Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  “Hickman, this one was a shouter of note and wide reputation, and like always she’s been waiting for Caruthers to get preaching so she can add her bit to the shouting excitement he’s well known for igniting. So now she starts tapping her foot so fast that it sounds like a drumming contest between a cock prairie chicken beating his wings and a rhythm-crazy drummer beating his cymbals. And wouldn’t you know it—right on the beat a leading deacon comes out of a door that’s to the right of the pulpit and marches up the steps as he heads for his chair on the platform.

  “This one is big, burly, and dignified; and being late, he’s missed what’s been happening. Also, being a leading mortician he’s unusually pious. So now he kneels in front of his chair and sweeps his coattails aside with graveside decorum. Then, with his britches bulging and aimed straight at the gathering, he bows his head over the seat of his chair, clasps his hands, and starts praying. And right on the beat the black-white one starts stirring.

  “At first it’s no more than a rustle, but it turns me around just in time to see him rising up like a corpse from the bed of a river and taking off on a slow-motion float down the aisle. And Hickman, that’s when things really start happening.

  “By now I’m watching with my sharpest attention. With the church gone quiet as the flight of an owl the black-white one moves forward by putting one foot after the other careful and slow like he’s unsure he can make it. Then, with his arms stretched out and his long fingers touching, he trains his eyes on the ceiling, and as he advances he’s mumbling and nodding his head.

  “So now except for the smoke-curling music—Yao!—and that rat-a-tat racket being made by that old lady on the mourners’ bench who’s gone to tap dancing sitting down—it’s got so quiet that you can see folks straining to hear what the white-black one is mumbling as he advances like a sleepwalking turtle. All eyes are upon him, and I mean all the way from the choir to the balcony.

  “Up in the pulpit Caruthers and the deacons are watching. On the floor just below twelve stewardesses and stewards are watching as they lean over the long collection table—Yao!—and looking madder and madder as he makes his way closer. Which you’ll understand, because not only is this camera-grinding stranger upsetting a Sunday morning service, he’s doing it before they’ve even made the first of their regular collections.

  “But while they stand there looking like they’d gladly put him out of his misery, the white-black one keeps a-coming and coming with his eyes on the ceiling. And next thing I know he’s heading for the pulpit like a slow-motion arrow. And then, Hickman, I bat my eyes and it’s like he’s shifted from walking to gliding.

  “Because all of a sudden he’s up in the pulpit, where the deacons stand frozen in their tracks and Caruthers bending forward with his hands on his hips looking like he’s wondering what the hell’s happening.

  “Which he learns in a second. Because before the black-white one makes his next move he starts shaking and shivering. Then he makes a fall to the floor that sends that purple robe collapsing like a circus tent after some joker snatches the pole that supports it. Then he’s lying in front of Caruthers and reaching out and grabbing the poor man’s feet in his long white hands. And with Caruthers staring down and the church gone quieter than a mouse leaking on cotton he gives a sigh that echoes off the walls like far distant thunder. And next thing I know he’s intoning in a voice so penetrating and pleading that even folks way up in the balcony can hear him:

  “‘Bless me, Reverend,’ he pleads. ‘Bless me with the laying on of thy most holy hands’—Yao!

  “Hickman, when Caruthers hears this he’s so flabbergasted that before he can think he’s doing it. And when he makes contact with the black-white one’s head it’s like he’s laid hands on a red-hot stove! And with that the black-white one starts shaking from his head to his feet like he’s been hit with a fit of buck fever!

  “And that’s when another of the old shouting mourners’ bench sisters gets in it. This one’s been waiting for any excuse to cut loose so now she grabs it.

  “‘Have mercy, Jesus!’ she yells, and claps her hands three times so loud that it echoes like a rifle going off in a canyon. Then I hear somebody way in the back yell, ‘AMEN!’ And with that the church explodes like a ballpark after the home team scores on a three-bag homer.

  “From all over the church I’m hearing shouts of ‘Thank you, Jesus!’ and ‘Do, Jesus, Do!’ to such a clapping of hands and stomping of feet that it sends the whole church rocking and reeling. It sounds like the entire congregation is having a catharsis and giving Caruthers’s blessing of the black-white one their hearty approval. So no matter what poor Caruthers really feels about what’s happening all he can do is raise his hands and try to quiet them.

