Three Days Before the Shooting ... (113 page)

For immediately, something about the cross-bearing Christ seemed out of place—and it was not Christ’s blackness, which he recognized as a traditional symbolism by which a people whose enemies had made their very skin tones a cross to bear asserted their most human yearnings and spiritual needs and allowed them to identify more intimately with the transcendent image of Christ. Nor was it the incongruity of the painting’s location. For, years ago, hadn’t he played for a dance in a South Carolina town in which a Negro confectioner and ice-cream-maker’s store had faced the church in which John C. Calhoun’s family had worshipped? Therefore, his anxiety sprang not from the painting’s location but from something out of place in the depiction of Christ’s fateful march … some flaw in its painter’s conception which was so obvious and yet so elusive that it baffled his searching eye….

Then, drawn to the impression made in Christ’s naked shoulder by the weight of the cross, he began to understand: For some two feet above the point where the rough-hewn upright of the cross knifed into the bruised flesh of Christ’s straining shoulder, the artist, suddenly improvising on his theme like a jazzman on a familiar tune, had placed what on first sight had appeared to be the travel-soiled bundle of a hobo. There in the angle where the upright joined the sky-pointing arm of the cross it rested, a bundle consisting of red-white-and-blue cotton which was depicted as having become partially unrolled in the painful march and ended up trailing and distorting the footprints of Christ. And with eyes flying back to the point from which the striped cloth trailed he saw distorted white stars spring into focus and exclaimed, “Good Lord!” And the cloth showed forth as a bundled-up flag….

For a moment he gazed, totally unsettled by the painter’s crude updating of the biblical scene as he thought,
What on earth is happening? First Leroy’s craziness and now this!

And exasperated by his inability to confront or deny the painter’s eye-assaulting scene-within-scene, time-past-in-time-present depiction, he whirled in outrage toward the battered door, asking himself in an attempt to escape,
Why on earth would even an insane pastor try to establish a church down here in a storefront so far below the street? And how did his flock get to their place of worship? Was it through that beat-up door—past storage bins, air-conditioning ducts, and more garbage cans like these behind me?

And with a sudden burst of outrage he rushed to the door and gave it a pounding blow from his shoulder. Then, bracing himself for a reaction from the other side, he prepared for a fight. But except for a single clank of metal sounding through the booming echo of his blow there was only an eerie, heart-thumping silence….

Still straining for the sound of footsteps, he stood immobile while hearing the
swarming of flies. Then, seized by a mounting feeling of unease he stepped backwards and whirled, giving the painting a sweep of his eyes that flashed from Christ’s thorn-crowned head to the dishonored flag and ended at the reflection of his own tense face staring back from the grime-stained glass. Then, sprinting for the stairs, he pounded upward, leaping two steps at a time for the street.

Where, now, breathing hard and squinting against the sudden assault of brilliant sunlight, he turned and stood looking over the guardrail with a feeling of having barely escaped an invisible inquisitor whose intent was to oppress him with insidious questions of a kind he had neither the will, wisdom, nor courage to answer…. Then he was pounding the sidewalk to the front of the building, where, now, he stood in the middle of the steady flow of curious sidewalk traffic inspecting the building’s façade from sidewalk to roof.

But here, except for the absence of Leroy and the white man who had looked down from above, things appeared to be as before. And with his sense of disorientation increasing, he backed away. And adjusting his hat with a look into the questioning eyes of passersby, he headed on foot for the Longview.

[DECISION]

U
PON REACHING THE
L
ONGVIEW
Hickman went immediately to his room with the intention of calling Wilhite. But after dialing the number he replaced the reciever.

If there’s any news he’ll call me
, he thought, and, feeling tired and still shaken by his wild encounter, he stripped to his shorts and lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

When I tell Wilhite he’ll swear I’m lying
, he thought,
but when that man lifted me into the air it was like he was performing some kind of ritual…. It was like a devilish laying-on-of hands. Then he insists that I’m some sort of a underground leader known as
Chief Sam
whose movement he confesses to betraying. And as though
that
wasn’t enough, he glorifies Chief Sam for being a
rapist
! And the next thing I know I’m down in a cellar having my sanity challenged by that outrageous painting. If it had happened to Janey she’d call it a sign of warning…
.

