Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  Bliss, boy?

  Leaning forward, mountainous in the dwarfed easy chair, the old man watched the Senator’s face now, observing the expressions flickering swiftly over the restless features of the man tossing beneath the sheet. He called again, softly, Bliss? Then heaved with a great sigh. I guess he’s gone again, he thought.

  Hickman searched his lower vest pockets with a long finger, extracting a roll of Life Savers and placing one of the hard circles of minty whiteness upon his tongue as he rested back again. Before him the Senator breathed more quietly now, the face still fluid with potential expressions, like a rubber mask washed by swift water. He looks like he’s trying to smile, Hickman thought. Every now and then he really looks as though he would, if he had a little help. Maybe that’s the way. When he wakes up I’ll see what I can do. Anyway, he looks a little better. If only I could do something besides talk. Those doctors are the best, though; the government and his party saw to that. He’ll have the best of everything, so there’s nothing to do but wait and hope. The fact that they let me in here when he asked them is proof of something—I hope that they mean to save him…. There’s such a lot I have to ask him. Why didn’t I hop a plane and go and find out just what Janey Mason was telling me in her letter? I knew she didn’t know how to say very much in a letter. Why? And who was that young fellow who did the shooting? Was it really that boy Severn? It’ll all come out, they’ll find it out even if they have to bring him back from the dead—Ha! Bliss lost all sense of reason; he should have known that he couldn’t do what he did to us without making somebody else angry or afraid. This here is a crazy country in which politicians have been known to be shot; even presidents. Pride. Let it balloon up and some sharpshooter’s going to try to bring you down. What did Janey mean? Who? I remember back about twenty-five years ago when Janey sent word that a preacher showed up out there. That may have been Bliss. That’s when he started whatever she was trying to tell me. One thing is sure, I heard that young fellow speak to the guard, he wasn’t from Oklahoma and he wasn’t one of us. A Northern boy, sounded like to me….

  Suddenly he was leaning forward staring intently into the Senator’s face. The eyes, blue beneath the purplish lids, were open, regarding him as from a deep cave.

  “Are you still here?” the Senator whispered.

  “Yes, Bliss, I’m still here. How do you feel?”

  “Let’s not waste the time. I can see it on your face, so go ahead and ask me. What is it?”

  Hickman smiled, moving the Life Saver to the side of his mouth with his tongue. “You feel better,” he said.

  “I still feel,” the Senator said. “Why don’t you leave? Go back where you came from, you don’t owe me anything and there’s nothing I can do to help your people….”

  “My people?” Hickman said. “That’s interesting; so now it’s my people. But don’t you realize we came to help you, Bliss? Remember? You should’ve seen us when we first arrived; things might have been different. But never mind all that. Bliss, was it you who went out there to McAlister and fainted on the steps of Greater Calvary one Sunday morning? That would be about twenty-five years ago. Was that you, Bliss?”

  “Calvary?” The Senator’s weak voice was wary. “How can I remember? I was flying above all that by then. I was working my way to where I could work my way to….” He sank to a safer depth. It was hot there but he could still hear Daddy Hickman.

  “Think about it now, Bliss. Didn’t you light there for a while and didn’t you land on the Bible? In fact, Bliss, haven’t you landed on a church each and every time you had to come down?”

  Twenty-five years? He thought, maybe he’s right. “Perhaps the necessities, as they say, of bread brought me to earth. But remember, they always found me and took me in. It was in their minds. They saw what they wanted to see. It was their own desire…. It takes two as with the con game and the tango—Ha!”

  “Maybe so, Bliss,” Hickman said, “but you allowed them to find you. Nobody went to get you and put you up there in the pulpit. Look here, can you see me? This is Daddy Hickman, I raised you from a little fellow. Was it you? Don’t play with me.”

  “So much has happened since then. I was at McAlister, yes; but they were white. Or were they? Was it Me? Are you still here?”

  “You mean you preached in a white church? That early?”

  “I think it’s all mixed up.” He closed his eyes, his voice receding. Is it my voice?

