“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” he intoned with a grin. “But that takes in so much territory that a man has to lie even if he wants to be honest. Maybe that’s what they mean by a ‘legal fiction.’ Nevertheless, there’s always going to be folks who’ll swear that they have truth by the tail. Actually, it’s not white or black but a man-made game, so I guess we’re complaining because we’re ruled out of most of it by the rules they set up for themselves. But even for themselves there’s room for choice, for selection. At least as far as the truth is concerned. And that’s where the individual—whether he be judge, historian, or politician—steps in and pretends that he’s the voice of God, which is their nick-name for history. Then he sets out to re-create the world by word of mouth, and all that doesn’t fit into the tale he wants to tell he leaves out. And that makes room for a whole world of complications that go unnoticed. So let’s forget about Abe Lincoln and take a trip out of the jug of history and into the outskirts of town where there are plenty of gullies….”
“Okay, A.Z., but only if I can sit here in this comfortable chair while we’re doing it.”
“Oh, come on Wilhite, don’t you know that up here in D.C. what were once the historical outskirts of town have become the in-skirts? Sure you do! Just like you know that things that used to happen only on the outskirts of town are now taking place in the so-called ‘inner cities.’ ”
“All right, but what does that have to do with history?”
“I was just getting to that, because I’d like to know if you’ve ever heard of a Saturday night shooting-scrape being termed historical?”
“Which one?”
“Any one you can think of. Can you name me a single one—no matter how much blood was spilled—that went down in history?”
“Nope.”
“And neither can I. But we’ve both heard about a few that folks still talk and sing about. For instance, when I was taking my shower I found myself humming words such as these: ‘Stackalee, said Billy / Please don’t take my life. / I got three little hungry black / Blue-gummed chillen / And a very sickly wife!’—now don’t laugh—which was not only a plea worthy of going down in the history books, but enough to strike pity from a man with a heart of stone….”
“That’s right,” Wilhite laughed, “providing that he knew about those blue-gummed children! Those little rascals were so hungry that they ate up the cow and the calf and the railing fence, and if Stackalee hadn’t shot their daddy they probably would have eaten him too!”
“Yes, and they might as well, because in spite of all their daddy’s pleading Stack blew him away. Therefore if there hadn’t been somebody on the scene to make up a song about what happened both Billy and Stack would have been long forgotten. And that holds true no matter how many others were on hand to hear that bulldog bark and the shooting start.”
“Right, A.Z., but all you’re doing is citing outskirts history. Which means that you’re violating your own rules.”
“I know, and I realize that I’m stretching my point a bit. But as I see it Billy and Stack were simply human beings, and therefore what happened to them should count down here on earth just as it does upstairs with the Lord. But since they weren’t important and the argument that caused one to kill and the other to die didn’t involve important people—unless it was the Sheriff—nobody considered what happened to them historical. So now let us praise two famous men. And as the boys in the pool hall used to say, ‘Rack ‘em back, Mister Gamekeeper, and set ‘em up for one more round!’ ”
“A.Z.,” Wilhite said with a frown, “before you became converted you must have been on your way to becoming a truly great sinner! So level with me now, were you there?”
“Who, me? No, sir! It was long before my time. I’m simply going by the account given in the song—which holds that the killing had to do with money—brand -new money, you hear me? Brand-new money and a Stetson hat. And it says that it came about because Billy was cheating at cards. Which raises the point I was making about history: Who knows exactly what led to the shooting? It could have been that Stack himself was cheating, or he could have used the situation to prove to himself that he had the nerve to kill another man—any man—and get away with it. Or maybe he was just anxious to try out his pistol. There were many possible motives, so who knows exactly what was on his mind when he pulled that trigger. All we really know is that there was a bang and a burst of smoke, then one man was dead and the other took off running. So while the who-shot-John of it might not be a question of history it surely involves a mystery….”
“You make a pretty frail case,” Wilhite said, “but I wish you’d picked a better example. After all, those two were nothing but a couple of rounders….”
