Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  All this, I realized, was quite far-fetched, a product of my imagination beginning to run away with itself. Yet it held me even though I realized that I was undergoing a kind of slow, snowballing panic in which I was projecting upon the dead man my own ideas of the kind of person I would have had to have been in order to do what he had done. For certainly I would have had to die myself even before the deed, and even from the moment it was conceived. For I would have been so frightened by the idea that the expressiveness of my face would have reduced to slow motion or frozen of itself. Otherwise, I couldn’t have brought it off. I fought away this drift of thought, for beneath it I sensed the stirring of some even more unpleasant idea, some knowledge too threatening to be willingly brought to the surface. But in vain; I had to know who he was. It was my duty.

  I became so worked up that now it was as though the dead man was questioning me as to my own identity. If he was an assassin, what, then, was I who had witnessed his action?

  I suppose it was then that I became committed to learning who he was and what he was—even though I had to throw myself bodily into every bit of the wild confusion which had exploded around me. If only I had known what this would entail, where it would lead!

  As I turned away, the face continued to speak to me mutely, trying to tell me something which I could not, or would not, comprehend, even though the feeling that I had seen it somewhere before was growing even stronger. It was then, in reaching for my notebook, that I touched Vannec’s letter and had a sense of bad luck, an illogical feeling that by reading it, it had helped bring on the disaster. What would Vannec with his hero-of-the-intellect mind, his search for the significant gesture, make of the gunman? And the very suggestion that he might see implications and foreshadowings which I had neither the will nor the imagination to see made me suddenly nauseous. Turning abruptly, I hurried out of the building into the hot night street as though I’d heard the ticking of a time bomb.

  I moved so fast that I was several yards away before it caught up with me, before I realized what it was that had put me to flight. And now as one caught in a sudden fog while fishing in a skiff looks up to see a ship bearing noiselessly down, I realized that the haunting face lying there in the cool behind me might well be that of the young man whom I’d accompanied to his rendezvous with Vannec during that dark night of war so long ago.

  Then I was running, at first away, past the line of parked cars, then back toward the morgue. It was as though something was drawing me back against my will. I told myself that I was overwrought from the excitement and fatigue. So much had happened in so short a time, so many things had clashed together that I was losing my objectivity. But then I was there, and despite the annoyance of the attendant I went back once more to stare down at the face.

  It lay as before, the eyes closed, the bruised flesh appearing colder, bluer, more translucent, but despite a strong sense of familiarity, I was tortuously unsure. It might be him, I thought, but that was so long ago. And even the fact that I thought of Severen was a coincidence. If I hadn’t touched the letter, I wouldn’t have thought of Vannec. And if I hadn’t thought of Vannec, I wouldn’t have thought of Severen. But I had! Out of all the many names, people, who might have arisen, it was his name which my mind wanted to fit to the face. It was a mystery. Yes, but what if my suspicions were correct? If so, then I had the responsibility of telling the police. I looked at the dark roll of the eyelashes, the sweep of the hairline and asked myself, What if you’re wrong? If so, you’d never live it down. And after the fool you made of yourself by striking Hickman, you can’t even risk telling Tolliver of your suspicions. Yes, but what if you’re right? What if you managed even to question Hickman about Severen? Dammit, why didn’t the authorities make the old Negro explain his relations to the whole affair! Why, by what tortuous connection was the wounded Senator allowed to give him sanctuary?

  I moved now, noticing my shadow falling across the silent face. What will you do now? It seemed to say. I hurried out, thanking the attendant as I made for the street.

  The hospital was still quiet when I returned, and in approaching the admissions desk I had the presence of mind to inquire if LeeWillie Minifees was still being detained. He was, but the nurse refused to give me any further information. She had her orders, and I couldn’t persuade her to break them. If I was to see him, it would be through other, less responsible channels. But what and how? Hospitals such as this are so efficient and strict in their procedures, so in their structure of security and responsibility.*

  When I reached the corridor Hickman was still sleeping in his chair. It was disgusting. Where had he acquired his self-composure? I wondered. How was it that under all the tension, with the security authorities suspecting him of complicity in a plot, could he sleep so soundly? Was it through his religion or through a racial habit of escaping turmoil? Perhaps here was proof of McGowan’s assertion that Hickman’s people rested between every fifth tick of the clock—even when involved in the most intense and grueling activity.

  “They aren’t on our time, McIntyre,” he had said. “They have their own nigra time. You watch those athletic-type nigras, the way they move around all loose-jointed and falling apart. Hell, one minute they running like they been caught stealing chickens and the Man’s after them with a shotgun, and the next thing you know, they’re creeping along like molasses on a cold morning in January and flopping around like they got no bones. That’s because they’re resting in between, man. Time is money and nigras are expert at stealing time, and they’re the most expert boondogglers in the civilized world!”

  I had my doubts, but there was no question but that Hickman wasn’t wasting his energy. I started impulsively toward him, thinking to put the question of the gunman’s identity to him at the moment of awakening so as to observe his reaction, but restrained myself. He was certain to be on guard for such a maneuver, and especially from me.