  “So now he steadies himself against the lectern with the big Bible on it and hiccups something or the other about being pleased to welcome the ‘distinguished visitor’ but unfortunately he hasn’t yet had the pleasure of learning his name.

  “And that’s when a fellow who’d seen the three goggle-eyed strangers shooting up the neighborhood jumps to his feet and yells, ‘Reverend, that’s the famous Mr. Eddy Shaw Prophet’—or maybe he called him ‘Prophet Eddy Shaw.’ Anyway, Caruthers thanks him. And with folks all excited he decides that the best way out of his bind is to ask the black-white one if he’ll say a few words.

  “Hickman, up to this point this Eddy Shaw fellow is still on his knees, and with that big crucifix weighing him down like it’s over his shoulder he’s looking like he’s just been caught dead in the act of tomahawking his daddy and chasing his mama up a dry hollow log. But now he draws to his feet and bows, first to Caruthers and then to the deacons, who nod their heads looking damn disgusted.

  “And then he bows to old Reverend Turner, the presiding elder. To which Turner leans forward and takes him a long hard stare at that purple silk robe. Then he slaps his thigh and lets out a belly laugh that makes the pulpit rumble and tremble. Yao! And while it goes booming and echoing you could see folks looking at one another like they’re trying to decide the best way to react to this further confusion old Turner was adding to what was already a strange Sunday morning.

  “Hickman, having been a jazzer (and probably more of a heathen than me), you might have missed old Elder Turner, but not the boy. Because along with the rest of Janey’s kids he liked it whenever Turner erupted in one of those religious fits which the State Negroes out here call getting laughing-happy. And me too, because considering all the hell the white State folks give us of the People in the name of religion it was a comfort to think that the black State folks’ God had their sense of humor—Yao! Because no matter what anybody else thought about it, when Turner’s God told him to laugh he’d cut loose and laugh ‘til the tears came down. And keep at it ‘til everybody else was forced to laugh and cry along with him. Then he’d pace the pulpit laughing and shouting, ‘Praise the Lord, ha! ha! ha! Whooo-eeee! Praise his holy name! Good God almighty—ha! ha-ha-ha!’

  “Hickman, he was marvelous to see and to hear. He was as tall as you and about your size, and when he laughed it was from deep in his belly to high in his head. And when he got to praising his God even an outsider like me had to admire him. Because for him the State folks’ God could be praised by laughing as well as by crying. Which made more sense to someone who’d lived the mixed-up mare’s nest of a life I’ve lived than the white folks’ God ever could. And no disrespect intended.

  “I remember a cold Sunday morning when I heard Turner preach from the Book of Job. Times were hard, folks out of work, and snow on the ground, but when he came to the part where old high-class Job was complaining about all the boils on his butt Turner broke down and laughed for ten straight minutes by the church-house clock.

  “Yao! He was a mighty laugher. He laughed and cried over Jesus’ weeping, and over Jonah rebelling in the belly of his whale. He laughed over Mary Magdalene’s transformation and a few loaves and fishes feeding a multitude of people and simple drinking w
ater being turned into good-drinking wine. And he laughed ‘til he cried like a baby over his beloved Jesus crying on the cross like he was no less human than the poor natural men he was dying to save.

  “Being a heathen I’m untrained in such matters, but I guess Turner’s laughing amounted to what Janey calls the sign of a mystery that’s holy. Anyway, he was a good man and a deep believer in his religion. Therefore I tell you verily: I have puzzled long over Turner’s life-easing laughing—and you can believe me!

  “Anyway, while Turner goes on laughing this Prophet fellow waits politely until he quiets down and starts wheezing. Then he raises his long white hand like he’s giving him a blessing and would like to embrace him. Then, after bowing to Caruthers, he makes a turn and bows to the congregation, who by now are sitting in their pews looking dazed and exhausted.

  “Maybe because by now Prophet looks even whiter than he did on the streets with that camera. But he just stands there with his crucifix dangling and his purple arm resting beside the big Bible while things get quieter and quieter.