“… But they were also human beings….”
Suddenly Hickman sat up and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee. “Now, let’s take a look at this thing in terms of the three men involved in terms of their possibility of becoming historical figures. Besides Stackalee and Billy there was also the Sheriff, remember? So by all means remember the Sheriff!”
“O.K., but Stack and Billy were the most important.”
“True, but keep your eye on the Sheriff. So it all began with Stack and Billy gambling….”
“… Right …”
“Then Stack gets mad and shoots Billy….”
“… Right! …”
“… and Billy dies.”
“So?”
“So then Stack grabs his hat and the money and takes off. Then, after a lot of mealymouthed talk about Negroes having no respect for law and order, the Sheriff tracks Stack down and throws him in jail….”
“… Probably after pistol-whipping him so bad that his legs roped like okra.”
“That the song doesn’t say, but we’ll let it lay. So the Sheriff throws Stack in jail, takes his pistol, his bankroll, and the money that Stack had taken off Billy. But most important of all, he takes that Stetson hat which was supposed to have a magic in it which had gotten Stack out of all kinds of trouble. Such as run-ins with angry husbands, evil fancy women, knife-wielding gamblers, and the law. Now the song leaves it just about there, Stack’s in jail and can’t be freed on bail, but we’re going to follow the action into the realm of what’s called ‘history.’ ”
“But it didn’t make it that far, at least not the way I’ve heard it. So if you take it any farther you’ll be blunting your point—whatever it is.”
“Oh, no! Because now we want to take a look at that Sheriff. The Sheriff doesn’t have much of a role in the song, but that’s the way with history, and it didn’t keep him from going on to rise into history on the magical power of Stackalee’s Stetson hat!”
With a groan Wilhite got to his feet. “A.Z., I’m glad we’ve been sitting here by ourselves, because all of a sudden you’ve started to lying as though this fancy hotel lobby was a barbershop. I call that taking advantage of my good nature and abusing my sense of propriety!”
“Sit down, man,” Hickman laughed, “because what I’m doing is in the interest of a larger truth.”
“All right, I will, but you’d better convince me—and I mean in a hurry! Otherwise I’m reporting you to Sister Gipson, and you know how she feels about lying. So what’s this about that sheriff and history?”
“Well, my friend, it went like this: The fact that he arrested a Negro as bad and tricky as Stackalee made the Sheriff a very famous man—even though it wasn’t known that he’d stolen Stack’s magic hat. Up to that point he’s been strictly local, a redneck bully with a cheap reputation for being tough on black folks. But now he’s known all over the state. Everywhere he goes white folks are greeting him, shaking his hand, and even slipping him jugs of illegal moonshine whiskey. So he ups and gets ambitious. And when the next election comes around he announces and runs for mayor—and wins!”
“Who told you that?”
“Never mind, it’s the truth. He has no experience, he can barely write his own name�
��but he wins. He’s dived headfirst into the murky waters of politics, and so now he’s swimming strong with an overhand stroke. He was already in cahoots with the bootleggers and the madams, but now he’s getting an even bigger share of the kickbacks from lawbreaking and has himself a swinging town in which he’s admired by everyone except folks like us. His motto is ‘Let the Good Times Roll!’ So after two terms as mayor he takes off and runs for governor and gets elected—all on a reputation gained by arresting Stackalee and taking his magical Stetson hat!”
“A.Z., I’m going to pray for you, because anyone who’ll tell a lie like this is truly in need of prayer!”
“So now the Sheriff is living in the Governor’s mansion with two dozen convicts waiting on him hand and foot. What’s more, he has two black convicts whose special duty is to hold up his head while he does his business in the bathroom. Now it’s also true that by now even white folks are becoming a little leery about his conduct. Because they soon realize that if he hadn’t been much of a mayor he’s doing even worse as governor. But they’re trying to overlook it because they’re impressed and fascinated by the fact that such a no-good rascal could rise so high. After all, he’s making the American dream come true. So now they’re making bets and watching to see just how high he can rise by parlaying his reputation into further realms of power and glory.”