  Sitting back on the bench, I thought to follow his example and conserve my energy. It didn’t work; my mind kept returning to the man in the morgue. I searched my memory for details, images, echoes—anything that would help me establish an identification. But things were too confused. An image came to mind of LeeWillie Minifees standing in confounding triumph on the Senator’s lawn as he watched his Cadillac burn. And I asked myself if this had been, as Tolliver had suggested, actually a political gesture, a “diversionary tactic” and part of an earlier attempt to shoot the Senator. A few hours ago it had seemed impossible, but now anything and everything seemed possible, and this being so, I would have to have a talk with Minifees. But how? Where was he being held, and who, under the circumstances, would give me permission to see him?

  Whatever the answer, it seemed obvious that I’d have to wait until morning, and perhaps by then I’d know the Senator’s fate if not the agent of that fate. So once more I rested my head against the back of the bench, thinking to nap awhile; but immediately the image of the hitching-post groom loomed behind my eyelids, and I got up and stretched my legs, taking a quick turn before the bench before I sat down again. I simply couldn’t bear another such encounter, and for the time being my only defense against that horrible nightmare’s attendant was wakefulness.

  I was looking over my notes, trying to make an outline of all that had occurred from the burning of the Cadillac to the present moment, when the elevator droned slowly up the shaft and stopped to discharge a nurse, who hurried past to the Senator’s room. I could hear the elevator drop below as I watched Hickman, who slept on, unaware. In the spreading silence I watched for further activity and was about to return to my notes when another nurse came out carrying a tray. She looked at Hickman a moment, then drifted down and around the curve in the corridor, disappearing.

  * Word(s) missing after “so” in the typescript.

  CHAPTER 15

  I INSPECTED MY AILING watch. What was the time? An odor of iodoform drifted to me, bringing an image of a lonely seashore in high summer, the blue mutability of foam-fringed wav
es. Away. Far off a buzzer sounded, faded, leaving an interval of silence from which slowly emerged the faint clink and tinkle of glass striking against metal, and my eyes were drawn down to the end of the corridor where there now appeared a white-suited attendant pushing a metal steam cart.

  Taking his time, pushing at a forward slant with his red head low over the handlebar, he approached until abreast the sleeping Hickman, pausing to gaze at the old man for a moment, then roll the cart to the other side of the Senator’s door. And now, seeing him about to knock, I got to my feet, hoping that I might have a word with one of the nurses, but as the door came slightly ajar I saw one of the security men looking through and stayed where I was, watching them. He said something to the attendant and disappeared. Then immediately a nurse took his place, carefully blocking the view as she began passing the attendant several napkin-covered trays which, squatting and rising rhythmically, he placed on a rack underneath the cart, then proceeded to hand her trays of food covered with silver serving bells. He worked swiftly, negotiating the narrow passage with professional skill, but someone inside the room must have become nervous, for he had barely handed over the last tray when the door snapped to, almost catching his hand, and a look of high indignation flashed over his freckled face and he pronounced a silent obscenity with such graphic expressiveness that I was forced to stifle a laugh. His lips continued to work angrily as he knelt beside the cart and came up with two heavy silver coffeepots and went to stand close to the door, waiting until the door swung inward and then, moving with the abrupt precision of a marine presenting a rifle for inspection, he plunged the gleaming vessels into the crack with a resounding clank!

  There was a splash of liquid, accompanied by protesting voices, to which, standing with back rigidly arched, he replied vehemently until the pots were removed from his hands and the door swung shut. He continued to curse at the blank white panel for a moment, then aimed a mock backhanded blow at Hickman’s chin, watching the old man sleep, then wheeled the cart around and, passing me as though I didn’t exist, headed for the elevator. He rang impatiently, leaning against the button, his head resting upon his folded arm. The car came slowly and I was about to sit down when I heard a low sound like that of a bass viol being played pizzicato. He had begun to hum a tune of eccentric rhythm oddly skipping intervals:

  Ah-zoom-zee-zoom-zoom

  A-bach-ditty beep broom,

  Ah-zoom, ah-zoom-ah-zoom-zoom

  A-bach-rock, ah-mop-mop …

  The name Minifees flashed in my mind, and I found myself following him into the now-opening door of the elevator. I’m probably so tired that I’m as nutty as the nonsense he’s humming, I thought. But on the other hand, he may very well lead me to the car-burning fiddler…. What, by the way, are a “beep broom” and a “baccarat mop”?

  With the car beginning its sluggish ascension, he turned his attention to a narrow lip of paper, leaning on the handlebar and muttering a mysterious series of numbers: “Four-eleven-forty-four, two-eleven-twenty-two, three-six, nine.” As he wrote them down, all traces of annoyance had left his freckled face; now, as he paused, looking off into space, I made my approach.

  “Pardon me,” I said, “but I wonder …”

  He shook his head, frowning as he stared at the paper.

