“Oh, no, because the next day Love told me that he’d been asking him the same questions about his mother and father.”
“And was Love able to tell him anything?”
“All I know is that he could tell him a lot about his mother, because they were both Natives. But I doubt if he knows much about the father. Although he was around town when they were making that movie. What worries me about his going to Love is that Love might have loaded him down with some of his lies….”
“Did the boy come back here after talking with Love?”
“Not to the house, maybe because he’s sorry he left here so angry. But I’ve seen him standing across the street looking over here like he wanted to. Made me so nervous from worrying over what he might do that I wrote to you. Which ought to explain why I didn’t feel that I could come right out and tell you what he said about his father. I would have been committing the sin of bearing false witness, because after all he hadn’t done anything except say what he’d like to do. I’m so thankful that you read between the lines, A.Z., so very thankful.”
“Even so, I’m the one to be thankful; because although I don’t know this little man of yours I’m much more mixed up in this thing than you could ever be. Maybe I should have a talk with Love….”
“That old infidel lives! Why bother with him?”
“Because he might be able to tell me what the young fellow is thinking….”
“Well, if you do may the good Lord help you….”
“Now, Janey, as you very well know, the Lord’s will is His will—so what’s bothering you?”
“Because Love is one of the biggest liars that ever made a mess of the truth, that’s what! And whatever he told that boy or decides to tell you is bound to cause trouble….”
“Why trouble?”
“I don’t know, A.Z., but Love’s the kind who’ll insist that black is white and white is black and set out to prove it. And being a Native he thinks he’s so much better than anyone else, white, colored, or in between, that he’ll tell them anything and expect them to believe it.”
“You make him sound like a true, dyed-in-the-wool American, so I’ll keep that in mind. But after what you’ve been telling me, our learning what he said to this visitor of yours might be important. Where can I find him?”
“Find who?”
“This Native who’s called Love New.”
“Right here in town, Lord help us. He lives in a section called Whitby’s Court, but if you want my opinion everybody would be better off if the lying old heathen was still living with his Indians!”
[LOVECOU[R]T]
FOLLOWING JANEY’S DIRECTIONS, he walked north and then east, feeling the heat as he made his way through streets that were vaguely familiar.
So, Hickman, he mused, you fly out here on what you expected to be an overnight visit and now you’re finding that things are much more complicated than you expected. And all because a white-looking stranger turns up at Janey’s claiming to be the child she lost years ago. But while Janey rejects the man’s story and seems unyielding, Cliofus accepts him as his childhood friend—and that raises a few troublesome questions.
Why would a stranger present himself as Janey’s lost “little man”? And if he wasn’t, why is Janey so upset by his visit? Is it because the child in question looked white and she still feels guilty over what she did to make it easier for him to leave her and his foster brothers? Because any child who’d been tied in a bag and smoked like a ham is unlikely to forget it. Therefore if he was that child he’s probably forgiven her. So what’s keeping her from accepting him?
But then there’s the question of why, after living all these years in the East, he now claims he’s never laid eyes on his father! What kind of man would separate his son from the only mother he knew, have a lawyer tell her that it was being done so that the little boy could have the advantages of living in a white environment, and then abandon him to the care of strangers? Which must have been upsetting for the child, but that the man would then refuse to have personal contact with his son is so unbelievable that the son’s telling Janey that he’d like to find the man and kill him makes it sound true. And then, heaven help us, things proceed to take a truly weird turn in my direction.
Because while Janey rejects her visitor as though he’s some kind of counterfeit prodigal son, she then adds to the confusion by suggesting that the child taken East by his father’s lawyer might have been the illegitimate son of the man I began training as a minister when he was a child….
What a mind-blowing mess! Years ago that marvelous little preacher of mine runs away, and now, way late, this grown-up “little man” of Janey’s turns up in search of someone who might or might not have been his daddy. So with him seeking a father and me seeking a son the old game of hide-and-go-seek turns into a footrace with none of the players having the slightest idea of where the finish line lies or what will take place once we reach it…. But one thing is certain: If Janey’s visitor ever finds his father and fulfills his threat … well, may the good Lord help us, fathers, sons, and everyone who’s involved in this nasty confusion….
Which makes a man wonder if there were ever creatures on God’s green earth more mixed up than us Americans?
No, Hickman, never! Because given their mammy-made tendency to go berserk over questions concerning their mixed blood and scrambled identities, they turn reality into a raving nightmare!
Just look at this thing: Here we have a fellow who claims to have been the white-looking baby who once lived with Janey. And now, years after being taken East where he had the good fortune of growing up as a well-fed white boy, he’s back here telling his black foster mother that he’d like to kill the man who made it possible by giving him a white complexion! How’s that for turning things inside out and upside down?
Maybe that’s what educated folks mean when they talk about this so-called American dilemma. Because usually when a light-skinned Negro gets mistaken for white he keeps quiet and exploits it as a means for going after freedoms denied people of darker complexions. As a white black American he makes his peace with being accepted as one thing on the outside when he’s something else—whatever that might be—on the inside. Which could be unsettling but in many ways rewarding. Then, like the little fellow I thought I knew fairly well, he covers his tracks and leaves the question of his true identity up to the eyes of his various beholders. Meanwhile, he thinks, Behold the man if you can, and gets on with his living.