“If it wasn’t a lie,” Wilhite laughed, “I’d have to cry. But if it wasn’t the truth I couldn’t laugh! Keep preaching!”
“Listen: So with all his success his ambition grows and he gains such confidence that when the next election rolls around he runs for the United States Senate! That’s right! And since most of the white folks are backing him, he wins in a landslide what amounts to a job for life. And once in the Senate he keeps on winning, and winning, and winning! So today, right here in Washington, he’s an elder statesman, the respected head of four or five important committees, and a sneaky millionaire. He drinks his whiskey with rich men, world leaders, and the President. And twice a year he goes to Paris, France, on government expense to check out its better bars, restaurants, and whorehouses—things that keep him so busy that today he drops down to his old stamping ground only once a year—which is at hog-killing time. That’s because he also happens to be a dedicated chitt’lin’ eater. He’s a powerful and influential man, and all because two Negroes got into a Saturday night gambling game! And that, old friend, is how he made it into the history books!”
Pretending to collapse in his chair, Wilhite shook with laughter. “I know you’re lying, but the way you tell it it could actually have happened.”
“Not only could, but it probably did. And that’s my point. We simply don’t know whether it did or didn’t, because you can be sure that when the Sheriff reached Washington he turned the damper down on the part Stackalee played in his rise to fame and power and only stressed his roles as mayor and governor. He doesn’t say a word about the fact that he made his early reputation by kicking the ‘nigras’ around, or that he was once looked down upon by the aristocrats who ran the town. Oh, no! And now he swears that he was educated at Georgia Tech, read law under a man who studied with Jeff Davis and Huey Long, and claims that his good luck came from his being seventh son of a seventh son….”
“… What a country!”
“… While the plain, unhistorical truth lies in the fact that after all this time he’s still conjuring around with that black magic which Stack had hidden in his Stetson hat!”
“Done stole the black man’s power! Which raises the question as to why the respectable folks let him get away with it.”
“Because, man, they’re benefiting from his exploiting that magic! They’re living off the prestige he’s built up, and taking advantage of all those big grants and government contracts which he’s able to bring into the state because of his position—and don’t forget his seniority in the Senate. Sure, the other senators know who he is, but they aren’t about to discuss it with outsiders. And as far as I can tell there’s only two things that can possibly keep him from running for president.”
“Like what?”
“The first is his age, and the second is Billy’s blue-gummed children’s blue-gummed children. Because while Stack didn’t leave any offspring those little grandbabies of Billy and his sickly wife have their eyes on the Senator-Sheriff, and they intend to get Stack’s Stetson back!”
Removing a handkerchief, Wilhite wiped his eyes. “A.Z.,” he said, “if our reason for coming up here wasn’t so serious I’d say that it was worth it, if for no other reason than the way these surroundings have set you to lying! How on earth did you get going about that Sheriff?”
“Just by trying to get at the mystery in history,” Hickman said with a smile. “Just trying to look into what might have happened between the act and the shadow of the act.”
“Yes, but you were talking about Abe Lincoln.”
“That’s true, I was; but it wasn’t important. Let’s get to work on the problem at hand.”
“No, please. I’d like to hear what you started out to say.”
Wilhite was earnest, leaning toward him with a slight frown.
“What I was leading up to was that in spite of all the interpretations for and against his policies, nobody really knows what went on in Abraham Lincoln’s mind—at least that’s how I see it. And that’s where mystery laughs at history.”
