“That’s what that crazy spook of mine used to do, doll. What do you think of that?”
I backed away, repelled for reasons that I couldn’t admit, even to myself. I was speechless, her action causing a sudden disarray of my senses. Someone else seemed to look out from behind the face of Miss Duval, and now I was aware of sounds coming from elsewhere in the building—music, voices. And as I backed away from the laughing woman, the articles in the room became extremely vivid, each creating in some strange way its own visual space, offset by a throbbing glow.
“Listen, you!” a voice shouted, and I whirled seeing the sergeant pointing his finger in McMillen’s face, while high on the table old Jessie Rockmore seemed about to hurl some stern and outraged judgment down upon us all.
I had passed through the door then, closing it upon Miss Duval’s bubbling laughter. As I moved through the cluttered room I noticed a large dark man standing with his face turned toward the blazing wall, gazing through the stereopticon. Then I was past the policeman and the Negroes huddled in the vestibule and upon the stairs, into the hot darkness of the street.
Sometimes, as I say, this American scene tries to outdo itself in the extremes which it throws up to us. And it usually selects precisely those moments when we are least prepared to confront or even make sense of them. And, in fact, when we are least prepared to be attentive. Perhaps when such events occur we’re too relieved to get away, to make tracks for a more tranquil territory of place or mind, that we fail even to consider the possibility that these events might be far more than simple occurrences in themselves but tame forecasts of more tortuous puzzles, of more drastic revelations. Even of disasters of tragic proportions. Of one thing I am certain, I was so relieved to be out of Jessie Rockmore’s house and into the sultry rationality of the nighttime street that I felt a certain sense of innocence, thankful that I had been born to a stable level of society in which such chaos had been eliminated, tamed, filtered out. It had difficulties, true, but at least there was ORDER. Oh, yes, I was relieved, but how was I to know that after those confounding moments of night I was yet to face a more terrible day?
CHAPTER 13
LOOKING DOWN THE CORRIDOR toward Bates, I wondered what would have happened had I tried to describe what I’d seen and observed in Jessie Rockmore’s house to Tolliver. He probably would have rushed me upstairs to join McMillen—whom I can’t believe to be a murderer—and LeeWillie Minifees. And now I asked myself if it was not one more cryptic foreshadowing of more chaos to come, with the old Negro in his coffin chair–judgment bench but one more arrow pointing to the bringing low of a powerful senator.
But there was no time for further speculation, for now the elevator opened and a young nurse hurried past me and entered the Senator’s room. Then, hardly had the door closed than one of the men carrying a machine gun came out and hurried down the corridor to speak with Bates and then disappeared around the corner. All this occurred swiftly, without a stir from old Hickman. But now, as the nurse came out again, she spoke to him and he seemed immediately alert. I could see him smile and nod his head and the nurse hurrying down the corridor where the guard had disappeared. My nerves tightened as I watched him, his eyes closed again, and I fought down an impulse to ask if she’d given him some word of the Senator’s condition. And where was Tolliver, I wondered, and would he remember his promise to alert me to any new development? I got up and walked back and forth before the bench, waiting. I thought of Miss Duval, my mother, Laura, of the Holy Family as sepia-tinted Negroes. What a mishmash of images! What a nutty blend of values! The world had become a Mr. Badbar of nutty contradictions…. I was starving, my gut growling.
I was about to sit down when the nurse returned with a tray and handed Hickman a glass.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, clearing his throat, then nodded to me and I watched her smile, come toward me.
“That gentleman thought you might be thirsty,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
I took the glass and drank, returning it to her slender fingers.
“How is the Senator?” I said.
She shook her head. “Still critical, I’m afraid. Would you care for more water?”
“That’ll be enough, thank you.”
