Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  “Amen,” Wilhite said. “Trying to think about it your way is like hoeing a straight row in stony ground, but Amen! Is that why you sound so sad?”

  “Now, now,” Hickman said. “Not after bending your ear. Wilhite, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you to talk with. For a while there I was worried that I might have gotten something going out there at the memorial that I couldn’t hold on to. With my big mouth taking over I thought that with the problem of getting to this boy working in the back of everyone’s mind—Oh, Wilhite, what I’m trying to say is that I think I’m over my head. If I’d known what we’d be up against I probably would have given up the idea of having us come up here. Right now I’m up against everything that my ignorance and lack of experience have left me unprepared to deal with. Even the manners and rules of this town are against us. It’s set up in such a way that the man doesn’t even have to do a thing to keep us at bay. Because everybody seems bent on keeping us from seeing him. They’re so set on upholding on to the apparent arrangement of things that they won’t even stop to think about what it might cost him if we don’t manage to see him. They can’t imagine the possibility that folks like us might actually have something to do with someone they are sure to go down in history. It makes a man wonder if they ever think about what those monuments scattered around this town might mean to folks like us.”

  “They don’t, A.Z., because as far as they’re concerned there’s no connection!”

  “Well, all I can say is that they should. Because whether they like it or not, Abe Lincoln dealt us into the game, and we’re standing pat if only in thanks for all those on both sides who died to bring us here. So no matter how much ducking and dodging that boy manages to do, we have arrived; and I mean to see that we accomplish the mission that brought us here.”

  “Now you’re sounding like your old self,” Wilhite said. “What’s our next move?”

  Getting to his feet, Hickman removed his watch and checked the time. “It’s later than I thought,” he said, “and much too late to do anything about our boy. So in the morning we’ll try reaching him at his office. In the meantime we’ll have to pray that nothing happens to him.”

  “Good,” Wilhite said with a yawn. “It’s been a busy day.”

  “Yes, but it isn’t over. So get up and come on.”

  “But you said that it was late, so what are you doing at this hour?”

  “We’re going to keep our promise to Sister Caroline and find Aubrey McMillen.”

  “But why?”

  “Because Aubrey’s a notorious white-folks-watcher. He’s one of a kind who doesn’t even think about it, he just watches how they walk and talk and eat and dress. And he keeps an eye on how they assert authority, drive their cars, bully other folks, and break the laws. He watches their pretensions and their need to measure almost everything they do against what we do. And years ago he learned down South that it’s a good policy to watch white folks from their first soiled diapers to their last clean shirt. And that’s because they like to pretend that colored folks are deaf, dumb, blind, and noseless….”

  “All right, but why bother him tonight? Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow after we’ve taken care of this other business?”

  “No, because that’s a good reason for trying to see him tonight. I want to keep our promise to his sister, and it just came to me that although he’s a notorious liar and a dedicated white-folks-watcher he might be able to tell us something helpful …”

  [MCMILLEN]

  ENTERING THE TAXI WHICH Wilhite had summoned, Hickman settled back and turned his attention to the task ahead. The fact that his idea was inspired by a dying woman’s desire to see her brother made him uncomfortable, but if Aubrey was still the dedicated white-folks-watcher he’d been years ago he might well provide clues that could save a man’s life. So the problem was one of learning whatever he might know about the private lives of Washington officials without arousing his curiosity.

  Staring at the flow of nighttime traffic he recalled that it had been during a summer visit to Chicago that young McMillen had been converted to the stylized manner of walking known as the “pimp’s limp.” A style with which, advancing along the dusty streets of the neighborhood one short step at a time, he had drawn attention as he swaggered and swayed in his crude imitation of Chicago’s Southside types whose sporty clothes, fine automobiles, and good-looking women had struck him as glamorous. And while the clash between his new style of walking and his skinny, high-butted, teenager’s body had made him a target for teasing, it soon became clear that his adopted style signaled his break with the conservative values of the respectable community and the pious ways of his parents. And it was during that summer of adolescent crisis that Aubrey adopted the attitudes of older outlaw types who were known for defying the unfair restraints imposed on their freedom by white folks. And by way of expressing his defiance he had become fascinated by the old Negro game of white-folks-watching.

  Thus, in expressing his rebellion McMillen had become intensely concerned with white behavior, and especially with the behavior of those who were least likely to suspect that their personal conduct, carefree or guarded, was of intense interest to a teenage Negro whose expression was dull and his eyes heavy-lidded. Not that Aubrey was always able to grasp the complexity of what he observed, but like other youngsters of his group he became an observer of activities that dispelled some of the mystery which shrouded the ways of white folks.

  Which in itself was not unusual, for the contrast between what whites said and what they did could be inescapable, even for children much younger. And given the close proximity of blacks and whites there was much to be seen, questioned, and evaluated; as he himself had discovered during his boyhood, viewed more intimately from the bandstand, and continued to observe as an elderly minister.