Yeah, but what about his opposite?
Now that’s somewhat different. Because if a white white American has a hint that his blood contains a black gene or two he’ll foam at the mouth and go looking for scapegoats. And I mean with anything from Supreme Court decisions to high-powered rifles.
Right! And that’s the grain of truth in that barbershop lie they told during the Depression about a passenger in a train wreck who had his brain mangled so bad that it almost killed him. You remember?
How can I forget since you enjoyed it so much? With the wreck taking place down South in unsettled country, the doctors who rushed in to save the man were forced to replace his brain with whatever was handy. So they improvised, and after hours of sawing and stitching they performed the first brain transplant in medical history. And so successfully that it was acclaimed a miracle.
So everybody was amazed, and especially the patient, who praised American medicine for making it possible for his being alive and kicking. Then he bragged about being reborn with faster reactions, clearer vision, a sharper nose, and more sensitive hearing. But then the news hit the papers, and when he learned that he’d been saved by the brain of a hound—and a black hound at that—right away he was out on the street raising hell and threatening to sue the railroad and kill his physicians.
Why? Because now he claims that a few days after he recovered he was blasted by sensations so strange and inhuman that they damn near undid him. Then he squalls like a baby and howls like a hound, and when he’s pressed t
o explain he replies with tears flooding his eyes that now not only does he have a powerful urge to chase rabbits, but that no matter how hard he tries to resist he’s obsessed by a notion that bullshit is health food!
Yes, Hickman, you have it. But whoever made up that lie went after his point with a baseball bat!
Amen! But sometimes telling jokes to ease the stress of life in this country is like trying to perform music which some harmony-hating joker has deliberately messed up with discords. It’s like listening to a symphony played out of tune because some soreheads in the orchestra disagree with the composer’s conception…. Maybe that’s why the so-called “harmony of the spheres” was considered ideal: There were no human beings up there either to take part or listen—otherwise the Tower of Babel would have reached the high heavens.
Which of course it did, because whatever else it might be, these United States are the Tower of Babel reinvented. And that’s the reason our ancestors developed gut-bucket and blues. In protecting themselves from all the craziness around them they needed the sound of reality reformed in a way that makes life a little more bearable. Therefore my friends ivy me music unless it’s been Boldened by Buddy and Wallered by Fats!
Which isn’t much of a pun, but when it comes to music we do have our own special needs and high standards. Besides, old Buddy and Fats might have even helped Charles Ives reach the top of the wall he was climbing…. Somebody called jazz music the sound of surprise, but more than that it’s also the sound of a receptive state of mind. Therefore, if music is to keep up with this country’s confusion it has to shake, rattle, and roll, hang loose and fly high. Otherwise its message gets lost in our stumbling and grumbling….
Poor Janey and her confounded signs! What are they—the ghosts of wishes, omens, or intuitions? Hidden wishes? And what else is hidden behind her refusing to accept a young man who obviously loves her? Anyway, I’m here; and if this thing gets to where it seems to be headed—which is probably to that lost boy of mine—I’ll have to find him and show him my face. Give up my pride and confront him in some bright spot where he’ll have to see me even against his will—no! He’ll have to see us, that’s the way it should be. Because by hope and by faith the members have earned the right to see him and be seen—whether he wants it that way or not…. Not to judge, but to warn. Just that, and maybe to marvel that he could make so high and so reckless a leap…. But right now there’s the problem of finding this man Love and learning what happened when Janey’s little man came to see him….
Approaching the block in which he expected to find the address, he was surprised to find himself looking across a broad avenue glinting with trolley-car rails to a broad, park-like space.
Bordered by towering cottonwood trees, the recently mown area extended into the distance; and on a wooden bench beneath the trees to his left two elderly men leaned together as they argued and gestured. Then in the shade behind them he saw a concrete path which led to a series of shingled-roofed houses.
Painted white and shingled black with low sweeping eaves, the houses sat behind individual lawns, and across the greensward to his right a parallel path led to a row of houses that faced them. And now, crossing the avenue, he entered the park-like area, which ranged for what he judged to be the length of a football field and a half to a high, vine-covered wall. And as he moved slowly ahead a gate in the wall swung wide, and he was watching a brown-skinned young woman dressed in blue float into view with the sun in her hair and her arms full of flowers.
The flowers were red and probably roses, and entranced by her graceful, hip-swinging motion he stopped in his tracks and stood watching until, reaching the entrance to one of the houses, the girl disappeared. And as she faded he smiled at the image of loveliness which remained alive in his delighted old eyes.
And now, entering the park-like area at a leisurely pace, he began his search for Love New while breathing the odor of freshly mown grass and admiring the extended array of well-kept houses.