  “To me it’s like he’s turned Siamese twins and gone to debating what he’ll say—Yao!—and out of which of his mouths he’ll say it. Then some old fellow lets out with a snore like a buzz saw and gets punched in the belly, and when he rattles his dentures and yells ‘WHO? WHERE AT?’ some of the little boys let out with a snicker. And that’s when the white-black one, Eddy Shaw Prophet, goes into action.

  “Hickman, I want you to see him through the eyes of a heathen: He’s standing up there in that silk purple robe, and with that crucifix resting on his chest he looks like some kind of priest who’s strayed into the wrong part of town, landed in the midst of the wrong congregation, and finds himself facing us down out of sheer white-skinned gall and presumption. And as he looks out to the pews he sort of sways like he’s thinking deep thoughts on life, death, the final reckoning. Then he raises his arms and stares at the ceiling with his palms toward the pews and the wide sleeves of his robe making a wing-like flutter. And then, just as folks begin giving one another looks as if to say, ‘What’s happening?’ he speaks. Yao!

  “And when he speaks he moves.

  “And when he moves, I swear, it’s like I’m watching one of these jazz musicians who carries himself like a college professor.

  “You know the type: On the street he’s a model of high-toned deportment, and when he’s sitting down playing along with his buddies he’s cool and collected. But give him a solo, and Wham! Next thing you know he’s up in the spotlight shaking his butt like a loose-jointed bear, honking like a gobbler and stomping the bandstand like he means to reduce it to kindling and set it on fire. Then, with folks still applauding, he’s tucking his horn, his weapon, under his arm with a bow. Then in a wink of your eye he’s back in his chair and a professor again—conked hair, sweat, and horn-rimmed glasses!”

  “Oh, yes,” Hickman said. “Not only do I know the type but I’m now beginning to see why folks call you Love the Liar.”

  “Maybe so, but being different from them, how would they know me? Or you, who you calls yourself a Christian? Anyway, that’s how it was with Prophet. Black-white or white-black, whichever the hell he was, he preaches up a storm. And as you’d expect, he starts out warning folks not to waste precious time in grabbing what he called their God-given chance to be born again. Yao!

  “‘My friends,’ he says, ‘you must seize the day, and seize it nooooow!‘

  “And with that old Turner shakes his cotton-white head and stares at Prophet like he can’t believe what’s happening. Then when Prophet stretches out his arms and cries, ‘Please, sinners, please don’t let this harvest pass!’ that purple robe flounces and swirls like a cape in a bullfight. And with that Turner falls back in his chair, and I swear, it’s like he’s exploding with laughing gas. That’s right, but out of respect none of the deacons bothers to stop him.

  “So then with things quieting down a bit Prophet turns and looks at Turner like he’s decided right then and there that if he can’t beat him he’ll use him. So he stares at the ceiling like he’s filled with emotion, and when Turner takes off again he’s all primed and ready. And sure enough, before he can get rolling Turner lets out a laugh, and right on the beat Prophet sidesteps the poor man and downs him by switching his text from Matthew, Peter, and Paul to what he calls the life-saving role of holy black laughter, its uses and abuses. And Hickman, the way he uses old Turner to accent his thesis sounded like they’d rehearsed it. And I mean for whole months of Sundays!

  “Next thing I know he has the church rocking with such a masterful example of State Negro preaching that folks are eating it up—skin, bones, and what’s left over!

  “Hickman, not only did Prophet have the State Negro style of preaching, he had the movements! And what’s more, when he gave them hell about the way they laughed when they should have been crying, and cried when they should have been laughing, he even had the full range of State Negro sound. And I mean from threatening basso profundo to falsetto pleading! He rumbled like an engine and shrilled like a whistle, and once he’d laid down the cross ties and rails for his highball of a sermon he dragged Turner aboard and took off for what he called the promised land of true fulfillment. And with Tucker stoking the engine and ringing the bell he swept folks along like leaves in the draft of a Santa Fe special!

  “He rocked and he rolled, he highballed and rambled, and next thing I know he has those State Negroes clapping their hands and yelling ‘Praise the Lord,’ and ‘Have Mercy sweet Jesus!’ And before he’s through he has the whole church swinging and everybody—choir, organ, congregation, and deacons—shouting Well-a rock-a my soul in the bosom of Abraham!