  “Yes, High Style,” the Senator said. “Huge granite columns and red carpets. Great space. Everyone rich and looking hungry; full of self-denial for Sunday. Ladies in white with lacy folding fans. Full bosoms, sailor straws. White shoes and long drawers in July. Men in shiny black alpaca, white ties. Stern puritan faces, dry concentrate of pious Calvinist dilution distilled and displayed for Sunday. Yes, I was there. Why not? They sang and I preached. The singing was all nasal, as though God was evoked only by and through the nose, as though He lived, was made manifest, in that long pinched vessel narrowly. That was a long time ago….”

  “So what happened?”

  “I’ve told you, I preached.”

  “So what did you preach them, Bliss? Can you remember?”

  Where can I hide? Nowhere to run here. It’s a joke.

  Yes, but what kind of joke?

  “I preached them one of the famous sermons of the Right Reverend John P. Eatmore. In my, our, condition, what else?”

  “Ha, Bliss, so you remembered Eatmore, Old Poor John. Now that there was a great preacher. We did our circuit back there. Revivals and all. Don’t laugh at fools. Some are His. Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty. Which of Eatmore’s did you preach ‘em, Bliss? Which text?”

  Dreamily the Senator smiled. “They needed special food for special spirits, I preached them one of the most subtle and spirit-filling—one in which the Right Reverend Poor John Eatmore was most full of his ministerial eloquence: Give a Man Wood and He Will Learn to Make Fire…. Eatmore’s most Promethian vision….” Hot here.

  No, Reverend Hickman seemed to say, his eyes twinkling, that’s one that I’ve forgotten. I reckon I’m getting old. But Eatmore was the kind of man who was always true to his name and reputation. He put himself into everything he did. Preach me a little of it, Bliss; I’ll lean close so you won’t have to use up your voice. Let’s hear you, it’ll probably do us both some good. Go on, son.

  But how? the Senator thought. Where are the old ones to inspire me? Where is the Amen Corner and the old exhorters, the enviable shouting sister with the nervous foot tapping out the agitation on which my voice could ride?

  I don’t think I can, he said. But his throat was silent and yet Hickman seemed to get it, to understand.

  I taught you how, Bliss. You start it, you draw your strength and inspiration out of the folks. If they’re cold you heat them up; when they get hot, you guide the flame. It’s still the same. You did it in the Senate when you told them about those Nazi fellows and swung the vote….

  What, the Senator said. You knew even then?

  Eatmore, Bliss. Never mind the rest; let’s talk about you preaching Eat-more in a white church. Do I have to start you off like I used to do when you were a baby? Didn’t Eatmore begin something like this: He’d be walking back and forth with his head looking up at the ceiling and his hands touching prayer-like together? Then stop suddenly and face them, still looking out over their heads, saying:

  Brothers and sisters, I want to take you on a trip this morning. I want to take you back to the dawn of time. I want to let you move at God’s rate of speed. Yes, let’s go way back to the time of that twilight that had settled down upon the earth after Eden. Ah, yes! I want you to see those times because Time is like a merry-go-round within a merry-go-round, it moves but it is somehow the same even if you’re riding on an iron tiger. Eden’s fruit had done gone bad with worms and flies. Yes! The flowers that had been the dazzling glory of Eden had run wild and lost their God-given bloom. Everything was in shambles. It was a mess. T
hings were hardly better than jimson and stink weeds. The water was all muddy and full of sulfur. The air back there stunk skunk-sharp with evil. And the beasts, the beasts of the jungle had turned against Man who had named them and no longer recognized him as the head of the animal kingdom. In fact, they considered him the lesser of the animals instead. Oh, Man had come down so low that he was eating snakes. Brothers and sisters, it was an unhappy time. Yes, but even then, even in his uncouth condition, Man somehow remembered that he was conceived in the image of Almighty God. He had forgotten how to take a bath and John the Baptist was yet unborn, but still he was conceived in the image of the Almighty and even though he had sinned and strayed, he still knew he was Man. He was like that old crazy king I once heard about, who had messed up his own life and that of everyone else because he demanded more of everybody than they were able to give him and was living off of roots and berries in the woods but who knew deep down in his crazy mind that he was still a king, and knew it even though the idea made him sick at the stomach. Kingship was so hard and manship was so disgusting! He wanted to have it both ways. He wanted folks to love him like he wasn’t a king when he was carrying around all that power. Yes, Man had sinned and he had strayed; he was just doing the best he could, and that wasn’t much.

