Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  She said “mother” and screamed and I said mother and it shot out of my throat and something ran like hell up the tent and I doubled back and when I lifted the flap—dark again!

  Roll the cameras!

  What? What?

  Perhaps you’re right, but who would have thought what I knew on the back of my neck and ignored was ripening? That was the way it was. Oh, I rose up and she said “Mother,” and I doubled back and he looked down upon the babe and said, “Look, boy, you’re a son of God! Isn’t that enough for you?”

  But still I said “mother” and something ran up the tent like a flash and then they came on, grim-faced and glassy-eyed, like the wrath of God in the shape of a leaping, many-headed cat … What dreams … what dreads…

  Don’t ask me, please. Please don’t ask me. I simply can’t do it. There are lines and shadows we can’t stand to cross or recross. Like walking through the sharp edge of a mirror. All will be well, daddy. Tell them what I said.

  ROLL THE CAMERA!

  What? What?

  Who was? Who did that against me? Who has tuned daddy’s fork when he could have preached his bone in all positions and places? I might have been left out of all that—Ask Tricky Sam Nanton, there’s a preacher hidden in all the troms—Bam! Same tune, only daddy’s had a different brand of anguish.

  Lawd, Lawd, Why?

  What terrible luck! Daddy strutted with some barbecue and the hot sauce on the bread was red and good, good. Yes, but in Austin they chillied the beans.

  Mother, she said.

  But weren’t the greens nice in Birmingham, Sister Lacey said.

  And she said Mother, and I came up out of the box and he said “Let there be light”—but he didn’t really mean it. And she said cud and that should have been worth the revival. But he wouldn’t tell.

  Oh Maggie, Jiggs and Aunt Jima! Jadda-dadda—jing-jing! I miss those times sometimes….

  This game of politics is fraught with fraud, Ferd said—And a kiyi yippi and a happy nappy! So praise the Lord, and pass the biscuits, pappy! Oh, yes, the A.G. said, Give ole Bill a guitar and the room to holler nigger and he’ll forget about trying to pass for an intellectual … Hell, it was easy, easy. I was working as the old gentleman’s chauffeur and he caught me in bed with his madam. Who are you, anyway, he said. And I thought fast and said, I’m a nigger. So you can forget it, it don’t count. What? Yes, I said, or at least I was raised for one. So what are you going to do about it? And he said, do? First I’m going to think about it. Was she satisfied? I don’t know, I said, but I’ve had no complaints. Well, he said, taking that into consideration you might as well continue until she does. Meanwhile I’ll think about making you a politician … So because she was years younger than the old gentleman I made a classical entry into the house…. Yes, but you just wait, he said. The Spades’ll learn to play the game and use their power and the old war will be ended….

  Oh, no! We’ll legislate the hell against them. Sure, they must learn to play the game but power is as power does. Let’s not forget what the hell this is all about.

  Mister movie man…

  God is love, I said, but art’s the possibility of forms, and shadows are the source of identity. And Donelson said, You tell ‘em, buddy, while I go take a physic…

  Hold the scene, don’t fade, don’t fade … Seven’s the number, Senator, I said. Fiscal problems come up seven, remember? Even for Joseph … So she said “Mother” and I said me and she said cud was worth all that pain. But he still wouldn’t tell.

  Back away from me! Cat … cat … What’s the rest?

  I simply refused, that was all. Chicken in a casket was a no good—a union like the cloak. Too dark in there. Chick in this town, chick in that town and in the country. Always having to break out of that pink-lined shell.

  No, not afraid after a while, but still against it. I was pretty little—little though not pretty, understand. Saw first snow in Kansas. The wind blows cold, but I can’t tuck it.

  Look, I have to climb out of here immediately, or the wires will flash Cudworth moos for Ma—a hell of a note from now on. And on the other side there’s the dark. Daddy Hickman! Hick hic, what day?

  To hell with it, I’ve stood up too long to lie down.

  Lawd, Lawd, why?

  Inevitable? Well, I suppose so. So focus in the scene. There, there. The right honorable Daddy—Where?

  Karp, Karp, pan with the action—See! See! He’s riding right out from under the old cardoba. But watch him, Stack wore a magic hat—listen for a bulldog!

  Beliss?

  No! What do you know about that? I can’t hear him bark….

  Bliss be eeee thee ti-ee that binds…

  * In the longest, fullest version of Book II, this phrase is “the steaks are high” (this volume).