  “Hold it, man,” he said, “I’m trying to remember the figures for blood on the floor….”

  I apologized, watching him as he continued to write; then, folding the slip, he placed it in the breast pocket of his jacket, and I saw a pair of yellow-green eyes.

  “Now,” he said, “what was that you were saying?”

  “Sorry for interrupting,” I said. “I was about to ask if you could do me a favor?”

  “A favor?”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed. “Doc, don’t you think it’s kind of early in the morning to start that?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean I just got started on my rounds….”

  “Of course,” I said, “I understand that, but I only wanted—”

  He shook his head, looking down at the cart, and I could hear the slow exhale of breath as he straightened and leaned against the wall.

  “I’m sure glad you understand what I mean, Doc, because I have a hell of a lot to do.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Forget it.”

  “Yeah, Doc,” he said, looking me in the eye, “I have my responsibilities too, you know?”

  “Sure, I know, but I didn’t mean to interfere with your work.”

  “Now that’s just fine. If it was later in the day, it would be different.”

  “Sure, and I wouldn’t have bothered you if I knew my way around. But I’m a newspaper reporter assigned to keep an eye on the condition of Senator Sunraider and—”

  It was as though I’d stuck him with a pin. Suddenly he struck the cart, “Sunrainder,” he said. “Did you say Sunrainder?”

  “Yes, Senator Sunraider.”

  “Well, I’ll be damn! If I hadn’t been half asleep I would’ve known that that was who it was. That’s where I just came from; I was right outside his door!”

  “Of course, I saw you there.”

  “I’ll be damn! No wonder they didn’t want me to get a look inside the room. I thought they thought I was trying to meddle.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I assumed you knew.”

  “Naw, man; hell naw!” He shook his head in violent denial. “I just came on the job and wham!—they sent me up there without a word. They ought to warn a man.”

  “You can understand their problem,” I said. “The Senator’s under heavy security, so I suppose the authorities are allowing as few people to know his whereabouts as possible.”

  “Yeah, but they could’ve warned me. That was like sending a man into a lion’s mouth in the dark.” He pointed toward the floor of the elevator, his eyes afire. “Those people down there are acting trigger-happy as hell. I bring them some food, and they try to take my arm off with the goddamn door!”

  “You were lucky you weren’t injured,” I said, “but I don’t think it was intentional. Having such a grave responsibility has probably put them under a strain.”

  “Strain, hell! This is me, man. What do they think I was going to do?”

  “I doubt it was you so much as the fact that they’ve been ordered to treat anyone they don’t know as suspicious.”

  “But I work here, that nurse down there knows me.”

  “Then it was probably one of the security men who closed the door. By now their nerves must be on edge. Having to guard the Senator makes them jumpy.”

  “Yeah, but why the hell should we all start jumping? Before I went up there, my nerves were fine. What are they so jumpy about, anyway? Didn’t the cat who did the shooting kill himself?”

  “There’s no doubt about that.”

  “So what’s worrying them?”

  “Accomplices,” I said. “They’re afraid that he might have had accomplices.”

  “Is that right?” He gave me a questioning look. “So that’s all the more reason for that damn dietician to have warned a man. Those cops could’ve blasted me, and I wouldn’t have known what it was all about. That woman let me come on like a square. When I saw that big fellow sleeping next to the door and you sitting up the hall there, I knew right away that somebody was going through a crisis, but it didn’t occur to me that it was Sunrainder. Damn!”

  Suddenly the car jerked to a stop, and he pushed the cart into the corridor, still shaking his head as I followed. It was quiet, the corridor was empty, a red light glowed above a door.

  “Listen,” he said quietly, “have they learned why he got blasted?”

  “Not yet,” I said, “but it’s hoped that when the Senator comes to he’ll be able to make a statement.”

  “And ain’t that a hell of a deal,” he said, “because if he runs true to form he’s liable to say something that don’t nobody want to hear.”

  “Like it or not,” I said, “they’ll h
ave to listen and do something about it. The whole country’s upset over this affair.”

  He rolled the cart and I followed, wondering how to make my approach, then saw him stopping, staring down at the polished top of the cart; then, looking at me with the utmost seriousness, he said, “Man, just thinking about it cold sober, that shooting was a mother—Hell, what I mean is, it was something!”

  “Unless I’m overstating the case,” I said, “it was a disaster.”

  “You’re damn right—and I’ll tell you something else: Sunrainder might get better, but he won’t ever be the same. No, sir! He’ll never be the same. That cat who did it was playing for keeps. It was like he had told Sunrainder, ‘Sunrainder, man, you have messed with me and hurt my feelings, so now I’m going to blast your butt and go to hell … and pay for it!’ And he did it, man. He kept his word and dealt himself a natural mess!”

  He shook his head, marveling at the enormity of it all. His white skin had reddened beneath the freckles of his now-animated face, and something in his voice made me wonder if he were about to laugh, cry, or say a prayer: reminding me of Hickman’s reaction at the time of the shooting.