Stretching his legs, he gazed at the tapestry and crossed his ankles. “Maybe he doubted that freedom would work even if there was no problem of black and white to further complicate the situation. And maybe he preferred not to think too hard about it at a time he was trying to win the war. Or it could be that like Jonah he was trying to ignore God’s command and the mess to be settled by history. But there we were, and so snarled up with everything both North and South that pretty soon he became so desperate that he threw us in to help do some of the killing. On the other hand, he might have realized if white folks went on killing one another in wholesale lots it might become a habit, and therefore it would be a good idea to have us on hand to remind the survivors of what all the bloodshed had been about. And if not that, then perhaps he decided that it would be a good idea to have us on hand to take the blame in the years to come. I think he was a great man, one of the greatest. But I can’t forget that he was a man, and I’m trying to think of him as a man faced with difficult choices. A man with problems—and he did have problems! He was doing the best he could, so maybe he concluded that with white folks being unable to live together in peace, getting the black and the white to do so was just too big a problem for any one mortal man to solve. Maybe that’s why he tried to cut things down to size by simply concentrating on keeping this fire-and-water, alcohol-and-gasoline, freedom-loving, nigger-hating Union together. And the fact that he did it was a miracle! A bloody miracle, but a miracle just the same.
“So who can blame him for not solving all of the problems? He kept the nation together—which was not only his dream and his hope, but a responsibility that went with the job he’d sworn to perform. How things went after the Union was secured was yet another mountain to be climbed, another stony row to be hoed. Some say that he couldn’t bring himself to see a place for us here as a free people. Others say that he didn’t even care, one way or another….”
“… Yes,” Wilhite said, “I’ve read it and heard it said….”
“… And I’ve even heard one of our own kind make a joke about the statement Lincoln was reported to have made in New Orleans when he said that if he ever had a chance to hit slavery he’d hit it hard….”
“And what was that?”
“That he wasn’t referring to slavery exactly, but to a good-looking female slave who happened to be standing on a levee bound in chains.”
“Oh, Lord,” Wilhite said, “you mean that one of us would joke about something like that?”
“Wilhite, our people will joke about anything, including Christ on his cross! And what’s so outrageous about it is the f
act that it isn’t because we’re insane or stony-hearted, but because laughing at wounds and scars is the only thing that keeps us hopeful and sane! Like it or not, it’s one of the few ways we have of keeping ourselves from being ground to a frazzle between the mysteries of life and the lies of history. We either have religion or we have the blues. And even our religion has to provide room for holy laughter….”
“I guess so,” Wilhite said, “but for one of us to make that kind of joke—well, I don’t know.”
“But think of it this way: What if ole Abe did make such a statement and meant it? Would the statement blot out what he went on to accomplish? No! He was a man, and a man’s instinct is not only without conscience but it gets mixed up into everything a man tries to do. So whatever is said about his motives we have to remember the one thing that can’t be denied: He signed the papers that set us free!”
“Amen!”
“And no matter what that freedom has turned out to be, he made it possible. He wrote the words, and he signed them with his name, and that marked a new beginning. That’s what I was thinking while listening to you fellows talking on the bus. I thought: Go ahead, brothers, and talk. Dispute your notions of history, and try to make some human sense out of what above all else was a human problem. But then remember that whatever conclusions you reach it was Lincoln who made it possible for you to argue about his motives, and that after the fact …”
“Oh, I knew that you were judging us, A.Z., even though you kept looking out of the window.”
“Yes, but not harshly. I really wasn’t. But the emotion I felt at the memorial was still with me, and I was sad because of the inadequacy of what I had said out there. You were speaking of him as a politician, and you were right. Considering the reason that brought us here, how could you help it? So I was thinking to myself, Yes, that’s what he was, a politician. And considering the fact that both sides of the war were using us as a combination sign and symbol of what they were killing one another for as well as for what they both were trying to back away from fulfilling in the pact that this nation had made with God, he not only had to be a politician, he had to be more of a trickster-politician than any of those he was up against, both North and South. It was just our little bit of luck that something deep inside the man, something in him that probably had nothing directly to do with politics but still made the difference. It could have been something shameful, or it could have been something too glorious even for him to think or write about while trying to keep his feet on the ground and his eye on his target—but thank God for whatever it was!”
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 92