  VARIANTS FOR “ARRIVAL”

  Editors’ Note: What follows are the multiple variants to “Arrival,” the opening computer file in Ellison’s “Hickman in Washington, D.C.” sequence, which itself is a version of what he wrote in the late 1950s as the prologue to Book I and published in 1960 as the opening to “And Hickman Arrives” in Noble Savage. We have reproduced eleven of “Arrival”‘s thirteen variants. The two we have not included (“Cap” and “Leaving”) pick up in the middle of the file, leaving out the crucial opening paragraphs that Ellison seems to have been intent upon revising. Some of the variants are full versions of “Arrival” and others include only the opening. We have chosen to reproduce just the first few pages of the longer files so as to facilitate comparison across the variants. The eleven files reproduced here were composed, or at least dated, between October 8, 1988, and June 23, 1993. It is important to note that the files dated 1988 could have been composed at any time between Ellison’s purchase of an Osborne computer in January 1982 and the transfer of files to his IBM computer in the fall of 1988, which erased the original file dates.

  Taken together, these variants capture the character of Ellison’s revisions in the last years of his novel’s composition. Ellison’s tendency is toward tinkering with language as he troubles over how to identify the race of his characters in the opening paragraph. Compare the latest version—“those who at that time were politely identified as Southern ‘Negroes’” (Arrival, RE 9, 19)—to this series of variations: “those who at that time were identified as Southern ‘Negroes’ “(Airport, txt 7), “Southern Negroes” (Arrival, txt 7), “elderly Southern Negroes” (Prologue, txt 8), “passengers—who were known at the time as ‘Negroes’” (File 0000), “elderly Afro-Americans” (Attire, RE 9), “passengers … marked by the usual mixture of skin shades and features that at the time were conveniently termed ‘black,’ ‘Negro,’ or ‘Afro-American’ “(Plane, RE 9).

  In all, these variants attest to the attention Ellison gave to his prose on the level of the sentence as well as on other matters of craft, like transitions and plotting, and also to the fluid, even unstable, condition of African American identity. With few exceptions, nearly all of the computer files in each of the textual sequences published in this volume have variants such as this. Particularly for scholars interested in Ellison’s process of composition, these files, now housed in the Library of Congress, offer fruitful material for close study.

  AIRPORT (10/8/88, TXT 7)

  Two days before the bewildering incident a chartered plane-load of those who at that time were identified as Southern “Negroes” swooped down upon Washington’s National Airport and disembarked in a confusion of hand luggage, suitcases, and picnic baskets. Most were quite elderly: old ladies wearing white uniforms and small white lace-trimmed caps tied beneath their chins, and old men in rumpled suits and wide-brimmed hats. Quiet and exceptionally orderly, considering their age and number, they swept through the crowded terminal with such an unmistakable air of agitation that busy airport attendants and travelers alike paused to stare.

  They themselves paused only once, when one of the women blocked their outward movement as she looked around with a frown.
>
  “Hold it a second, y’all,” she said, “whilst I see if they have one up here like they have down in Atlanta …”

  “One what?”

  “A big bale of cotton with an ole prideless rascal sitting beside it holding on to a dinner bell!”

  “Forget him, sister,” someone said, “we have other things to worry about.”

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

  “You mean to tell me that he was ‘alive,’ “one of the men said, “I thought he was a statue!”

  Luggage in arm and hand, the group lurched ahead in short-stepping haste to one of the many taxi stands, where a small fleet of taxis was assembled with the aid of the bemused Dispatcher; who then looked on as a huge, towering, dark-brownskinned Negro man saw to it that they arranged themselves beside the machines with a minimum of talk and milling about. This done, the big man—who wore a well-tailored blue suit and vest, a pongee shirt, blue pastel tie, and soft planters style panama—made his way to a public telephone, dialed a number, and carried on a brief conversation. Completing his call, he returned and began seating the group while pausing anxiously from time to time to consult an old-fashion gold watch attached to a thick gold chain which was suspended between the widely-spaced lower pockets of his vast expanse of vest. Communicating mostly by slight nods and gestures his voice seldom arose above a hoarse whisper.

  ARRIVAL (10/8/88, TXT 7)

  PROLOGUE

  Two days before the bewildering incident a chartered plane-load of Southern Negroes swooped down upon the District of Columbia and disembarked at National Airport in a confusion of hand luggage, suitcases and picnic baskets. Most were quite elderly; old ladies dressed in little white lace-trimmed caps and uniforms made of surplus nylon parachute material, the men in neat but old-fashion black suits and wearing wide-brimmed high-crowned hats of black felt or white straw. Quiet and exceptionally orderly for a group of their age and number, they swept through the terminal with such a pronounced air of barely contained agitation that airport attendants and travelers alike paused to stare.

  Breathing hard and straining along in the lurching, short-stepping haste of old folk, the group then hurried to one of the several taxi stands; where with the aid of the Dispatcher what amounted to a small fleet of taxis was assembled; beside which, at the direction of a huge, towering, dark-brownskinned man they distributed themselves and luggage with a minimum of talk and milling about. Then the big man, (who, quite unlike his fellows was dressed in a well-tailored blue suit and vest, pongee shirt, blue pastel tie, and soft planters style white panama) made his way to a public telephone, dialed a number, and carried on a brief conversation. His call completed, the big man returned and began assigning the group their seats, pausing anxiously from time to time to consult a gold watch attached to a heavy gold chain suspended between the widely spaced lower pockets of his vast vest. Communicating mostly by nods and gestures of his long well shaped hands his voice seldom arose above a hoarse whisper—Until, just as he climbed in beside the driver of the lead taxi, the Dispatcher asked in a manner that betrayed something more than professional interest their destination.