She left and I watched her return to the Senator’s room. I sat then, determined to control my impatience. I would rest until Tolliver came and alerted me, or until I saw old Hickman called into the room. I thought of Minifees. Where were they holding him? And what was his role, if any, in this rotten fudge of a day? It was growing hotter. I rested my head upon the hard back of the bench, closed my eyes. I thought of my tally of birds, the sound of mating and nesting songs, the flicker of swift wings. I came out of the woods into a strange street which looked as though it had been recently bombed. There was a hushed air of mystery over all. The houses seemed mere façades. Bricks, broken glass, and charred timbers were scattered about. Train rails were twisted like cables around the trunks of charred and splintered trees. And to one side I saw a billboard from which a huge Bull Durham Tobacco sign on which the once-proud bull, now ripped partially from its frame, swayed gently back and forth in the sunlight. Rust and blistered paint powdered his sides, his torn right horn revealing rusted tin behind. Then above, on the sun-shrunk frame, I saw a small conclave of buzzards engaged in furious argument. I was halted in the full rush of a running stride, my senses whirling as the question WHEN WILL YOU EVER LEARN MODERATION? sounded in my head as a voice cried:
“Modernize! Sophisticate the techniques! Pollute the controls!”
“No, no, I insist,” one of the buzzards said. “The best way is the traditional way. First you wait until he’s properly ripened, and then hit him in the eyeball, and, after making sure that the coast is clear, after making certain that there are no intruders lurking around the edges to interrupt, you proceed just as the buzzards have always done. The first blow to the eye, however, is most important. Only then, after delivering the stroke with precision, should one proceed.”
“Ah, tradish, tradish!” one of the younger buzzards said, “I’m sick to the stomach of all this tradish!”
“I agree, I quite agree,” another small buzzard said, thrusting out his beak to the first speaker. “But how have the honorable old-timers gone about it, Altercocker?”
“Sneer if you like, you little unsanitary son-of-a-cuckoo-clock,” the old buzzard said, “but my method is tried and true. Just as I’ve said, first you hit him in the eyeball, and then, taking your time so as to preserve your strength and steady your aim, you march around to the backdoor and there, with the proper dignity and decorum attuned to the delicacy of our dedicated task, you march straight up through his vast passage. That is the way! Proceed in this manner; taking your time and working him thoroughly, you’ll come out refreshed and reinvigorated. And, you’ll be strengthened in heart and mind, sharpened in insight and lifted aloft in your morale down to the last frolic and—”
“Yes,” another old fellow said, “and with your appetite absolutely satisfied.” “That’s absolutely correct,” the first buzzard said. “You’ll preen with satisfaction, gleam with the sheen of a job well done. And that’s the only proper manner in which it should be done. So don’t bore me with your modern methods with their utter disregard for ceremony and good taste. I don’t even wish to contemplate them. They are a virtual rape of proper procedure. An assault upon our past and repast! I’ve had too much vivid experience to think otherwise. Indeed, my boy, if one could arrange all the horses that I’ve worked my way through and place them in a straight line, one could march three times around the world without encountering the necessity of touching the earth! That’s right: I know. I have done the state some service. Indeed, quite a bit of service. And all with this tried-and-true method!”
And suddenly his bald head came around, his ruff rippling greasily in the sunlight as he looked straight at me, “Isn’t that true, friend?” he said. And without a
word I turned and ran, hearing the buzzard laughter arising behind me as they sang:
See Mac run!
See Mac run!
He’s a running son-of a-gun!
He’s a running son-of a-gun!
He’ll outrun the sun—yeah!
And then right out of gas, oh, yas!
He’ll run right out of gas!
Oh, see Mac run!
Oh, see Mac run!
Can anyone tell us why he fled?
Y’all heard what the man just said
Oh, I’ll tell you just what Papa said
He’s running for where the living don’t
Bury the living dead, my son,
Don’t bury the living dead!
See Mac run!
See Mac run!
He’s a running son-of a-gun!
He’s a running son-of a-gun!
Man, he’ll outrun the sun—yeah!
And then right out of gas, oh, yas!
Lawd, see Mac run! Ah say,
See Mac run!