Well
, he thought as he reached for a pillow,
I don’t believe in signs, but maybe that’s what it was. And even though my brain was fairly rattled I don’t need that kind of sign to remind me that I still have the problem of reaching that boy—not after I wasted all that precious time looking for Millsap only to get myself put through a cross between a living nightmare and a wringer! So now I have nothing hopeful to tell the members, and somewhere out there that little man of Janey’s is on the move and preparing to act…. Hickman, instead of wasting more time chasing after the man maybe you should try to find his stalker—but where would you start? You don’t even know the name he’s using, whether he’s reached town or still on his way…. So why switch from chasing the man to chase his shadow? The problem is how do we find him?…

Closing his eyes he thought,
Only three years old and already asking more questions than a crossword puzzle:

Daddy Hickman, Who killed Cock Robin, was it really the sparrow?

Probably, Bliss; isn’t that how the story goes?

Yes, sir. But did he really do it with a bow and arrow?

Watch it, Bliss! Be careful, or you’ll ruin your book with that lemonade—that’s how the sparrow said he killed him, didn’t he?

Yes, sir; but…

So I guess we’ll have to give him the benefit of the doubt. But then, on the other hand, it’s well known that sparrows don’t always tell the truth. So he could have used a slingshot—or even a double-barreled shotgun…
.

A shotgun?

Why not? If he could handle a bow he could handle a gun…
.

Now you funning me, and that’s not fair!

No, Bliss, do I look like I’m laughing? I’m just reminding you that when a sparrow starts talking he’s capable of all
kinds
of amazing things. Like pulling a lion’s tail and getting away with it
.

A real lion?

Oh, no, Bliss; I meant a
baby
lion. Grown lions are much too dangerous for sparrows to fool with. But Cock Robin? Now that’s something different…
.

How come?

Because in the first place he didn’t know exactly from what direction ole Sparrow was coming at him, and in the second he made the mistake of being so overconfident that he thought nothing could harm him. And besides, maybe he was so busy with other matters that he didn’t let it bother him. You know how it is with robins: They have to search for worms, bawl out the cats, hold choir practice—not to mention all those solos he has to sing…
.

So why didn’t his friends tell him what that mean ole sparrow was up to?

I don’t know, Bliss. They probably tried, but maybe they simply couldn’t get to him in time. Or maybe he was just so cocky that he wouldn’t listen…
.

But why would the sparrow want to kill him?

I don’t know, Bliss. Maybe he was simply jealous of Cock Robin’s musical ability…. And like the Bible says, pride is a sin, but envy is dangerous…
.

Amen, Daddy Hickman, but do you really believe that the sparrow
shot
Cock Robin?

Probably, Bliss, but remember that the story you’re reading is a kind of poetry. So by saying that the sparrow used an arrow the writer was making it sound more musical and heroic. You know, it was like the sparrow was outdoing a hero like Robin Hood. And besides, while “arrow” rhymes fine with “sparrow,” “gun” falls flat on the ear. Would you like it if his friends had said, “Hey there, Sparrow, who killed Cock Robin,” and he came up with something like, “Well now, pard’ner, I blasted him with my shotgun”?

No, sir! Because like you say, “arrow” goes much better with “sparrow.”

That’s right, Bliss, and I’ll tell you something else: Ole Cock Robin had a much better chance against that arrow than he would have had against bird shot—yes, sir!

Yes
, he thought as the memory faded,
but this time whatever weapon he chooses let’s hope that he misses
—and was jolted awake by the phone….

Maybe
, he thought, as he picked up the reciever,
we got to him after all…
.

