Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  Suddenly he turned, reaching across the back of the seat to touch Deacon Wilhite’s knee.

  “Excuse me a second, Deacon,” he said, “but do you have that address Sister Beaumouth passed along to us?”

  Deacon Wilhite looked surprised.

  “Why yes, A.Z., I do,” he said. “But do you think we ought to use it?”

  “I would rather not use it,” he said, “but we came here to see him and you know why, so if this is the way it has to be, then this is the way it has to be. I’m beginning to be worried, because if I’ve read Janey’s letter correctly there isn’t much time.”

  “I know, A.Z.,” Deacon Wilhite said, “but what you’re thinking of doing is kind of delicate—I mean our using this particular address as a means. It’s not good manners and it might be dangerous. Maybe we ought to give ourselves a little more time. Wait until we’ve tried his office again?”

  He looked at the others. Their faces were interested but neutral.

  “You’re probably right,” he said, “but good manners or not, if we’re going to see him, we’d better do it as quickly as possible. I want to see him before it’s too late!”

  “Then maybe we ought to try to get to him through somebody else….”

  “But at the moment we don’t know anyone else. And that’s why I’m going to use the number.”

  “But I can think of someone,” Deacon Wilhite said.

  “Then who?”

  “The police …”

  “No, Deacon,” he said, “You know that wouldn’t do. Because what could we say to them which wouldn’t be telling them too much?”

  “That’s the problem,” Deacon Wilhite said.

  “So they’d simply laugh at us. We don’t know who Janey meant, or when or where. We don’t even know whether she knows anything definite or just had a suspicion or what they call woman’s intuition. The fact is, we’re in the dark and we’ve got to take whatever path we can—so, Deacon, give me the number.”

  He extended his palm, seeing Deacon Wilhite look at the others, who were silent.

  “Very well, A.Z.” he said. “It looks like you’ve made up your mind. The number is—”

  Suddenly the voice broke off, and he followed the movement of Wilhite’s eyes to the back of the driver’s head and back, fixing upon his own.

  “Just a second and I’ll write it down,” Deacon Wilhite said, removing a folded newspaper from his jacket and scribbling on its border. Tearing the paper neatly, Wilhite placed it in his palm.

  “I still think we ought to wait,” Wilhite said.

  Heaving himself around, he glanced at the piece of paper and folded it, placing it in his vest pocket.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “We’ll see. But I just can’t sit around and wait. Besides, coming from the place we just left makes me know it all the more. Driver, stop the car, please; I’m getting out.”

  “Right here?”

  “Yes, sir, anywhere near the curb.”

  As the cab pulled over he reached for his wallet, removing a ten-dollar bill and handing it over his shoulder to Deacon Wilhite, he said, “This will take care of the fare. You all go on to the hotel and get some rest and I’ll see you for supper. I have to see what I can do.”

  “Good luck, Reveren’,” someone said, and he looked into their grave faces and smiled.

  “Thanks, and don’t worry now,” he said, “we’ll see him.” Then the cab had stopped and he was getting out and heading for the corner, looking for another cab.

  Wilhite’s probably right, he thought, so if I’m going to go through with this I’d better get on with it before I change my mind. Because going uninvited to a man’s private hideaway, the place where he keeps his mistress, ain’t the best idea under any circumstances. But since we don’t seem to be able to see him at his office and can’t reach him at his home, I really don’t have a choice….

  Heading for the corner, he had begun trying to imagine what he’d say when at last he’d run the boy to earth, and had just reached the corner and was looking around for a cab—when someone called his name and he turned to see Deacon Wilhite coming toward him.

  “What happened, Deacon?” he said.

  “Nothing,” Wilhite said, “except I changed my mind. At the last moment I decided it might be better if two of us made this particular visit.”

  Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, he drew himself to full height, his fists on hips as he looked down at his old friend through squinted eyes.

  “Wilhite,” he said, “you don’t have to bother. I think I can take care of myself.”

  Wilhite’s face was grave. “I know,” he said, “but we don’t know who else is liable to be there beside the woman he’s supposed to have. Maybe there’ll be some of his friends along.”

  “I can still take care of myself. Anyway, I’m not going out there for a fight and I don’t think he feels that way about us. Because if he did, he wouldn’t be dodging us.”

  “I’m not thinking about you, A.Z. I’m thinking about him. Don’t you see: If there’s somebody with him, then the two of us can pass ourselves off as a delegation. Folks from the NAACP or the Elks or something like that.”

  Hickman chuckled. “And do you think that that would make a difference if they decided to throw us out?”

  “No, but we’d both have a witness and it’s apt to prevent happening to you what happened to old Booker T. the time that white man whipped his head with a walking stick. We don’t know how that boy will act once we corner him but I doubt if he’s going to treat you like the prodigal father even though you are going way beyond the call of duty in trying to help him. So now let’s not waste time arguing because I’m going with you, and when he’s cornered it’s going to be with the two of us together. That’s the way it was in the old days and that’s the way it’s going to be today!”