  “Where the hell Prophet learned to preach like that was a mystery, but wherever it was it made him the talk of the town. The word spread like lightning, and even folks who missed his performance were pleased and surprised. And the fact that this white-black one of the three from the East with the camera not only talked their talk but was a master of their style of preaching they took as no less than a miracle. Next thing I know he’s being invited to preach in other big churches, bootleg joints are serving him and his buddies drinks on the cuff, and sassy gals doing them all kinds of favors. All this I described to the boy who sat listening with interest, but by now my nose was bleeding again and the day getting shorter. So since anything serious demands a certain amount of strength and discipline I sat there staring at the boy and wrestling with the Eagle, my totem, against having to keep going.

  “So I told him to ask Janey how it was, because being a woman she’d remember the things I didn’t. ‘Maybe so,’ he said, ‘but she’ll never tell me. Can’t you go on?’

  “‘Not today,’ I said, ‘because I’m worn out with remembering. So go see her and come back tomorrow.’

  “So he left, and so did the Eagle, and my nose stopped bleeding.

  “Hickman, I was tired as hell, but once the boy was out of here a strange feeling came over me. And I mean strange even for a man given to strange feelings. But this was different, a feeling I hadn’t had since the People were still together and vigorous. Like back there when it seemed possible to work out a way of life which would suit us even with the white man overrunning the land. Of course it was a mistake; either that or we didn’t try hard enough after our warfare and resistance had failed us. Or maybe we lost courage and didn’t try hard enough out of our own inner rot, our demoralization.

  “Then there was the greed and restlessness brought here by the State folks from the East. Over the years I had resigned myself to the great changes, had seen the results and lived alongside it. But just the same, after the boy left I felt some of the old promise returning.

  “It had the feeling of times long past when the skies were so clear that the eyes could range unobstructed for miles. Hickman, this land is called flat, yet to the south there are mountains. They seem blue from the distance, and in the old days I’ve seen cattle grazing the grass high upon them. In those da
ys there were great herds of deer, packs of wolves and coyotes, and great flocks of turkeys. There were pecan, pine, and hickory, and cottonwoods like those in the courtyard grew everywhere. And in the spring the blossoms of blackthorn trees drifted like snow and the perfume of it sent many a young buck out on the prod. There was blackjack, walnut, and wild persimmon, and endless cover for quail. Doves came in clouds and prairie chickens beat their tom-toms like Crackshot McNeal, the Blue Devils’ drummer, beating on his bass drum, cymbals, and snares. Yes, and there was coon, rabbit, and possum, and plenty of bear—

  Ho! Yah! Big brown brother of the shiny nose Our guide to the honey that’s hidden in hollows,

  Ho Yah!

  Thy velvet paws seek out the sweet hidden gold in the bee-trees, Ho! And thy black eyes gleam and you laugh when you

  raid the barrels of beer of the Choctaws—

  “That’s what the kids of the Bear clan used to sing. And Hickman, you can believe me when I tell you that bears around here used to raid every mash barrel they could find. Come Choc-making time and you could see troops of them staggering through the woods like black Shriners and Elks on the Fourth of July. “Anyway, after the boy left I felt like I did in those times of many horses and had hopes those days might return. With the sky clear and the game roaming the land undisturbed. A time when men would be at peace, and our way—the way of the People—secure against a way which for all its iron and noise, its money and bigness, is no fit way for mankind to live….

  “So having the boy return seemed like a good sign. And the same with the Eagle. After all, some things in life do continue, no matter how much men think they’ve changed. And that’s true no matter how much the State people junk up the land, kill off the game, and tell big lies to justify their viciousness and failure to achieve true civilization. Of course I was dreaming, but awake or dreaming, I am not of these, the State people. No, I prefer to be brother to old honey hands, Big Brother Bear. Yes, and servant to the Eagle. The dream I dreamed was empty, and when I awoke I thought of the street where I lived at the time the boy was taken away; and there where I killed my first deer, a buck and a big one, I saw a parking lot filled with junk and signs screaming, ‘Big John Krackenbaum’s Place’, ‘Let’s Make a Deal!’ ”