  Now, that’s enough for me, Bliss; you take it from there. Let’s hear the old Eatmore, boy.

  It’s been a long time.

  Bliss, all time is the same. Preach. Time is just like Eatmore used to say, a merry-go-round within a merry-go-round; only people fall off or out of time. Men forget or go blind like I’m going. But time turns, Bliss, and remembering helps us to save ourselves. Somewhere through all the falseness and the forgetting there is something solid and good. So preach me some Eatmore….

  You won’t like it, the Senator said, closing his eyes.

  I’ll be the judge, Hickman said.

  Amen. Yes, Man had sinned, brothers and sisters, and he had strayed. But he was still the handiwork of a merciful God. He carried within him two fatal weaknesses—he was of little faith and he had been contaminated by the great gust of stardust that swept over the earth when Proud Lucifer fell like a blazing comet from the skies. For Man had breathed the dust of pride, and it wheezed in his lungs like a hellish asthma. Thus even though he mingled with the beasts of the forest and Eden had become a forgotten condition rankling with weeds and tares, a lost continent, a time out of his brutish mind, still he retained his pride and his knowledge that he was conceived in the image of God. Two legs God gave him to walk around, two hands to build up God’s world, and his two eyes had seen the glory of the Lord. His voice and tongue had praised the firmament and named the things of the earth.

  Thus it was, brothers and sisters, that remembering his past grace Man called upon the Lord to give him fire. Fire now! Just think about it. In those times—fire! Even God in his total omniscience must have been surprised. Man crying for fire when he couldn’t even deal with water. Remember, Old Noah was long since forgot. Man drank dregs standing unpurified in the muddy tracks of tigers and rhinoceroses! Fire! Why my Lord, what did he want with fire?

  He ate raw roots and the raw, still-quick flesh of the beasts.

  He drank the living blood jetting from the severed jugglar veins of cattle—and yet he cried for fire. Ah yes, today, long past we now know it: give a man wood and he will learn to make fire. But back there in those days man knew nothing about wood. Oh yes, Oh sure—he slept in trees, he swung from vines. He dug in the earth for tender roots—but wood? What in the world was wood? He used clubs of hickory and oak and even ebony…. But wood—what was wood? Did old Nero know about stainless steel? Man knew no more about wood than a hill of butter beans!

  Ha! Now that was a true Eatmore line, Bliss. Preach it.

  Suddenly Hickman turned. The door had opened and he saw a severe-looking, well-scrubbed young nurse, her blond hair drawn back severely beneath her starched cap, looking in.

  “Don’t you think you should leave and get some rest?” she said.

  The Senator opened his eyes. “Leave us, nurse. I’ll ring when I want you.”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s all right, daughter,” Hickman said. “You go on like he said.”

  She studied the two men silently, then reluctantly closed the door.

  Don’t lose it, Bliss, Hickman said. Where did Eatmore go from there?

  … Knew no more about wood than a hill of butter beans…. And still, this ignorant beast, this dusty-butted clown, this cabbage-head without a kindergarten baby’s knowledge of God’s world—brothers and sisters, this lowest creature of creatures was asking God for fire! I imagine that the Holy Creator didn’t know whether to roar with anger or blast Man from the face of the earth with holy laughter. Fire! Man cried, Give me fire! I tell you it was unbelievable. But then time and circumstance caught up with him. Give me fire! he cried. Give me fire! Man became so demanding that finally God did rage in righteous outrage at Man’s mannish pride. Oh, yes!

  For man was beseeching the Lord for warmth when it was the sun itself he coveted. And God knew it. For he knoweth all things. Not fire, oh no, that wasn’t what Man was yelling about, he wanted the sun!

  Oh, give a man wood and he will learn—to make fire!

  Amen!

  So God erupted hell in answer to Man’s cries of pride. For Man had told himself he no longer wished to wear the skins of beasts for warmth. He wanted to rise up on his two hind legs and be somebody. That’s what he did! He had seen the sun and now coveted the warmth of the blue vault of heaven!

