Three Days Before the Shooting ... (154 page)

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.”

“I agree, but right now I’m enjoying this Choc, which is excellent—so maybe you should send her a bottle….”

“… And get crucified? Not me! She’s against any kind of liquor because of her religion, so let her. And if she wants to let some old Hebrews tell her what to do and what not to do she’s welcome. But like I tell her, those suckers couldn’t have lasted a year in this country. Talking some foolishness about a goddamn snake causing all the world’s trouble—Hickman, you know what we did with snakes when I was living amongst the People? Hell, we’d grab the bastard by his tail and snap off his head! No offense to Adam and Eve—or you either….”

“And none taken,” Hickman said, “as you can see from my grinning. What’s more, my granddaddy did the same back in Georgia, and his snakes were rattlers. But what can you tell me about this young man? What did he want?”

“What most orphans want, which is to know about their parents. That and maybe to see me again. Years ago he used to visit me whenever he could get away from Janey, who was against it. She was always warning him and the others that I was a heathen and a bad influence for her little Christians—ha!”

“I can understand her concern, but why did he come to you? Were you able to tell him anything?”

Settling back, Love gazed at the beer in his glass, and now as he spoke again his voice became more like that of an Indian.

“This is the way it was: When he was taken from Janey he was only a cub, but he still remembered enough to know that if there was
anyone
around who could tell him what he wanted to know it would be me. So he comes to Love. And, Hickman, dealing with what he wanted to know gave me one hell of a time….”

Pausing, Love held up his glass and stared at the beer with a thoughtful expression.

“You know, Hickman, this Choc is a drink blessed by the spirits. That’s why the People treat it with ceremonial respect. It takes charge of time and brings men together like the sacramental wine of your churches….”

“I understand,” Hickman said. “It’s not what folks
drink
but what they do
after
drinking that makes the difference. You say that the boy gave you a hard time—what did he want?”

“Wanted me to tell him who his father was. But when he’s asked a question like that, how can
any man
be sure of his answer? Only the mother would know, but in his case that’s impossible because she put the knife to her throat when he was still too young to even know about death. So while she was the kind of woman who would have known, there wasn’t time for her to tell him. Then Janey took him and started raising him and loving him like she did all those others, and even though he was taken from her years ago she still wouldn’t give him the answer. Not even if she knows it. Because telling the boy would mean giving up more of the little she has left of him … memories of him as a baby and all. And that’s because she don’t like the idea of somebody else being more important to any of those boys than herself.

“Hickman, I think you already know, but I’ll say it: Janey’s the kind of woman
who can never bring herself to give in to a man but can’t live without children around her. And so back in those days she started picking up all the orphans and strays she could find and went about raising and feeding and loving them. Yes, she loves them, but the woman is so damn proud of what she does that she refuses to share it. Especially with women who have a chance to give birth but refuse it. That’s her way. She wouldn’t tell the boy what he wants to know even if she knows it. So when she refuses him he comes to me.

“After all those years he comes to
me
, Love, who’s sometimes known as old
Loveless
Love. And seeing how disturbed he was, and knowing how long he’d been carrying that question around inside him, I tried to help. That was my first mistake—if it
was
a mistake. Because I had no idea that he would go beyond me, or that the road he’s taking would wind around so far and spiral so high….”

Suddenly Hickman leaned forward, saying,
“High? What
do you mean?”