Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  So, Hickman, he thought with a sense of discovery and relief, perhaps by playing a wordless game of hide-and-seek the weaver meant to encourage the same type of participation. If so, I wish that his game were musical! Because then I could rely on my experienced ear and fairly good memory. As it is I’m eager and willing, but he seems to be playing a game on my ignorant old eyes—which puts me at a disadvantage, because beyond such things as biblical scenes, comic cartoons, billboards, and ads I’m ignorant of his kind of art. But now that I’m hooked I have to keep looking. Besides, if this tapestry is actually telling a story, I’m forced to find it or lose my self-respect as a wordman. Anyway, like jokes, jazz riffs, yarns, and sermons, stories have to move from a beginning through a middle to an end. The problem here is that while the figures and atmosphere suggest a movement toward some moment of revelation it’s due to a soundless juxtaposition of forms and color. The farmer, shepherd, and fisherman are in the process of moving without movement—how about that! But perhaps by staring at the earth, the sky, and the sea they’re still doing something that’s suppose to move the story toward its invisible climax. My question is what does it mean, and how will I find it?

  As he frowned and stared, the answer continued to escape him; but now, as with the surprising patterns of melodic invention that enabled a swinging musician to keep his listeners’ attention, new details were emerging out of the landscape’s illusion of peaceful movement to tease his eye and his memory.

  For, suddenly, the blue-green expanse of the sea was overlaid by airy images of glass insulators used on telephone poles during his boyhood. Such domed, translucent shapes had often served as targets for his slingshot, and though strictly forbidden by both the law and his father, he had found them so irresistible that years later, when coming upon young Bliss trying his hand at the game, he couldn’t help but grin at his own hypocrisy while putting a belt to the little boy’s bottom.

  And now, with the airy image of the long-lost boy firing rocks at glinting insulators overlaying the landscape, new details of the scene brought a sudden sense of imminent discovery:

  Below the cliff from which the man quietly fished the tall ship still steered for the sea through the inlet, but now for the first time he saw the miniature forms of sailors clinging high in its riggings as they reefed a wind-tossed sail. And now, looking midway through the watery distance between the stern of the ship and the base of the headland, he froze. For there, surrounded by a sun-reflecting splash, he saw the lonely legs and grasping hand of someone who appeared to have plunged headfirst out of nowhere and into the wind-ruffled sea….

  Suddenly spurred by his vague sense of a connection between the sprawling legs and the danger that had prompted his flight to Washington, he leaped from his chair and hurried forward, annoyed that it had taken him so long to notice such a shocking detail. And now, reaching the wall with a mounting sense of panic, he centered his attention on the sky-pointing legs and explored the landscape from highland to horizon and border to border—and paused with increasing confusion.

  For now he saw that the tapestry’s deep red border was embroidered with scientific symbols, steamships, automobiles, airplanes, submarines, space rockets, and miniature portraits of famous inventors and scientists, among whom he recognized Henry Ford, Albert Einstein, and Thomas Edison.

  Hickman, he thought, you were right about a story or parable being hidden in this thing! But now that you’ve found the clue you’re either too dumb or uneducated to get its meaning—you, who have the outrageous nerve to interpret the Book of Revelation! But either way, from the size of the feet and shape of the legs it’s plain that it’s a man—so from where did he fall? It couldn’t have been from the cliff, because he’s too far offshore … and the fellow on the cliff is so busy fishing that he isn’t even looking in his direction. And it couldn’t have been from that ship because those sailors are acting as though he doesn’t exist. Besides, if he’d fallen from there he’d have yelled for help…. So from where did he fall, and how long in his falling? It couldn’t have been from an airplane, because in spite of all of those modern inventions woven around the border everything I see in the landscape indicates that he fell long before planes were invented. So could it be that he’s supposed to have swum that far from shore to commit suicide? After all, the old folks did tell us stories about Africans who took their children and walked into the sea until they drowned. But they had a reason: because rather than live in slavery they chose to die. But this fellow’s legs are white and he’s far from any shore….

  “A.Z.,” he heard with a start, “what are you staring at?”

  “Wilhite,” he said, pointing a finger at the landscape, “what do you make of that?”

  “Of what?”

  “Those legs, man; those legs!”

  “Well, I declare,” Wilhite said. “What happened to him?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. It’s plain that he’s going under, but from where did he fall?”

  “You’re the one who’s been looking, so you tell me.”

  “That’s the point, I’ve been looking at this thing for at least twenty minutes and enjoying the view, but then, just before you got back, I see these legs! What gets me is that they were there all the time! Now it looks like I was enjoying myself while somebody decided to commit suicide by drowning….”

  “Suicide?” Wilhite said as he bent closer and stared at the legs.

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know, A.Z., but I think that you’re fishing in the wrong part of the creek.”

  “Why?”

  “Because from the position of his legs there’s no way in the world for him to be committing suicide by drowning. No, sir! Because it’s simply impossible for a man to lift himself high enough out of the water to take such a plunge. Look at that splash!”