  But then, for most hometown whites, even adult Negroes were hardly more than shadowy, inferior beings whose observations and opinions counted for little in the segregated world in which they themselves moved. On the other hand, circumstance both political and historical had forced Negroes to deal with the complex individuality of even the poorest of white folks. It was true that on the face of it some were friendlier than others, but underneath, all white folks required careful attention as to their individual backgrounds and characters. Indeed, the difference between living or dying could depend upon a Negro’s knowledge of a white individual’s values and dissents, and therefore white-folks-watching had become McMillen’s way of protecting himself no less than a devious form of amusement through which, playing black cat to white king, he made a game of observing unwary whites while remaining himself unseen.

  The game was dangerous, but that was part of its attraction. It was also a form of instruction through which a knowledge of matters not taught in schools could be gained, and a discipline in self-survival and social awareness which, once imposed, was never abandoned.

  For not only was white-folks-watching a form of self-protection and an easy method of self-assertion, it was also a source of amusement. But as Millsap had insisted, white-folks-watching was basically a form of people watching. So along with laughing at the hypocrisies of others we should try to measure how much they are like us and we’re like them. “And that, old buddy,” Millsap had said, “is the eye-popping, color-grating rub!”

  Indeed it is, he thought. So if McMillen has continued his game and happens to know anything useful about our boy it’s up to us to learn what it is without arousing his curiosity….

  Suddenly aware that the taxi was slowing its pace, he looked out at the oncoming march of streetlights, and spotting the name of McMillen’s street on a lamppost he directed the driver to let them out at the corner.

  But after paying the driver and joining Wilhite on the curb, he stopped short. For instead of the slum he had unconsciously expected they had reached a quiet neighborhood which was marked by its graceful trees and well-kept houses.

  “Hold it, Deacon,” he said, “there
seems to be …”

  But before he could finish the taxi was speeding away.

  So now, annoyed with himself, he stared into the flickering shadows beyond the streetlight and wondered if they had made the mistake of entering a white neighborhood so late after nightfall. But seeing no patrol cars or people he couldn’t be certain.

  “Let’s get on with it, Wilhite,” he said.

  And now, moving ahead, they entered the dry, fragrant smell of a lane of tall trees and began checking the façades of houses.

  Then, through the shadows ahead he saw a man approaching who appeared to be white. Carrying an equipment case of some kind slung over his shoulders, the man appeared to be talking to himself as he moved through the shadows and searched for something he had lost on the sidewalk.

  “Look at that, A.Z.,” Wilhite said, “wonder what he’s up to?”

  “I don’t know, but keep moving….”

  But now, becoming aware of their presence, the man paused, took a quick look behind him, and continued forward at a pace which sent the equipment case on his shoulder bobbing and swinging.

  “Watch it, Wilhite,” he warned. But in stepping aside he felt a blow from the case, saw the startled white face loom close to his own, grabbed the man in a bear hug, and in whirling him around was blasted in the face by the strong fumes of bourbon. And seeing the man’s startled expression as Wilhite yelled angrily, “Who does he think he’s bumping,” he loosened his grip.

  “It’s all right,” he said over his shoulder.

  And releasing the man’s arms he took a step backward, saying, “It’s O.K., no harm was done…. Are you all right?”

  “Why yes,” the man said with a note of uncertainty, “but what’s this about, what’s happening?”

  “Simply an accident,” he said. “Just one of those things that go bump in the night….”

  “Oh,” the man said with a look of relief. “Nevertheless, it still has to be accounted for, understand? There’s always an underlying motive, so we must consider the circumstance and get at the facts!”

  “Facts,” he said. “Man, what are you talking about?”

  But instead of answering the man took off on the run.

  “Good Lord, A.Z.,” Wilhite said as they turned and watched the figure flash through the shadows, “he must have thought we intended to rob him.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said with a slap of his chest to make sure that his own wallet was still in place, “but that liquor I smelled on his breath might be playing tricks with his brain.”

  “So that’s what it was,” Wilhite said with a laugh. “And him talking about facts!”

  “Well, Wilhite,” he said as he watched the man rushing through the blobs of light and shadow ahead, “facts aren’t everything, but they are important.”

  And now, watching the man become a small figure that listed to one side from the weight of its shoulder-hung case, he recalled Millsap’s comment about the black-and-white drama of everyday life. And as he watched the figure staggering across the brightness of the street intersection and disappearing into the shadows beyond, he shook his head.

  “Wilhite,” he said as they turned and continued, “what puzzles me is how anyone who couldn’t see somebody as big as me on this walk could get the facts about anything!”

  “Yeah, A.Z.,” Wilhite said with a grin, “but don’t forget that he bumped into you in the dark.”

  Returning Wilhite’s grin with a blank-faced stare, he said, “Let’s get on with it,” and continued south through the shadows. And now in checking the façades of houses, he saw the address which he had copied from Sister Caroline’s letter and came to a halt. And in examining his notebook he gave Wilhite a look of surprise. For the address was that of a well-kept townhouse.

  Built in a style which was common to early America, the three-storied dwelling seemed an unlikely residence for the likes of the McMillen he remembered, yet the numerals 369 that glowed on the glass of its fanlight were the same as those in his notebook. So with a nod to Wilhite he moved toward the entrance.

  “What puzzles me,” he said as he searched for a doorbell, “is how a fellow like the Aubrey we knew comes to be living in such a respectable neighborhood.”

  “Well, now, A.Z.,” Wilhite said with a chuckle, “the rascal always hung loose and played the odds, so maybe he’s got lucky and come up in the world. Still, I can remember a time when I would have thought twice before moving into a house with those particular numbers.”

  Pausing in his search for the entrance bell, Hickman stared at the numerals illuminated by the fanlight and frowned. Then, suddenly recalling that most dream books which were popular among gamblers during the old days had interpreted three-sixty-nine as the numerical sign for excrement and thus a potent symbol for life’s unpredictable mixture of good luck with bad, he grinned.

  “I see what you mean,” he said, “because I can remember a time when all you had to do was to dream of stepping in some of what those numbers symbolize on a sidewalk—And wham! you’d rush to some policy joint and risk a week of your hard-earned pay.”

  “Not me!”

  “Oh, yes, my friend! Because in those days you were such a frantic gambler that you’d bet on anything. But now since you’re a deacon you can forget that foolishness and remember the parable of the honey and swarm of bees that were hidden in the stinking carcass of a lion. Yes, and the little book that was sweet to the taste but bitter in the belly. Because as soon as I find this bell we’re wading in….”

  But the entrance had neither bell nor knocker, and finding the hopeful advice of a favorite spiritual, “Knock, and it shall be opened,” to no avail he gave the knob a twist and a push, thinking, All right, so it’s a case of “seek and ye shall find ”— and was surprised to see the door swing inward upon a warmly lit interior.

  For a moment he paused, giving Wilhite a questioning glance. Then, hearing no movement inside, he raised his shoulders in a gesture of “What’s-there-to-lose?” and stepped into the spacious entrance hall of what appeared to be an upper-middle-class home.

  Advancing over a thick carpet he saw near the wall to his left a tall porcelain jar filled with walking canes that had handles carved in the forms of men and animals. And as he beckoned for Wilhite to follow he saw, some ten feet ahead, the dark wood of a handsome grandfather’s clock and heard it accenting the silence with the tick and delayed tock of its pendulum’s swinging.

  And again he paused, watching the pendulum’s ponderous pulsing while listening for movement ahead. Then, suddenly aware of an odor which seemed oddly out of place in the setting, he frowned and looked back to the reversed numerals on the glowing fanlight.

  “Hold it, Deacon,” he whispered, “just in case we’ve picked the wrong house. Because why would anyone who’s lived in Washington as long as McMillen go and leave the outside door to a place like this unlocked?”

  “Oh, come on, A.Z., you checked the address yourself,” Wilhite said, “so this has to be the place. What bothers me is what’s a home-boy like Aubrey doing living here in the first place? Maybe he’s only a roomer, so what do we do if he happened to have moved after writing his sister?”

  “So now, way late, you’re asking something we should have considered before barging in here,” Hickman said. “Come on….”

  But as he turned and looked past the clock he froze, surprised by the figure of a man who stared from a doorway ahead.

  The man was silent but visibly upset, but as he opened his mouth to explain their intrusion he could see the man’s lips mimicking his own, and realized with a shock that the “doorway” was a shadowy, full-length mirror, and the “man” his own startled reflection.

  And suddenly it was as though his inner self had found his act of trespassing so outrageous as to materialize and charge its bodily flesh with violating all laws of privacy.

  But look, man, he thought as he stared at his accusing reflection, don’t you go getting so self-righteous that you forget tha
t we both walked in here on a mission of mercy! And don’t you forget, his reflection shot back, about what might happen if somebody catches you messing around in here! So now either you tiptoe outside and find that doorbell, or get yourself together and sing out ‘Is anybody home?’ loud and clear and pray that whoever hears you doesn’t call the police….

  Then, noting that the elaborate mirror was supported by pivot pins set between the curved mahogany uprights of a fantastic cloak rack, he saw, suspended beneath the mirror’s frame, an upholstered bench the width of a love seat. And near the top of the uprights from which his mirrored image loomed he saw the prongs of two sets of deer antlers that appeared to sprout—now as he watched himself shift positions—from the sides of his own hatted head.

  Good Lord, he thought, it looks like coming in here unannounced is going to be worse than getting thrown out of that office building!

  But now with a glance at a grinning Wilhite he moved cautiously ahead— until, suddenly, the wall on his left disappeared—and he found himself standing just outside the arched entrance to a short passage beyond which he could see to a hallway filled with silent people.

  Moving forward a step at a time, he could see men and women crowding the floor before him and the steps and landing of a wide winding staircase which curved to the floor above. But except for a single man who turned toward him and frowned, the others were so preoccupied with peering into the open door of a brightly lighted room to the right that they failed to budge; even as Wilhite moved in to join him. And suddenly aware that the people were dressed in night-clothes, he grasped Wilhite’s arm.