  PROLOGUE (10/8/88, TXT 7)

  Two days before the bewildering incident a chartered plane-load of those who at that time were politely identified as Southern “Negroes” swooped down upon Washington’s National Airport and disembarked in a confusion of hand luggage, suitcases, and picnic baskets. Most were quite elderly: old ladies wearing white uniforms and small white lace-trimmed caps tied beneath their chins, and old men who wore rumpled ready-made suits and wide-brimmed hats. The single exception being a towering darkbrownskinned man dressed in a well-tailored blue suit with vest, a pongee shirt, blue pastel tie, and soft planters style panama. Quiet and exceptionally orderly, considering their age and number, they swept through the crowded terminal with such an unmistakable air of agitation that busy airport attendants and travelers alike paused to stare.

  They themselves paused but briefly, when one of the women came to a sudden stop and looked around the crowded terminal with an indignant frown.

  “Hold it a second, y’all,” she said, looking high and low, “whilst I see if they have one of them up here like they have down in Atlanta …”

  “One what, Sister Bea,” one of the other women said. “What you talking about?”

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

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

  “I might ‘forgive’ him,” the woman said, “but I won’t 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 he was a statue!”

  “Statue my foot,” another man said, “that old grey-headed clown is probably pretending that ole rocking chair’s got him just to make enough money to buy him a cotton-picking machine or a Cad’llac!”

  “You can laugh if you want to,” the big woman said, “but it ain’t funny. No, sir, it aint funny worth a dam—And may the Lord forgive me for saying it, 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 as the Dispatcher stepped aside and looked on in be-musement the towering dark-brownskinned 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-fashion gold watch attached to a thick gold chain suspended between the widely-spaced lower 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….

  PROLOGUE (10/8/88, TXT 8)

  Two days before the bewildering incident a chartered plane-load of elderly Southern Negroes swooped down upon the District of Columbia and disembarked at National Airport in a confusion of hand luggage, suitcases and picnic baskets. Although quiet and exceptionally orderly for a group of such numbers, they swept through the terminal with such a pronounced of barely contained agitation and foreboding that airport attendants and travelers alike paused to stare.

  Breathing hard and straining along in the short-stepping haste of old folk, the group then hurried to one of the several taxi stands where with the aid of the Dispatcher what amounted to a small fleet of taxis was assembled, and beside which, under the direction of a huge, towering white-headed, dark-brown skinned man dressed in a well tailored suit, vest and shirt of pongee, blue tie and soft planters style panama hat, they distributed themselves and luggage with a minimum of talk and milling about. Then the big man, their obvious leader, made his way to a public telephone, dialed a number, and carried on a brief conversation. Completing his call, the big man returned and began assigning them their seats as he paused anxiously from time to time to consult a gold watch attached to a huge gold [chain] that was suspended between the widely spaced lower pockets of his vast vest. Communicating mostly by gesture of his well-shaped hands and nods of his head his voice seldom arose above a hoarse whisper—Until, just as he climbed in beside the driver of the lead taxi, the Dispatcher asked, in a voice that betrayed somethin
g more than professional interest, their destination….

  ARRIVAL (10/30/88, TXT 25)

  They arrive in Washington and go to Senator’s office.

  They are turned away.

  They find a hotel.

  Hickman and Wilhite go to Senator’s hotel suite, but don’t get to see him.

  That night they go to Jessie Rockmore’s house to see McMillen—to no effect.

  Next day, Saturday or Sunday, they go to Senator’s mansion, hoping to have a look at him, but run into LeeWillie burning his caddy.

  They leave and go to the Lincoln Memorial.

  ARRIVAL (5/4/89, RE 19)

  Two days before the bewildering incident a chartered plane-load of those who at that time were politely identified as Southern “Negroes” swooped down upon Washington’s National Airport and disembarked in a confusion of paper bags, suitcases, and picnic baskets. Most were quite elderly: old ladies wearing white uniforms and small white lace-trimmed caps tied beneath their chins, and old men who wore rumpled ready-made suits and wide-brimmed hats. The single exception being a towering dark brownskinned man dressed in a well-tailored blue suit with vest, a pongee shirt, blue pastel tie, and soft planters-style panama. Quiet and exceptionally orderly, considering their age and number, they swept through the crowded terminal with such an unmistakable air of agitation that busy airport attendants and travelers alike paused to stare.

  They themselves paused but briefly, when one of the women came to a sudden stop and looked around the crowded terminal with an indignant frown.

  “Hold it a second, y’all,” she said, looking high and low, “whilst I see if they have one of them up here like they have down in Atlanta …”