Thank God that they did, he thought, but why on earth would the white folks let such a pleasant spot get away when they might have done better—yes—and found life more interesting if they’d relaxed and chosen to share it? Not a single rattletrap car parked in a yard, no washing machines displayed on the porches; and although that stereo is a bit too loud, it’s not rock-and-roll but Duke Ellington….
And now, seeing a house with numerals that matched the address, he paused, thinking, So this is the castle of the man Janey calls “the king of black liars.” But what better place could he choose than a courtyard?
Knocking on the door, he waited and was surprised when it was opened by a small man whose translucent black skin bore an undertone of deep red. And as the little man stood looking him over he noted that his hair was braided and hung to his shoulders, that his neck was hidden by a deep purple scarf, and his shirt made of denim. And reminded of Indians whom he had encountered in the past, he was instantly curious as to what idiom of speech and timbre of voice would emerge from a black man dressed in such a costume. Would it be Indian or Negro? Yes, and given the changes of time, perhaps even Harvard?
“Would you,” he asked, “be Mr. New?”
“That’s right,” the little man said, “a bit older, but still New to you. How can I help you?”
And hearing a trace of black Southern idiom in the high Indian timbre he smiled, thinking, Whatever this fellow calls himself he’s some kind of mixture, and extended his hand with a smile.
“Mr. New,” he said, “I’m a friend of Janey Glover….”
Ignoring his hand, the little man stared at the cross on his watch chain.
“A friend of Janey’s, are you? So then you must be Hickman, that preacher she’s always going on about. She send you over here?”
“Oh, no,” Hickman said, “but she did tell me how to find you….”
“Well, that’s good enough for me. Anybody who’s put up with Janey as long as you is welcome. Come on out to the back and tell me what’s on your mind.”
And now, following his host, he found himself moving through a medium-sized living room furnished with two upholstered chairs, a worn leather sofa, and a small cocktail table. A brass spittoon gleamed on the floor next to a wooden reclining chair, and a floor lamp topped by a translucent shade fringed with tassels stood in a corner. Framed color prints of game birds hung on the wall to his right and were joined by an ancient army canteen, a riding crop, and a Remington rifle. And as he glanced to his left he was surprised to see a bookcase loaded with books.
Protected by horizontal glass doors, the books were flanked on one side by a huge globe of the world, and on the other by a huge Webster’s dictionary which rested on a stout wooden stand.
So, he thought, it appears that along with his lying this little fellow also reads books—which is something Janey never bothered to mention. And suddenly on impulse he paused to have a look inside the bookcase. But seeing the silhouette of his host waiting in the doorway ahead, he moved to join him and found himself on what turned out to be a wide screened porch. The porch looked out to a neat grassy yard with towering trees through the limbs and green leaves which the afternoon sunlight filtered.
Pointing to a pair of large, throne-like chairs, his host said, “One of those ought to hold you.” And noting that the chairs were fashioned from the curved horns of steers, he thought, Come to this little fellow with a dilemma and right away you’re sitting on horns. He settled himself and found the chair comfortable.
“So,” his host said, “you’re the Hickman I’ve been hearing so much about.”
“Yes,” Hickman said, “and after all this time it’s a pleasure to meet an old friend of Janey’s.”
“Friend my foot,” the little man said. “I’m more her substitute for a sparring partner and a punching bag than anything else. But before we get started, how about a beer? I’ve got some pretty good Choc, if it ain’t against your religion….”
“Choc!” Hickman said, “Now that’s a
pleasure I haven’t tasted for years!”
“You will now, but don’t you tell Janey. That woman’s favorite drink is croton oil—or at least that’s what she’d like mine to be. I won’t be but a minute.”
Watching his host move away, Hickman noted his quickness of movement and saw that the texture of his hair was more Indian than African. And amused by the game which the little man seemed to play with his mixed background and color, he smiled as he recalled a football backfield man who had been about the same size.
Also an Oklahoma Native, the young college athlete had been famous for his spectacular skill in receiving passes and for his speed in evading his would-be tacklers. Yes, he thought, but the reason this fellow Love brings him to mind is the fact that he was also a natural-born showman who got a kick out of outrunning pursuing defense men. And once free of the pack he’d excite the crowd by throwing off his helmet and galloping to the goal line, tossing his head of black hair like the mane of a colt at play in a pasture….
“You know, Hickman,” the little man said as he returned with two chilled bottles of beer capped with tall glasses, “this’ll be something new for me. I’ve drunk with cowboys, outlaws, and gamblers, but never with a preacher. What do you know about Choc?”
“Choctaw beer? Didn’t Janey tell you that I wasn’t always a minister? Why, during my day out here as a musician this town had more Choc-joints than Rome, Italy, has churches.”
“Yao! And more good times too, because so many State folks hadn’t trooped in to spoil it. How’s that Janey doing?”
“Physically she seems fine, but she’s upset in her mind. That’s why I flew out here…. Besides, I’ve wanted to meet you.”
“And me you,” Love said as he extended a glass filled with beer. “But it’s really about that boy coming to see her after all these years. Is that it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, cheers anyway, because as you know that Janey loves nothing better than worrying.”
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 116