Can anyone tell us why he fled?
Ah said, who knows just why he fled?
Now y’all heard what the man just said
Yas, I can tell y’all what old Pappy said
He’s running for where the living don’t
Don’t bury the living dead!
I ran now in earnest, sailing past broken houses and scenes of great devastation. And yet, off to my right, I could see a thriving field in which an odd-shaped machine rested like some strange and satiated Moloch, while beyond the field the roofs and smoking chimneys of a thriving city showed.
God, I thought, I must be as drunk as a coot!
Then, just as I was passing a burning automobile, I saw McGowan leaning wearily against a lamppost. Obviously, he was waiting for me, and I thought, Oh, hell, here comes another lecture on the fourth dimension, and tried to hurry past as though I hadn’t seen him—only to have him reach out and grab my sleeve.
And when I looked at him, I immediately felt guilty; he looked strangely transformed and extremely weak.
“Look, McIntyre,” he said, “I’m having terrible trouble with a nigra, and I don’t know what to do about him. Man, I need some HELP!”
“You?” I said. “What’s he doing to you? Where is he?”
“Why, the bastard’s blocking my doorway, McIntyre, and I can’t get him to leave.”
I watched him warily, expecting a trick. “That’s rather odd, isn’t it?” I said. “What’s the matter with him? Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” McGowan said. “McIntyre, I really don’t know.”
“But this is impossible.”
“Like hell, it is. This is some new kind of nigra.”
“A new kind?”
“That’s right; I wouldn’t lie about a thing like this.”
“So why don’t you simply push him aside?”
McGowan recoiled. “Hell, man, I don’t want to touch him,” he said, staggering a bit as he rubbed his wrists. Great beads of sweat stood out over his hands, and there was a genuine expression of revulsion on his face. “This ain’t the kind of nigra you touch,” he said, “not even for luck!”
“Then call the police,” I said. “That’s what they’re paid for. Why not make use of the law for once in your life?”
“Hell, no, McIntyre; I can’t do that. It would be against my honor.”
“Your honor!” I said. “What has honor to do with it? A man should have free access to his own house. His home is his castle, so defend it!”
“But you haven’t seen him yet,” he said. “He’s too little to head-whip, and it’s against my tradition and my principles both to call the police to handle a nigra. It just ain’t Southern. Besides, I think he’s crazy, and today I simply don’t feel up to dealing with a crazy nigra.”
There was real anguish in his face, and I felt an uneasiness growing within me. It simply wasn’t like McGowan to be fazed by a Negro….
“What did you do to make this fellow block your doorway?”
“I be damned if I know, McIntyre; but I’ve already told you that the nigra is loco. This is some kind of metaphysical nigra bastard!”
“He’s what?”
“I just told you, he’s metaphysical.”
“But that isn’t logical.”
“Does he have to be logical for you to help me get him out of my door?”
“No, I guess not, but—”
“Then why don’t you help a man instead of standing here arguing with me like a damn Yankee lawyer!”
He was quite exasperated and so weak that he hardly seemed his old blustering self. All of the old rebel verve and bluster were gone.
“Okey,” I said, “so I’ll help, but first tell me, did you say something outrageous to him? Insult him in some way?”
“Oh, hell, no, that was the Senator, not me. Didn’t I just tell you that I didn’t bother that nigra?”
“But you must have done something to him. Now I’m going to help you, but it’s only because I believe that the rights of property must be respected. Nevertheless, I don’t think you’re telling me the whole story.”
He looked away, shrugging impatiently.
“Oh, I know that the nigras are getting awful touchy these days, McIntyre, but I swear that I didn’t do a thing to this one. All I tried to do was to enter my own house. But like I told you, this is some new kind of little nigra. He talks Yankee talk, McIntyre. Why, you never heard anything like it. This nigra talks what the hack editors call Mandarin prose! That’s right, man; and he’s got a tongue that’s as hot as the south end of a yellow jacket. I tell you, somebody must have done something awful to that little bastard for him to be acting like he is, but it sure wasn’t me. I swear it wasn’t.”
