Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  Then, crossing the intersection and moving down to his old stomping ground, his sadness returned. For as he moved past the old corner hotel and the brick lodge headquarters beside it he saw that both had fallen into decay. As had some of the block’s once well-kept houses and lawns.

  And now, increasing his pace, he descended into the area where many years before he had lived, worked, and gambled, and saw that the once crowded sidewalks were empty, and except for a few parked cars and a trickle of traffic the street appeared lifeless. The corner hotel where he had roomed was now shabby, the windows of once busy shops were now boarded, but even worse, the famous theater which had stood beside it had been demolished. Even his favorite barbershop, pool hall, restaurant, and barbecue shack were gone. As was the shoe-shine parlor where he had joined in jam sessions, drinking, gambling, and enjoying good lies. And the funeral parlor on the corner had disappeared as though gone underground with its corpses. And feeling angry and hopeless over a section that had been so full of life being so ravaged and dead, he increased his pace, thinking to get to Janey’s as quickly as possible—but then as he looked toward the street for a taxi he paused and stared down.

  Near the curb ahead, where water from a fire hydrant trickled in the sunlight, a black, long-haired spaniel lay in the shade of a building nursing her three black-and-white puppies.

  So there’s at least one sign of hope left on the scene, he thought with a smile. But as he looked along the street for the dogs’ owner the only evidence of one were the remains of a can of dog food that had been dumped on a sheet of newspaper.

  Things appear to have gone to the dogs, he thought, but at least not completely. And as he watched the prostrate animal nursing her pups he smiled. Then, bending and giving her a pat on the head, he resumed what had become a most sorrowful journey.

  Approaching the hill which led to Janey’s home, he slowed his pace and took a look at the quiet, tree-shaded block. The houses neat and the sloping lawns with steps leading down to the brick sidewalks well-kept and green in the sunlight. Across the walk from where he stood, cinder blocks which formed an embankment for the lawn above were wet with dew, a line of red ant hills edged the sidewalk below, and high above in a locust tree a songbird trilled.

  It looks much the same, he thought, but after coming all this way I hope there’s nothing really serious going on inside. If not, I’ll hear her out and catch the next flight back to Georgia. Not that Sister Corrine might have been right in saying that Janey did all that signifying just to get a little of my attention. She’s not like that, so no matter what led her to write she’s upset and I’m obliged to do whatever I can to calm her….

  Then, suddenly hesitant, he looked around, thinking: So here I am, but now such a stranger that my trying to help her is as risky as a physician treating a member of his own family: There’s too much old emotion and memory to get in the way of his better judgment. And betwen Janey and me there’s too much wreckage from the past, too many ghosts of what might have been.

  There was a time when we could have been closer than I’ve ever been to anyone in my life—then it was over. Time passed and with it we changed. So now there’s only the memory of what might have been and a long-distant friendship based on our fidelity to old, frustrated dreams which she chose to reject. Then I changed my ways and grew older and colder, but while I made my peace with what happened between us I could never forget that peach-brown girl with her arms full of flowers …

  Yes, Hickman, his blues voice interrupted, and that sunny backyard’s fenced-in greenness filled with the scent of honeysuckle and roses and you being careful not to bang the balls too hard as you played croquet with that willowy daughter and her prim hourglass of a mother. And there you were, acting the courtly, well-bred gentleman with your horny mind as usual on a more earthly game. Then getting your big foot caught in a wicket and high-collared, white-dressed, tight-corseted, blue-sashed mama-chaperone with that gold watch pinned to her pouter pigeon’s bosom revealing both the lay of the game and time of day by laughing like a flute as she swatted the balls and scored. And afterwards, watching you out of her shrewd card-sharp’s eyes while serving you an ice-cold glass of lemonade, she paused and plopped in a red, signifying cherry. Made you, a gambler who had played high-society and barrel-house dances, feel like a yokel just come to town. That’s when you realized how much more dangerous dealing with strivers like her was than performing dances where hot

  young gals crowded the bandstand and smiled to attract your whiskey-eyed attention….

  Lips that touched wine shall never touch mine, Janey said, and she meant it—as though a rascal like you could reverse all prior time in order to get married…. And you wanting to give it a try, thinking like a fool that a bluesman could become a saint and a jazzman change

  into a one-woman monk…. Why didn’t Eve come equipped with a chastity belt, Yale lock,

  and cast-iron bloomers?

  Once Millsap argued with you that underneath most black Baptist preachers there’s a vestige left by the old fertility gods. Said that it made them so hound-dog randy that even dumb young women knew it instinctively.

  Underneath where, you said.

  The skin, Millsap said.

  No, you’re wrong, you said, because although a true minister’s flesh might quiver it’s only his response to his testing, his prick of conscience. And if he ignores it he fails his test. But when he lets that happen even the most compliant females will condemn and reject him.

  And you can say that again, Millsap said. That’s the way they are. Some come and condemn, while others come and then condemn—and if I’m wrong, what’s all this business about celibacy?