“So you finally made it back,” Wilhite said. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

“I knew you were,” he said, “but I decided to relax a bit before I bothered you. What’s happening with the members?”

“I guess by now they’re grabbing a little after-dinner rest.”

“Do you mean that they’ve already had lunch?”

“Since it’s too early for supper and ‘lunch’ is what folks up this way call ‘dinner,’ I guess that’s what we had.”

“Good, and was there any word from our boy?”

“Not a word. How’d you make out?”

“Wilhite, I’m sorry to report that I drew another blank; and from the way things are going I’m beginning to feel that his secretary told him about our visit and he’s on the run.”

“I hope not, because if he has any idea of why we’re trying to see him he’d see us. What happened to you?”

“Man, nothing! Not a single productive thing! No sooner do I step into the lobby than I run into that guard—the one Brother Provo wanted to choose—and got myself thrown out of the confounded building. The man made me wish that I’d let Provo go ahead and butt him a few times. It might have knocked some sense into his head—or into Provo’s. Anyway, after that I went looking for a fellow I used to know hoping that he might be able to give me a line on our boy.”

“Did he?”

“No, because hardly had I got started than I was grabbed in the middle of the sidewalk by a wild man—and I mean
physically—
who insisted that I was some kind of underground civil-rights leader….”

Wilhite laughed, “A
what
!”

“You heard me: an ‘underground … civil-rights … leader’! And not only that, he insisted that I once served time for rape!”

“Oh, come on, A.Z.
You?”

“That’s the truth. In less time than it takes to say it the man reinvented me, gave me a new name and a new philosophy, assigned me a new calling,
and
offered to help me overthrow the United States Government! For now that’s all I can tell you, and please don’t mention it to the members. I tell you, Wilhite, as soon as we complete this mission I’m getting out of Washington! How are the others holding up?”

“Pretty well, considering what we’ve run into. They enjoyed their meal in the main dining room—where the sisters had themselves a fine time criticizing the linen and the silver and comparing the service with the kind that’s offered down home….”

“Well, now,” he said with a chuckle, “wasn’t that to be expected? They’ve been washing and polishing the stuff long enough to think of themselves as
some
kind of experts. It’s their way of feeling at home away from home.”

“Oh, I wasn’t being critical. In fact, I enjoyed hearing them identifying with the best the rich white folks can afford. Down home they do a lot of complaining, but being up here in the North they feel free to express their regional pride….”

“That’s right, and their taste. The sisters might not be able to afford the best, but they sure appreciate it when they see it.”

“You telling me? And that’s why some of the brothers are so much in debt! So anyway, they had themselves a great time discussing the quality of everything. Then somebody brought up the way you were talking circles around that secretary and everybody got to laughing. What do you call it, A.Z.? Rhetoric, double-talk, or just plain shucking?”

Slapping his thigh, he laughed softly into the mouthpiece.

“Well, Wilhite, since she was forcing me to improvise like a jackass eating briars it was a little of everything. But
whatever
it was it didn’t do us a bit of good. Not with her being so un-reconstructed.”

“I know, but it wasn’t because you didn’t try. That guard was talking about old Provo showing off
his
moves, but he should have been there to hear you going through some of yours.”

“Well, Wilhite, sometimes a man of the Word is forced to be simply a man of
words…
.”

“Don’t brag, A.Z., it’s sinful. But, getting back to business, I was hoping that on your second try you’d make that woman stop pulling rank and listen. So since she didn’t, what do we do now? What shall I tell the members?”

“There’s nothing to tell them, and until we can think of something we’d better find a way of keeping them occupied. Meanwhile I’m hoping that the boy’s secretary will have a change of heart and give him our message, therefore I’m leaning toward doing nothing.”

“Yes, A.Z., but like you always say: Doing nothing
is
doing something.”

“Sometimes that’s true, so I won’t argue. But here’s an idea: How about taking the members sightseeing? Let them have a look at the city?”

“It’s a good way of killing time—but will you go along?”