  Seeing the familiar look of determination in Wilhite’s eyes, he shrugged.

  “Wilhite, you know something,” he said, “the older you get, the more stubborn you get. All right then, let’s quit arguing and hop us a cab.”

  As the cab made its way through the heavy traffic, Hickman was silent, aware of Deacon Wilhite holding on to the passenger’s strap as he looked out on the passing streets. Wilhite’s face was calm, almost oriental in its impassiveness and he remembered that Wilhite’s maternal grandmother was part Cherokee. Wilhite’s got a curious mind, he thought. He remembers all types of things which most folks have forgotten and brings them up and applies them when you least expect. Then the cab was stopping for a traffic light and as a chauffeur-driven sedan drew alongside he could see an elderly white man lower his newspaper to gaze across at Wilhite with mild curiosity.

  That’s right, mister, he thought, look at him and think about what he might be doing circulating through these streets, because even to me, his old friend, he’s two-thirds hidden behind a wall. I can tell you this, though: As stubborn as he is and as powerful as he can speak, all he needs is the notion and a place to stand and he could make this whole street tilt up on its end like a plank that’s been struck by a heavy wave. When the old slaves advised it, it sounded only slavish, but it’s good advice for you too: “Humble thyself.” For one thing, you see more, and sometimes you understand a little of what you see…. You’re riding in that air-conditioned car with two telephones, a TV, and a radio, got the world in a jug and probably a million in the bank—but who’s got the stopper? Who’s holding down the lid? That’s a question to trouble your dreams….

  Then with a blowing of horns the traffic was flowing again and he saw the white man return to his paper and his limousine pulling away. It’s true, he thought, glancing at the side of Deacon Wilhite’s head, after all these years I’m still ignorant of many of his dimensions while sometimes I feel that he knows me and what I’m feeling like a book. Better than all the others put together. Even better than his wife and the other ladies. He understands how much my getting to see the boy means to me. Personally…. But the
boy, why is he still running from us? He must realize by now that we mean him no harm. And how long does he think we’ll just go on getting thrown out of places before some reporter gets the idea that there must be more to our trying to see him than meets the eye? Power, Lord! I guess it makes you forget how other people, poor people, weak people, react to bad treatment, to promises unkept, to mean acts and insults. But then, Hickman, power doesn’t have to know. In place of knowing and having to feel it has a heap of unknowing, unfeeling folks on the payroll who form an unknowing wall around it. A high wall like that one around those grounds and buildings passing out there…. That young secretary gal of his is one such wall. Yes, and being from way down home in her attitudes, she’s even got her own private wall around her. Can’t see it … hidden. But wall just the same, and inside herself an even more stubborn wall. Lord, it’s so hard and I’m so tired….

  Ho, a wall around a wall within a wall without a wall, with all her white-walled womanhood. Holes for eyes. A cotton sack. A gal now, a maiden then and a babe awash in the water. Still the sparrow watched. Hickman, he’s somewhere out there—somewhere behind walls within walls and no wall willing nor withering…. No seams, no runners. Just bold defiance, narrow-nosed with folded arms, trying to stare you down. Looking straight at you but with no sight, no savvy, no sympathy. Speak it! Oh, I talked to her all that time … all that time … earnestly, tenderly, near-pleadingly calling—but she never heard a word!

  Deaf but not dumb with dumbness, eyes in the head but not seeing; just Caledonia headed hard within walnut walls within thicker walls of attitude! In the grain, under the bark—there’s the bite! Yes, Lord!

  Words within walls within words and no word able to breach the walls. But this I still have to believe:

  Seek Find

  Knock

  Open

  Ask

  Receive

  Though still no wall withering or giving as of now.

  Yea, but soon, soon! Because no wall can wallout wallin, walnut the Word. For wherever the tree liveth the kernel sprouts forth leaves to tremble in the wind of life, the roots push up….

  Yes, but, Hickman, do you realize you have got the Word up against the wall—How so?

  Oh, boxed, boxed, boxed! Hidden within boxes without topses is our Bliss. Walled now within a walnut wall and yet stirring—God willing—though no one here hearing, no one hear heeding, our cry—not yet.

  Oh, Cal’don—

  Yah!

  Cal’don—Yah!

  What makes your white head

  So hard?

  “A.Z.,” he heard…

  Snapping awake, Hickman saw the driver’s dark face peering back through the rearview mirror with eyes disembodied like the eyes of conscience, and after a momentary confusion he realized where he was. Wilhite was looking out of the window.

  “Yes, Deacon,” he said.

  “I say I think we ought to forget about it….”

  “Forget what?”

  “The whole thing, A.Z., the entire business….”

  “After coming all this way—why?”

  “Because it’s beginning to seem that it’s not worth it. We’ve done what we can. We’ve tried to see him, we’ve called him and left messages—and nothing has happened. So now it looks to me like he doesn’t want to see us.”

  “I know, but you forget one thing: A man’s life might depend on our seeing him. And what about our own need?”