  It’s to keep the flesh under control and the mind on the saving grace. It’s a discipline. Remember Jack Johnson’s advice when asked how an ordinary man should deal with the likes of those hot-tailed gals who were always hanging around him? Eat pickled walnuts, take cold showers, and think long-distant thoughts. That was his formula, a matter of mind over matter. But it was nothing new, because dedicated ministers always followed that rule. Saint Paul taught them, so if you’d like a reference read your Bible.

  Yes, he said, but old Jack wasn’t a minister—unless you want to call his upper-cutting and left-jabbings some kind of preaching. Instead, he was what all the gals knew by instinct—a strapping black fertility god dressed in boxing gloves and form-fitting tights. That’s why he raised so doggone many underskirts, not to mention that sea of white hopes.

  And you said: Coming from a little two-bit Satan that’s pretty good, but get thee behind me just the same!

  Then he laughed and called the waitress over.

  Delois, he said, my man here looks like he’s not holding up so well under the jive I’ve been laying on him, so maybe you better give him a booster shot ….

  A what?

  A booster shot…

  And what the dickens might that be? she said.

  Another serving of ribs, you Eveish creature, Millsap said. Give my man another slab of RIBS! Then he stared at you to see if you got the joke….

  Jazzmen, jazzmen, Hickman thought as he chuckled and started toward Janey’s, they’ll turn anything and everything into something else. Just give them a couple of beats and a progression of chords and they’ll turn the “Star-Spangled Banner” into “Don’t You Feel My Leg.” And get away with it, too, because they’re such masters of chaos and fluidity that either folks don’t notice what’s happening or they don’t know what to do about it. What moneymen do with political influence and cash they do with horns, rhythm, and reeds….

  [BLURRING]

  BEHIND ITS SHALLOW, freshly mown lawn the six-room house was much as he remembered: its wide front porch supported by four wooden pillars, to its left a swing suspended from its roof by chains, four white wicker rockers, and pots of pink geraniums arranged on its railing.

  All right, he thought, it looks much the same, so now let’s get going and see if she’s home.

>   And making his way to the screened front door he pressed the doorbell and was surprised by a faint sad sound of chimes. Then came a rapid clicking of locks and Janey was peering through the slightly cracked door.

  “Thank the good Lord,” she cried, “it’s Alonzo!”

  “That’s right,” Hickman said as the door flew open, “he’s back again.”

  “Yes,” Janey said, unlatching the screen, “and I knew you’d come! I just knew it!”

  “You did, did you,” he said. “So instead of writing me all that double-talk, why didn’t you come right out and invite me? Anyway, I’m here, so now that you’ve seen me, what’s a man supposed to do—rush back home to his duties, or wait out here in the heat until you decide to ask him in?”

  “Shame on you, Alonzo; you know you’re always welcome. But first let these old eyes have a good look at you! How are you?”

  “Fine,” Hickman said, “except for being confused and a bit upset by that letter of yours. Otherwise I feel fairly fine.”

  “And you look it,” Janey said, “you really do. But I guess you know that from all those ladies you have around you…. Come in and get out of that jacket. And don’t go reading anything into the shades being down. I have them drawn against all this heat. I hope you don’t mind a little darkness.”

  “Not at all,” Hickman said as he moved into the living room. “Being a dark man I’ve seen many a dark day, so as soon as my eyes adjust I’ll be in my element. Meanwhile, Miss Janey, Janey, Jane-Jane-Jane, tell me how are you?”

  “Now don’t you go jadda-jadda-jing-jing-jinging me, you old rascal! Anyway, I’m pretty good, or at least I feel good if not pretty.”

  “Well, you look both,” Hickman said. “Where shall I sit?”

  “Take that big chair right there. It’s Cliofus’s, and if it can hold him it can hold anybody, even someone as big as you. Give me that jacket and make yourself comfortable. Would you like something cold? I just happen to have some homemade strawberry ice cream, or if you like I can make you some ice tea or coffee.”

  “You really did know I was coming, and as always I’m tempted. But nothing right now, thank you. And with this having to be a short visit we’d better get to what’s bothering you. Sit down and tell me what’s been happening. Who’s this little man you wrote about?”

  Sitting on the sofa and cooling herself with a cardboard fan, Janey frowned.

  “Alonzo, I don’t really know,” she said, “and that’s the problem. I’m not sure who he is, and I’m not even sure that I want to. That’s why I wrote you about his being out all of a sudden. He claims he was one of my little men, but if he was then he’s the son of a young friend of mine who killed herself years ago….”

  “… Killed herself? Who was she?”

  “You wouldn’t have known her, Alonzo, but she was a fine young woman who got herself ruined by a fast-talking man….”

  “Did you know the man?”

  “Not really, but he went by the name of Prophet. At least that’s what he was calling himself when my young friend had a baby boy by him.”

  “And what happened to the baby?”

  “He became one of mine. I didn’t know what she was up to, but when she decided what she was going to do and asked me to look after him awhile I promised her that I would. And I did … at least as long as I could….”

  “But what about about his father, this fellow Prophet? Who was he and where did he come from?”

  For a moment Janey was silent, staring at her motionless fan. “Alonzo, I don’t truly know. But if you’ll forgive me for saying it I think he had certain connections with you….”