  Ah Man, ah Man, thou art ever a child. One named Hadrian, a Roman heathen, he built him a tomb as big as a town. Well, brothers and sisters, it’s a jailhouse now!

  One named Morgan built the great Titantic and tried to out-fathom one of God’s own icebergs. Even though they should have known God’s icebergs were still God’s and not to be played with. Where are they now, Lord?

  Full fathom five, thy father lies, that’s where. Down in the deep six with eyes frozen ‘til judgment day. There they lie, encased in ice beneath the seas like statues of stone awaiting the day of judgment to blast them free. Ho, ho, they forgot to sing as the poet was yet to sing:

  Lo, Lord, Thou ridest!

  Lord, Lord, Thy swifting heart

  Naught stayeth, naught now bideth

  But’s smithereened apart!

  Ay! Scripture flee’th stone!

  Milk-bright, Thy chisel wind

  Recindeth flesh from bone

  To quivering whittlings thinned—

  Swept—whistling straw! Battered,

  Lord, e’en boulders now out-leap

  Rock sockets, levin-lathered!

  Nor, Lord, may worm out-deep

  Thy drum’s gambade, its plunge abscond!

  Lord God, while summits crashing

  Whip sea-kelp screaming on blond

  Sky-seethe, high heaven dashing—

  Thou ridest to the door, Lord!

  Thou bidest wall nor floor, Lord!

  Bliss, that’s not Eatmore but it’s glorious.

  No, it’s Crane, but Eatmore would have liked it, he would have sung it, lined it out for the congregation and they would have all joined in.

  Yes, he would. Go on, boy….

  Thus when God did send the lava streaming and scorching, searing and destroying, floating warmth and goodness within the concentric circles of evil which Man had evoked through his thunderous fall, his embrace of pride, though he had his chance. And now was time for God to laugh, because you see, sisters and brothers, just as today, Man was blind to the mysterious ways of God, and thus Man ran screaming among the mastadons and dinosaurs. Ran footraces with the flying dragons, the hairy birds and sabertoothed tigers—tigers, Ha! Imagine it, with tusks as sharp, as long, as cruel as the swords of the Saracens who did attempt by bloodshed and fire to keep the Lord’s message from the Promised Land, the land of Bathsheba’s bright morning, of Solomon’s enraptured song….

/>   Preach it, Bliss. Now you’re preaching Genesis out of Eatmore….

  Yes, ran screaming among the hellish beasts and his beastly fellow-men, all wrapped in the furs of beasts, with his hair streaming and his voice screaming. Running empty-handed, his crude tools and weapons, his stone axes and bows and arrows and knives of bone abandoned in his beastly flight before the fire of God! Ho, he stampeded in a beastly panic. Ha! He scrambled in terror under his own locomotion—for Ezekiel was not yet and Man knew not the wheel. Ho yes!

  Yes!

  Yes!

  Yes!

  Do you love?

  Ah,

  Ah,

  Ah,

  do

  you love?

  Man ran crying, Fire! And running as fast as Man can away from the true gift of God, crying Fire! and flinging himself in wild-eyed and beastly terror away from the fire that was his salvation had he but the eyes of faith to see. Running! Leaping!—Slipping and sliding!—Leaving in his wake even those lesser gifts, those side products of God’s Holy Mercy and His righteous chastisement of Man’s misguided pride. Man missed, brothers and sisters, missed in this flight the lesser good things: the huge wild boars, those great, great, great granddaddys of our greatest pigs, that in the fury of the eruption were now succulent and toasted to a turn by the unleashed volcanic fire. Ran past these most recent wonders, yes; and past whole sizzling carcasses of roasted beeves, and great birds covered with hair instead of feathers, for in those days nothing could look like angels’ wings. Yes, and moose that stood some forty hands high, with noble countenance, a true and nobly cooked creature of God. But on Man ran, past rare cooked bears; those truly rare bears that made their lesser descendants of the far north, the grizzlies, the great Kodiaks, the great brown bears—yes, and the white polar bears, even the cinnamon bears, made all them bears seem like the pygmies of darkest Africa…. Ah yes! Yes, yes-es-yes! Do-you-love? Doyoulove!