“I can’t understand it,” I said.
“I’m not asking you to explain him, McIntyre. All I want you to do is to tell him to let me into my own house. I’m tired as hell, and I need to get some sleep. Be a good fellow and go tell him.”
“Okey,” I said, “where do I find your house?”
“It’s just down the street a piece. It’s the one with the white pillars. Number sixty-eight You just pass through the gate and go along the path, and you’ll see the bastard on the porch.”
It’s probably Sam or one of the bellmen at the club, I thought. Moving along the street, I felt a sudden gratification for the opportunity of undoing some of the effects of McGowan’s constant provocation, his humiliating attitudes. I would persuade the obstinate Negro with logic and kindliness. When, I wondered, would McGowan learn that politeness was always more effective than insults? Anyway, it was flattering to have him admit that someone else might be able to deal with these people more effectively than himself. God, I thought, old Mac must be pretty sick. Too much burb, too little branch. Yes. I smiled, thinking, Spare the branch and roil the Bible….
I hurried now, but at the address he’d given me I found not a mansion but a pathetically mean, badly designed little bungalow which, instead of occupying the spacious grounds and gardens that I’d expected, sat rather close to the public sidewalk behind a barren yard. And then I received the real shock. Instead of the stubborn, angry Negro of the stature of Jack Johnson or Joe Louis whom I’d expected, I saw, standing smack in the middle of the doorway, a small cast-iron hitching-post figure in the form of a diminutive Negro.
What the hell goes on here? I thought. It was the figure of a little jockey or groom, such as were once to be seen mainly in the South, but which in recent years have mushroomed throughout the North and are now all over the place—especially before the meanest, least aristocratic of dwellings—where they stand in strident postures. It was a cheap, crudely made symbol of easily acquired tradition; the favorite statuary of the lazy seeker for facile symbolic status. I was sweating profusely now, for I had approached the house with the growing certainty that I’d find Sam the waiter—what the hell is Sam’s last name?—standing at the door with a tray of iced drinks; now
I was staring down at this iron manikin the size of a small child, its face gleaming black with white teeth showing through parted bloodred lips, its peaked head reminiscent of a famous boogie-woogie pianist whom I’d admired during the thirties, and its thyroid eyes, jaded and froglike, reminded me of certain examples of primitive African sculpture which appear to have grown satiated on the blood of endless human sacrifices.
But hell, I thought, it’s only a hitching-post boy, a little iron groom. What the hell’s wrong with McGowan? Is he that drunk?
Then I stopped short, for instead of the traditional blouse, short-visored beanie, and flapping trousers of such figures, this one wore a tiny blue suit which, oddly, was cut in the fashionable short-jacketed style known as “Italian Continental.” Its sharp-toed shoes, with large brass buckles, were also Continental. Four closely set mother-of-pearl buttons adorned its single-breasted jacket, which, cut loose and capelike in the shoulders, gave the eerie effect of bat wings at rest. And with its white shirt, which was rather grubby about the cuffs and collar, it gave me the uncanny feeling that he could run straight up a vertical wall and walk across a ceiling with no show of exertion whatsoever. One of the tiny hands rested delicately on a tiny hip, and the other, outstretched in the classical manner designed to receive the reins of a horse—but now I saw that the traditional metal ring had been replaced by a glass of dark oily liquid.
Is this some crazy joke McGowan is playing on me? I thought. But when I turned to look down the street, I couldn ‘t see him, he’d disappeared.
He’s probably too drunk to handle the weight of this thing—or too weak. If so, why does he try to hide it? We’re all weak in some fashion. In any case, I’d better move it, or the poor bastard might stumble over it and break his neck….
All of this passed through my mind so logically that I could hear the words echoing in my head as I bent and lifted the figure, the iron boy, straining with the unexpected weight, and I had hardly taken three steps when the voice spoke in my ear:
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 28