  “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe we’re looking at a religious allegory in which the plunge is supposed to be the one made by Satan after he got himself kicked out of the Kingdom….”

  “Maybe so, but if that’s what those legs are supposed to signify I’m put in the position of the fellow in that story you tell about the man who was being chased by a dog and had someone advise him to give himself up because the animal was a police dog: With him I’m saying, ‘If he’s with the police let him show me his badge, otherwise I’m gonna keep running!’ ”

  “Oh, yeah? Well if you keep looking you’ll discover that his badge has some pretty sharp points. But in the meantime, what about those legs?”

  “I don’t know, but if the fellow taking the plunge is supposed to be Satan, I want to see his hooves and tail! Which is only reasonable, because with that much of his body under water Satan’s tail should be sticking up there between his legs—which it isn’t. What’s more, this fellow hit the water much too quietly and low-keyed to attract attention. That’s probably why we can’t see a single soul who’s looking in his direction. Not the farmer, who’s looking at his plowed ground, not the fisher or that unfaithful shepherd, nor anyone else—at least not as far as I can see. While we both know very well that if it was Satan he’d have been screaming loud enough to wake up all hell and Harlem!”

  “Amen, A.Z., but don’t go putting down Harlem. I’ve lived there and like most big cities you have to keep awake to stay alive. Besides, the serious questions remain: Who is he, and from where did he begin such a sad lonely fall?”

  “If I knew that,” Hickman said as he turned and started away, “I’d have the answer.”

  “You know, Wilhite,” he said as they moved away, “I began looking at that thing while killing time waiting for you, but now I’m sorry that it ever caught my eye! That’s right, because now that it has I’m liable to wake up in the middle of the night still worrying about who that man was and how he could have reached so high to fall so low…. This town, Lord, it looks like everywhere I turn there’s something waiting to give me a fit! And I mean even in little things unrelat
ed to what brought us here. It just goes to show that no matter where a man finds himself it’s the things that aren’t spelled out that give him the most trouble! Yes, and since any collection of things thrown together can signify far more than any one of them by itself, you have to keep watching out for the patterns they make when they come together. If the man’s head was showing you could be satisfied in calling him Jonah—but then, Wilhite, where in all that sea is the vomiting whale?”

  “A.Z.,” Wilhite said, “you sound tired.”

  “I know it, but I still have my sense of humor. How are things going back home?”

  “Nothing new, except for old Sister Caroline calling four or five time asking you to be sure and look up her brother.”

  “Good! Because after promising to look him up I’d forgotten all about it. How’s she feeling?”

  “She’s holding on, but being as sick as she is she’s anxious to see that brother of hers.”

  “So we’d better try and find him and get him on down there—even if we have to dig up his fare. Sister Caroline’s a fine woman. Any word from Janey?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Well,” he said with a quick glance at the tapestry. “I guess that after setting up this wild goose chase she’s sitting back

  [HISTORY]

  AND WAITING to see what will happen. Wilhite, tell me the truth: Do you think we ought to give up on this mission?”

  “After we’ve come this far! A.Z., what are you driving at?”

  “I’m asking if you think we should give it up and return home.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “That’s right, I’m serious.”

  “Then you must really be tired! Anyway, now that he’s alerted we have to keep hunting, and since we’ve missed him in the open why not keep stalking his secret hole—which makes sense to me. So instead of sitting here talking, why not give his woman’s place another try?”

  “Wilhite, this isn’t some animal we’re trying to corner, but a man. Which means that our trying to reach him through his lady friend was unethical, and since we failed I’m against trying that again. Besides, going there a second time could be dangerous. Maybe we should try once more to catch him at his office, and if we fail let’s try something else.”

  “Very well, A.Z., but whether it’s ethical or not, we’d better find a way of reaching him before it’s too late.”

  “I know, and we’ll do whatever we can, but rather than barging in on his mistress again let’s try to reach him through somebody else.”

  “Okay, but who would that be?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know, but it might be the police….”

  “The police! A.Z., I knew you were tired, but now it seems that you’re losing faith. How could we go to them without revealing everything we don’t want them to know?”

  “That’s the rub, my friend; that’s the skin-scraping rub!”

  “And you can say that again. The police would simply laugh at us, and we don’t even know how to describe this young fellow of Janey’s. So we’re in the dark, and as usual with dark men caught in the dark we’ve got to find and follow our own path.”

  “Yes, but how? We’ve tried to see the man, we’ve been to his office and left telephone messages, but so far nothing has happened. I’m surprised that the members haven’t gotten sick of wasting their time.”

  “Well, they haven’t, because they remember that the man’s life depends on our keeping after him.”

  “And is that how you feel?”

  “Look, A.Z., I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but let’s be frank about this thing. I know that you have a greater need to see this man than any of the rest of us. I understand that and so do most of the others, and we all respect your feeling. The truth is that yours is the really pressing need. Besides, you’re the one who’s setting the direction, so don’t start talking about our giving up. Not at this early stage of the game!”