  Hickman sat back in his chair. “With me? Now listen, Janey, I didn’t come all the way out here to play games….”

  “Oh, hush, Alonzo! I’m not playing games, I was referring to that boy….”

  “Boy? What boy?”

  “Now don’t go pretending you don’t know, because you had him with you at the time you were out here putting on a circus sideshow and calling it a revival meeting. I never let on but I heard about it, and one night I made it out there to see you putting on your act with that poor child in a coffin. It’s a wonder the good Lord didn’t strike you dead, right then and there….”

  Folding his arms, Hickman sighed.

  “Janey, I swear, you never forget or forgive. And what’s even worse, you reject anything that’s slightly unusual! But you have to remember that in those days I was fresh out of show business and assuming my role as a minister. It was new, so I was using whatever I could to save souls. I was still learning, and in spite of what you might have thought about it the fact remains that our bit with the boy in the coffin converted a few souls. And they stayed converted, ask any of them who’re still alive. Yes, and we caused many more to think about how they were living.”

  “That’s what you say….”

  “And that’s the truth! So while you condemned us for using a gifted child in dramatizing the gospel—yes, and outdoors under a tent—don’t forget how peacock proud you were to be a member of that fine church with biblical stories in its stained-glass windows. Oh, yes! You loved being a member but you managed to forget that in his day Christ didn’t have a fine cathedral. All he had was the Word. So if he and his disciples hadn’t acted out the gospels your church wouldn’t have had any stories to tell in those stained-glass windows. So now try to forgive me for what I did years ago and tell me what my boy, my little assistant preacher, had to do with your friend?”

  “Well,” Janey said, “you might not want to believe it, but after he was grown he and two other men, two white ones, turned up out here making a movie….”

  “So?”

  “So even though I hadn’t seen him for years I recognized him.”

  Hickman frowned.

  “Now that’s interesting, making a moving picture! Why can’t I recall your mentioning it before? But let’s not get into that just now. Yes, after the boy ran away he was up to all kinds of devilment, and as he grew older he often backtracked over the circuits we covered. When was he out here?”

  “Sometime back in the early twenties,” Janey said. “And like I said, he and the other two men were around here for weeks upsetting folks with that picture. Yes, and socializing with anybody who fell for what they were doing. Can you imagine folks paying their hard-earned money to be in a junky, made-up movie?”

  “They made them pay to be in it?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well I’ll be,” Hickman began and broke off with a chuckle. “But Janey, this is the U.S.A., and most folks believe in its do-it-yourself tradition.”

  “Maybe so, but in this case it was more like a bunch of stupid lambs being led to slaughter. Because a heap shelled out their hard-earned money to be in it, and after that boy and his friends grabbed all they could they left town. But not before he got my young friend into trouble….”

  “But how can you be so sure that he was responsible?”

  “Because I could see it coming and tried to warn her, that’s why. But by then he’d got her so excited that she wouldn’t listen, and she was too green to know what was happening. Even greener than me when you came along….”

  “… But not as sensible and virtuous, is that it?”

  “I hear you talking but it’s the truth. So she got caught, and by the time the baby came he was long gone. She told me that he came back shortly before it was born, but then he took off again. And as far as I know he was never seen around here again.”

  “And you’re sure that he’d been the boy in the coffin? That he was responsible?”

  “Yes! Because she told me and she didn’t lie.”

  “And did you think it was my boy simply because this fellow Prophet reminded you of me? Think about it now, because when you saw him with me he was not only a youngster, he looked white….”

  Tensing, Janey leaned forward.

  “Oh, he was the one! He had your mark all over him! And what’s more, with most folks thinki
ng he was white he insisted he was black. And there I believed him, because he had your walk and way of talking and carried himself as much like you as someone who looked white ever could! Oh, yes! He was the one in the coffin all right. Your mark, your style, was all over him! And that’s why his doing what he did to my young friend upset me all the more. Until that fast-talking floater showed up Lavatrice was a good girl. She didn’t play around. Yes, and I’ll say it: She was a virgin! Then he and those other two showed up and got folks crazy over playing in that movie. Some of the younger women went plumb out of their minds over his looks and manners and his way with words. And Lava-trice worst of all. And after he got the poor girl big-eyed by giving her a leading part in that movie he left her waddling around with a great big belly.”

  “But Janey,” Hickman said, “a lot of what you’re telling me has to be guesswork. I don’t mean about the girl, because whoever was responsible, what happened was terrible. Terrible for the girl and a disgrace for her family. But I still can’t understand why you didn’t mention her or this Prophet in your letter.”

  “It was because she’s dead and I felt that it was enough for you to know that he’d been through here again, that’s why….”

  “But wait! Janey, you’ve got me confused again—I thought you said that he left here years ago and had never been back! So what’s the connection between what you’re telling me now and what you wrote?”

  “Alonzo, it’s a matter of chickens coming home to roost! I’d seen the signs, but after he ran away and you couldn’t find him I felt that you’d suffered enough. So why should I tell you what he’d done—especially about the baby—and make it worse?”

  “But Janey, you’re not making sense! Why would he come back here when he knew what …”