  Wilhite turned, facing him.

  “Look, A.Z.,” he said, “let’s be frank about this thing. It’s mostly you who wants to see him. I understand that, and most of the others do too and we respect your feelings. Still, the truth is that it’s you who has the pressing need.”

  “Have the members been discussing this?” he said.

  “No, but it’s true. They’re faithful to you so they’re faithful to your idea. You loved that little boy, everybody knew that, so they loved him too. We all did. But that was years ago. Since then, for them, that love was replaced by curiosity, or something else. Anger, maybe, and disbelief that after being what he was he could become what he is. They have different attitudes, but in the main what was once love was replaced with something else back farther than they can remember. So if you had said that you had lost interest they would have been relieved and in a day or so they would have forgotten about it—except maybe when his name came up in conversation.”

  Wilhite paused, looking at him.

  “A.Z.,” he went on, “I hope you don’t mind my saying this?”

  He shook his head.

  “No, Deacon, I don’t mind. The truth hurts but it won’t kill me. What you say is certainly true of some of them and I’ve known it for a long time. But now, how about you?”

  Suddenly Wilhite’s face broke into a smile.

  “Oh, I’m with you, A.Z. I’m still with you. You know that.”

  “Good. I don’t know what I’d do without you. The only thing is that I feel that I have to do as much as I can….”

  “A.Z.?”

  “Yes?”

  “You also understand that in spite of what I say the members are still with you too, don’t you? What I mean is that they haven’t lost hope altogether. Because they feel that even though the boy has turned his public face against us, maybe he’s doing something behind the scenes to help us. Booker T. was like that too, remember? But mainly they’ve kept the faith because of you, A.Z. You justify them.”

  “Yes,” he said with a nod. “I understand and I pray for their continued understanding, especially now. I justify their hope and now I must justify it in fact as well as in spirit. So you understand why I must see him?”

  “Yes I do. You have to put your faith to the test….”

  “Yes, Deacon, I mean to try….”

  “I know. And you have to know whether you’ve been right or wrong. After all these years, you have to know.”

  “Yes. And even if I’m wrong, I don’t want anything like what Janey’s hinting at to happen. Because beyond the question of living or dying there’s too much to be said. Too many questions to be answered. The record has to be set straight.”

  “That’s right, A.Z.,” Deacon Wilhite said. “That’s the way it is.”

  Suddenly Deacon Wilhite leaned close, lowering his voice.

  “A.Z.,” he said, “how did Sister Beaumouth come by this address?”

  Hickman smiled. “From her son. You remember, he used to drive and butler for the woman’s mother. She sent him there on a few errands, and knowing the daughter wasn’t married and seeing this man there a few times, he caught on.”

  “But he’s of the younger generation, A.Z. How’d he know about the boy?”

  “Well, it was like this: At first he only knew the name our boy goes by up here, but then he was on a visit down home and his mother happened to bring up the name at supper—she’d made him some homemade ice cream and got to talking about how crazy our boy used to be about ice cream. Then later he happened to overhear his mama and daddy discussing what had happened to the boy and he put two and two together. Sister Beaumouth told me that he got a big kick out of the joke of the boy’s being who he is….”

  “It looks like our boy is living in a glass house,” Deacon Wilhite said.

  “Yes, but I guess he figures he’s got some good curtains and shades. Anyway, he doesn’t have to worry about Sister Beaumouth’s boy because he ain’t too smart. He sees the whole thing as just another con game. He’s happy just to see somebody beat them at their own game. To see them confused by the wrapping on the package.”

  Deacon Wilhite laughed.

  “Yes,” he said, “I guess any glass is dark if you’re dumb enough, or nearsighted enough.”

  The address was that of a modern glass-and-concrete building that was approached by a drive which curved past a gracious lawn set with blossoming cherry trees and flower beds, and seeing it he realized his mistake.

  There’ll be a doorman, he thought, and that’s the first wall we�
�ll have to deal with….

  When the cab pulled near the entrance two limousines were ahead of them.

  “Driver,” he said, handing over a bill, “let us out here; we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  Outside, he caught Wilhite’s arm.

  “Wilhite,” he said, “I think this is going to be a disappointment….”

  “Yes, A.Z.?”

  “Well, I hoped it would be a hotel and we’d only have a desk clerk to deal with but that doorman’s going to check us and call up to see if we’re expected.”

  “Yes,” Wilhite said, “that’s the way they do it. But we could use the servants’ entrance.”

  “I thought of that, but where is it? And how would we find her once we got in? We don’t even know anybody who works here.”

  Deacon Wilhite grimaced. “Yes,” he said, “and the servants are probably all white at that. Immigrants. I guess we should have had Sister Beaumouth get a phone number from her son, because folks who live like this usually try to protect themselves from surprises.”

  Looking down the shadowed drive to where the doorman was opening the door of one of the limousines, he felt a nudge.

  “A.Z.,” Deacon Wilhite said, “what’s this woman’s name?”