / for his chillen and wife / (Blam-blam-blam! Blam-blam-blam!) / Billy’s poor lil wife / she’s sick in bed / (Blam-blam-blam! Blam-blam-blam!)— that’s right, and by now the drummer’s hitting rim shots and kicking his drums like he’s imitating cannons and civil war. And one night out there in K.C. the customers joining in and starting to knock on the tables with everything from knives to water glasses and pitchers of illegal corn…. Did so much damage that the boss docked me three days’ pay—Blam-blam-BLAM! … Where was I? Oh, yes: When Billy’s little wife hears all that shooting (Blam-blam-blam!) she screams and she cries, It’s got to be (Blam!) murder / (Blam-blam!) / Or suicide! (Blam-blam-blam!) / Then up rolls the Sheriff / All puffed with pride / (Blam-blam-blam! Blam-blam-blam! / Then he sees all that blood / And believe you me / He’s so shook up / That he has to pee! / (Blam! Blam! Blam! A-blammity-blam-blam!) / Sheriff yells, Suicide, hell / Y’all can’t fool me / This here’s cold-blooded murder / In the first degree / (Blam! Blam! Blam!) / And it’s gonna cost that Stack his / Liberty! (Slam-blam-slam!) / Gonna throw his butt in jail / Throw away the key / (Slam-slam-bam A-bam-bam-BAM! / Keep his black butt jailed ‘til he’s as white / as me! / Slama-bam / A-bam-A-BAM!) Till black as he is he’s white as me-hee-hee! … Then the whole band yelling choruses of: