“White folks like him are always trying to low-rate us colored women by calling us earthy, so why can’t I just be my own earthy self and do what comes naturally? Why can’t I, gentlemen? Why do I have to be a victim of this black-and-white mess? Tell me why, gentlemen, tell me WHY!”
Keeping an eye on Barnes’ exasperated face, Hickman gasped. For now with the little woman’s reference to washbowls and plumbing taking on the rhythmic beat of a chant he recognized the word play through which innocent objects were substituted for the crude terms which players of the dozens used when referring to the private parts of their opponents’ mothers. And as memory supplied the rhyme’s missing details he stared at the little woman with mixed feelings of dismay and barely controlled laughter.
Hickman, he thought, what is this world coming to? She’s too ladylike to call a spade a spade and yet has the nerve to defy a white policeman and insult this thickheaded bully by signifying about his mother! Woman, he thought as he wavered between outrage and laughter, thy name is Confusion!—Yes, but what have I done to deserve having her strike me head-heel-and-thigh with her questions and dreams?
Nevertheless, desperate little Maud was one of his own, and as he scanned the bemused faces of tenants he felt compelled to say whatever he could to console her. Yet even as he surged with compassion his attempt to respond to her urgent appeal was mocked by its blatant, blues-like absurdity. And with her shrill voice grating his ears it was as though she were stretching his sense of reality to the point of breaking, much like a string on which a gyrating kite was threatening to fly free from all earthly restraints. And with the image of a kite soaring in his mind, little Maud, the tenants, and detective all seemed to fade, and he was standing on a sunny hilltop with Wilhite and the marvelous little boy who had once been their charge and constant companion….
It was a holiday in June and they were enjoying a moment of pleasure, during which he and Wilhite were holding the boy’s hands between them while looking high above a deep valley to where, weaving the air above a hill even higher, a handsome blue kite with a long spangled tail was dipping and diving in the bright summer sky. And as he watched the boy react with delight to the kite’s lazy soaring he scanned the valley and far distant hill for a glimpse of the earthbound pilot who controlled its soaring. And there, outlined against the rocks and sparse grass, he saw a solitary man staring skyward as walking backwards with arms extended he fed the kite string from a spindle so long and curved that it looked like a dowser with which the man was searching for water in an unlikely setting.
Then as the kite soared ever higher on its lengthening white string, he heard a shout from the valley and looked down to see another man and small boy who were both staring skyward. And as he watched the kite sail high above the hill on which his own little boy was admiring the dream-like effect of its effortless soaring there came a sudden shift in the breeze which sent the kite plunging earthward in a deep-dipping dive. And as it recovered and climbed with a triumphant snap of its long sparkling tail he heard the boy beside him pierce the silence with a scream of delight.
And now, as they watched the kite flare in the sunlight, little Bliss began jumping up and down as he pointed to the silvery fish emblazed on its translucent skin. And as he smiled and stared upward he recalled the boyhood pleasure of watching the delicate motions of rainbow trout as they nuzzled the currents of clear mountain streams and heard himself saying, “Now there, little Bliss—and you too, Deacon Wilhite—we have an airborne sermon that’s most worthy of our thoughtful attention. Because when it comes to lifting the spirits of earthbound folks like ourselves, who among our fellow fishers-of-men can even begin to compete with that silvery soarer?”
“Just give this one time, A.Z.,” he heard as Wilhite pointed to the sky-gazing boy with a wink and a grin, “just give this little one time….”
Then came a sudden flash of bright summer lightning, and the sky and the hill were engulfed by a squall. And with rain veiling the valley and thunder shaking the hills he snatched up the boy in a run for cover—in the course of which, hearing a shout, he stopped and looked back to see a rain-drenched Wilhite pointing to the sky. And seeing the kite dipping and diving in the onrushing storm he pointed the boy’s attention to its tail-lashing agony and was taken himself with a feeling of dread.
For now, whirling and tossing on its invisible string with its tail whipping the air like a withering water moccasin, the fish-emblazoned kite was battling the wind with bits of its skin flying from the fragile wooden cross that formed its skeleton. And as tatters of flayed skin whirled and took off in the wind there came flashes of lightning and loud claps of thunder, and fierce gusts of wind that sent the kite plunging earthward in a skin-flapping dive. And as he watched its thin wooden arm piece sag in the wind, the emblazoned fish tore free of its background and whirled in the sky like a bird on the wing. And as it circled high above the wrath of the storm he heard the boy beside him give a shrill cheer…. And with the boy’s cheerful laughter echoing in his ear he snapped back to the present and stared at little Miss Maud through the scene’s fading screen.
She stood as before, still waiting; and as he groped for an answer it was as though the wind-battered kite were struggling to rise and rejoin its free-flying emblem. But even as nebulous fragments of an answer struggled to take form in his mind, the intense expressions of tenants crowded around her increased his uncertainty that any answer he arrived at might well prove embarrassing, both to her and himself.
And suddenly it was as though he were taking part in a jam session, where with a crowd looking on he was being challenged to give melodic coherence to a progression of dissonant chords for which he was unprepared except for his musical ear and a grasp of tradition. Perhaps because jam sessions were battles of music in which the participants’ skills at revealing old forms in the new and the new forms in the old were rigorously tested. And now, taking courage from his success in such musical encounters, he grasped at the possibility that the answer he sought might well be one that linked the little woman’s frustrations and dreams to his own mixture of worldly and spiritual experience.
For as a jazzman he had become sensitive to such things as subtle timbres of voices, inspired variations on popular dance steps, tricky changes of rhythm and musical phrase, and had learned that spontaneous gestures were often more eloquent than words. And later, as a minister, he had learned to apply such knowledge when dealing with the sick and the dying, young mothers with infants, and spouses whose mates had defaulted; people whose array of problems, he realized with a pang, were inseparable from those that inspired the snarled emotions and motives that had brought him after prolonged resistance to Washington—yes! And into the improbable situation in which he was standing….
[LEGEND]
AND WITH THE LITTLE woman waiting it was though he were being challenged to give voice to an elusive melody which a mocking pianist had deliberately concealed in a wild outpouring of dissonant chords. And yet he suspected that the answer to her anguished appeal would be one in which her frustrations and dreams were linked to his own. But how proceed, when he had so little to guide him? As a jazzman his ear had been sensitized to subtleties of sounds and nuances of rhythms, and watching frolicking couples improvising new steps while dancing had taught him that bodily gestures and facial expressions could be most revealing. But how use such knowledge in this situation? And as he stared at his questioner’s anguished expression, he reminded himself that in spite of its endless diversity, all human life was united by patterns that gave it coherence and unity. Thus as a minister he had applied his jazzman’s knowledge when counseling the sick and the dying, young motherless children, or disconsolate spouses whose mates had defaulted. People whose assortment of sorrows, he recalled with a pang, were akin to the snarl of emotions and motives that had brought him at last to Washington—yes! And into the unlikely predicament in which he now stood….
And suddenly a moth’s erratic circling of little Maud’s he
ad evoked a scene from a movie in which the petals and leaves of a wind-shattered flower had whirled in slow-motion retrograde and assumed the form of a lovely red rose. And recalling the legend of which the rose was symbolic he gasped at its being evoked by the scene before him. Yet even as little Maud held him fixed in her cross-focusing gaze the rose resurrected in memory was asserting itself against all that opposed it: the times, the tenants, the white detective, and his own reluctance in recognizing its presence in the wild cacophony of little Maud’s dream.
And now with the legendary rose imposing tremulous order on the strident dissonances of the little woman’s appeal, he felt a strong surge of emotion. And as he gazed at the scene he realized that far from having heard the mere retelling of a hysterical dream, he had listened to a dejected form of public confession. And one through which the pathetic little woman had given public voice to her hopes and despair. As a minister he had listened to countless confessions, but now he was so dismayed that he stalled for time by removing his glasses and mopping his brow with his handkerchief.
So, Hickman, he thought, staring upward, even if her neighbors were aware of her fantasies, they’re probably embarrassed by her exposing herself with this white man listening. Yes, and for a second even you felt that she was making you and Wilhite a target for mockery. But since she knows nothing about your reason for being here she’s probably appealing to you because she senses that whatever it is that’s upset her is of a nature that binds her secret heart to your own. Or it could be an effect of a woman’s change-of life crisis, but whatever caused it has to be terrible. And considering our helplessness, her appealing to a couple of strangers for comfort is a sad mistake. Even so, she seems to sense that we’re dedicated men of the cloth, so who knows? Maybe she sees deeper and straighter with those focusing eyes than I see through mine with my glasses….
“You,” little Sister Maud called from the stairs, “can’t you see that I’m waiting! So why don’t you give me an answer? Tell me!”
“Yeah,” Barnes said, “so she’ll stop bending our ears and go back to bed!”
And as the detective glance at Barnes and back to himself he gazed at little Sister Maude and asked himself, Hickman, what can you tell her with all these Washington Negroes listening and this white man looking on like he’s been caught in a three-ring circus full of sideshow freaks? Tell her that her dream strikes you as the distorted version of a legend of hope? And one she’s made sound like an old sacred song played out of tune on a broken-down organ? Tell her that what happened in her dream is a version of what’s happened to others, and usually with mixed consequences of pleasure and pain? Tell her that she’s been gripped by a dream experienced in the full flowering of its mystery by one blessed woman, and that long ago? Stand before this upset crowd and tell her something she’ll find acceptable concerning a mystery which I’ve had trouble getting across to my own congregation for years….
“What are you waiting for,” she called. “Here I am, up to my neck in trouble, and all you’re doing is standing there gaping like a catfish struggling for air! So, I’m telling you again: I need an answer! My brain needs it, and my soul needs it, and with everything in this house gone so crazy you can forget my brain and just speak to my soul! I’m begging you now for an answer because after being ‘buked and scorned, now even this fool Lonnie Barnes is putting me down. So I’m telling you and that other gentleman too, that when a woman gets in my condition something like that makes for pain in her soul! What’s more, it makes her feel evil! Which brings me to another question:
“Was I wrong—I mean when my own folks scorned me and called me a bitch—was I wrong when I told those women who turned against me, ‘All right now,’ I said, ‘how many of you who call me a bitch have given birth to babies not because you loved them, but because you wanted to live free off Welfare? How many little saviors have you flushed down the toilet or thrown out with the trash because you were ashamed of how you got them?’
“That’s right, gentlemen! I told them! I said, ‘How many of you lost a chance to raise up a little black savior because you made your evil boyfriends or no-good husbands so mad that they kicked you square in your stomachs? Yes, and how many of you who have the nerve to give me a hard time lost your chance to help our race because after being given a little savior you didn’t love and prize him enough to keep him alive?’ Are you listening to me, Doctor Hickman?”
“Oh, yes,” Hickman said, “and carefully….”
“That’s good, because I want you gentlemen to understand what I believe in my heart, which is that one of those babies they miscarried might have been meant to be a great leader or savior—just as one of mine might have been, and might still come to be! That’s right! Otherwise, why is it that when most women only have one I was given three? Even with husbands all they came up with was one, and then they wasted him and denied him his chance at leading our people. Which is what I told them, gentlemen. And I told them how much I loved my babies and how I intended to keep them, no matter what anybody thought about my doing it! So now I’m asking you again, was I wrong? Tell me, gentlemen! You, the big, fine-looking one! And don’t bother straining for words—just speak from your heart to a poor black daughter of good Mother Earth who broke down on these Washington streets and cried!”
Moving on sudden impulse, Hickman felt the resistance of hot bodies as he pressed toward the staircase where little cross-eyed Maud waited with quivering lips as he heard the constricted sound of his voice saying, “No, ma’am, you weren’t wrong—”
“The hell she ain’t,” Barnes bellowed. “And after hearing her talk up under those women’s clothes you have the nerve to tell her she wasn’t wrong? Man, what kinda goddamn preacher are you?”
“No, ma’am,” he said with a quick glance at Barnes, “you weren’t wrong, even though your way of putting it was uncharitable. It was mean, but while I’m not sure I understand exactly what you’ve been telling us I feel in my heart that it contains a mysterious truth. Yours was an experience which most folks will never understand, and don’t want to understand. But I believe that your dream contains the meaning of a powerful mystery in which many many aspects of our people’s experience have come into focus. And that mystery is so enduring that most of the time we’re too confused to recognize the role it plays in supporting the slavery-born hope that’s still working among us. So I bow to you, Sister Maud, and I pray that you’ll be blessed with peace and understanding. Because I believe that in your pain and suffering you’ve seen the Promise that keeps us striving. You’ve seen it in your own tortured terms and accepted the responsibility of announcing it to your friends and neighbors, regardless of what they might think. Yes, and announcing it to me in my own confusion. You’re reminding us of hopes and responsibilities that we as a people can’t afford to forget. God bless you!”
“Oh, I knew it,” Sister Maud sang from the stairs, “I knew it!”
And as he struggled to grasp the meaning of what he had said he saw others on the stairs moving aside from little Maud with mixed expressions of doubt, outrage, and wonder.
“I just knew you were sent here to bring me glad tidings,” she sang with her arms thrust toward him. “I just knew you two would ease my condition!”
“Ease what,“Barnes yelled. “Just what the hell did he say? Nothing! So now we have another damn nut on our hands! Folks, I don’t know this ole burly Negro from Adam’s off ox, but I swear he sounds as nutty as Maud! Next thing we know he’ll be telling us how many babies he’s lost! So all right, Mister Gentleman, go on and tell us how many whatnots, blowouts, washouts, and slip-outs you’re supposed to have lost!”
And with the hall exploding with laughter Barnes turned to the white detective, his eyes bulging with indignation as he bassed, “Officer, if you take my advice you’d forget about McMillen and get both these fools into that nut house at St. Elizabeth’s—and I mean in straitjackets!”
Gazing at Barnes with a calm expression Hickman felt an impuls
e to smash his face with a blow of his fist but restrained himself as out of the corner of his eye he saw the flicker of a grin on the detective’s white face. How often had he seen such grins when white men were watching Negroes fighting one another? And hearing sounds of anger mixed with the laughter as he stared at Barnes he thought, With a bone stuck through that knot in his stocking cap he could pass for a comic-strip cannibal, but inside he’s dangerous. So grin if you like, but if this keeps up it’ll soon turn against you.
“Frankly, Sister Maud,” he said, “I won’t pretend that I have answers to all your questions, but never mind Brother Barnes, because as we both know, there’s one like him around whenever our folks come together. He’s the particle of truth in the lies other folks use to justify being against us. So forget him, Sister Maud, because … well, it’s against my religion to call any man a fool, but I think you’ll understand if I call him a clown….”
“Yes, darlin’, yes! That’s exactly the kind of fool he is!”
“… So you just forgive him and anybody else who’s unable to grasp what you’ve been telling us. What happened to you has a deep meaning, a profound and marvelous meaning! I can’t say that I fully understand it, but I’ll tell you that I feel its truth deep in my heart. And because it speaks to my faith and says something comforting to my own troubled mind. And therefore I truly believe that if other folks would only listen to you with their hearts it would comfort them too. So cherish your dream and forget the clowns and the cynics. Folks like us are sustained by hope and by faith, so we have to put doubters aside and hold on to the promise and hope that’s concealed in our dreaming….”
“Oh, yes, darlin’, yes! And if you were close enough Maud would give you a great big hug! But don’t stop now, darlin’, because what you’ve said is so good to hear that I need more of it! Much, much more!”
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 97