  “I’m not, but I’m trying to consider the rest of you. Have the members been discussing any of this?”

  “No—or at least not directly. But it could be in their minds.”

  “Yes, I know. And it would have to be, considering what’s happened or hasn’t happened. Still, if they’ve begun talking it could make a difference.”

  “Not necessarily. Because being faithful to you they’re faithful to your idea and leadership. You loved that little boy, everybody knows that from way back. But so did the rest of us who knew him, and most of us still do. Anyway, it’s been so long ago that it’s gotten mixed up with other attitudes that are too complicated for me to describe. Anger for some, and for others it’s their disbelief that anyone they knew could turn out to be what he’s become. But I think that most of them won’t really know what they feel until they see him face-to-face. However—and this is a big ‘however’—if you’d given even a hint that you were losing interest in the mystery of this thing they would have been relieved to put it out of their minds. You didn’t, so you kept the boy alive in their minds if not in all of their hearts.”

  Wilhite paused, looking into his eyes.

  “A.Z.,” Wilhite continued, “I hope you won’t mind my saying what I’m about to say….”

  Hickman smiled. “Of course not, old buddy. Coming from you the truth might hurt, but it won’t kill me. I’ve suspected what you say about the members’ attitudes for a long time. But now, what about you personally?”

  “Now, don’t tell me that you think that I might be faltering!”

  “No, but I’d like to be able to judge the possible strain being put on our friendship.”

  “But why would you think of such a thing?”

  “Because I realize that I’ve been asking you and the rest to go along with my personal craziness for a long time now…. Yes, and because this afternoon, after letting my emotions take over out there at the memorial … you might have felt … well, that I was losing my grip on reality….”

  “… Do you mean because of what I was saying on the bus?”

  He nodded.

  “So that’s it! But A.Z., I wasn’t arguing against you, I was arguing with myself! I was trying to make some sense between what you made us feel about Abe Lincoln and the conditions we’re living with today. Man, that’s what was happening! Out there you had us under the spell of your vision, just as you did when we flew up here. We were being carried along by your faith and the power of your need to learn what had happened to that little boy. And we did it willingly! You didn’t force a single soul. No, A.Z., that wasn’t criticism, it was just a matter of my trying to straighten things out in my own mind….”

  “Now, don’t go making it light on me,” Hickman said, “because I know I have cause to feel guilty. But I wasn’t faulting you for what you were saying on the bus. How could I, when I know only too well that when it comes to Abe Lincoln there’s a lot to be discussed on either side. And you must know that in spite of what I felt moved to say out there. There’s still too much conflict between what I feel in my heart and what I think about the outcome of even the most well-intended human enterprise for me to lose sight of the other side. I mean the bad in the good, and the good in the bad that often gets coated with whiteness—at least when it’s written as history.”

  “If you ask me,” Wilhite said with a grimace as he sat back and crossed his legs, “that kind of history is a living mess. And thank God that we don’t have to live in it, because just living is bad enough. It’s a wonder we aren’t all raving maniacs!”

  “Easy, Deacon; easy! Because we’re half in and half out of it. That’s why it can feel as though we’re walking around in somebody else’s nightmare—and we both know whose! Seriously, though, history happens and men have a hand in it, or at least some of them do. Especially those who have the power to push other people around. The good thing is that they don’t have as much control as they’d like to think. They draw a circle and say, ‘Everything outside this line has no meaning and doesn’t count.’ But what’s pushed
outside can be anything from a springtime flood to a plague of boll weevils to a cotton-picking machine, or a bunch of Japanese flying plywood airplanes. That’s why I feel guilty when dragging religion into the quicksand called ‘history’—even though the big churches have been in it up to their steeples for centuries. Which means almost from the time they took Christ down from the cross. Still, it’s all focused in mankind, and it’s what our brooding hearts and minds try to make of what has happened irreversibly that moves me beyond all my powers to resist it. All the ifs and ands and the might-have-beens. Things that are sometimes more complex and contradictory than anything that’s put down in the history books….”

  “… I’m with you there, A.Z….”

  “… I don’t know, Wilhite, but maybe it’s the fact that things in this world can get out of control so easily—Like when a war breaks out, or someone gets assassinated. Or when nature kicks up, like that flood back in ‘27, or that Dust Bowl drought. Things like that can cause a confusion that can take over people’s hearts and minds. Maybe that’s what makes the idea of history so appealing. Folks have such a need to rationalize what happens to them that they’re willing to listen even if to somebody who claims he can cram life’s complexity into a man-made jug with a fountain pen.”

  “Yes, but don’t leave out the politicians! They do the things that satisfy their own interests and then they whitewash it and pay folks to tell the rest of us the meaning of what they’ve done and see to it that the unfavorable parts aren’t included.”

  “That’s true, but it doesn’t even have to be intentional. After all, everybody likes to look his best, so it can depend upon who’s involved and who sets out to tell the tale.”

  “Well, it might not be intentional, but when you have to stand outside and watch what they put down it sure can be confusing. And especially when you think you know what the truth really is.”