Three Days Before the Shooting ... (158 page)

[CYCLOPS 2]

“A
MAN?”

“That’s right, and from the signs on the steps and the landing he’d been so hell bent on making it to church on time that after being knocked to his knees he kept going by crawling….”

“What led you to such a conclusion?”

“The signs, Hickman, which are always around to be read. Like the cigarette ash on his elbow, the dust on the hem of his robe, and the black shoe polish scraped on the steps behind him. So I figured that at the point where he fell whatever hit him the first time backtracked and knocked him colder than a well-digger’s butt in December.

“Anyway, when we reach him he’s all doubled up with his head under his arms like he’s hiding, and he’s clawing toward the church with his long white hand. So, seeing State folks high-stepping and frowning like he’s something contagious, I’m reaching down to help him when Janey—your good Christian friend and mine—jerks me away. So either I land on top of the man or let her drag me up the steps beside her. Which I do.

“But while this is happening folks behind us go into action, and when I look back they’re rolling him over. And Hickman, when you hear who he turns out to be you won’t believe me.”

“I don’t doubt it, but what do you mean?”

“Because this man, this poor weary pilgrim, is the head man of the strangers in goggles and leggins …”

“… Now wait! Do you mean the
moving-picture
man?”

“Right! He’s the black-white one! And not only is he dressed in a purple silk robe and fancy black gaiters, around his neck there’s a heavy gold chain—Yao!— and dangling from the chain there’s this figure in ivory of a white man who’s nailed hands and feet to a heavy black cross …”

“… A
what?”

“A crucifix, Hickman, a
crucifix!
And when the boy hears about it he falls back
in his chair with a ‘Well I’ll be damn!’—which is how I felt when I saw it. So if you want to join us you have my permission.”

“That’s considerate of you, Mr. New, but no thank you. Then what happened?”

“So naturally the boy wants to know what this fellow was doing dressed like that on the steps of a church—which was the question on everybody’s mind, including folks inside the church who’d passed him before Janey and me arrived. Anyway, now he’s lying on his back with his eyes closed, and as folks gather around he begins mumbling what sounds like a prayer in the unknown tongue—you getting the picture?”

“I get it, so then what happened?”

“So while Janey hustles me up the steps and into the church, four men lug this fellow inside behind us. With folks on their feet singing ‘Praise God from whom all blessings flow’ they’re trying their best not to disturb them, but as it turns out they have no more chance than a snowball in hell. Because just as they stretch the white-black one on a bench in the rear his foot bangs the floor, and when folks whirl and see him lying there dressed in that long purple robe it’s the start of a strange Sunday morning.

“Not that it stops the singing, but with some of the squaws—old, young, and in between—having seen this fellow and his friends working that one-eyed contraption, they start itching to get back there to nurse him. And now folks all over the church are asking themselves whether he’s dead or just ailing, and how come he’s dressed in that purple costume—Yao! And what the hell was he doing stretched on the steps in the first place, and how he managed to get there without being noticed? But whether it was by trick or by whirlwind, the white-black one was
there
, and even lying flat on his back he’s taking them over.

“Meanwhile, up in the pulpit the minister, Reverend Caruthers, is still in control and means to stay in control, no matter what the hell’s brewing back in the rear. So to make sure everybody keeps their eyes on the pulpit and their minds on the service he takes over the singing. And pretty soon he’s damn near busting a gut yelling ‘Amazing Grace.’ Which was a good choice, because being an old favorite everybody except me joins in and goes hymning away like they’re seeing a vision.

“So now Caruthers is standing in the pulpit with the choir and the organ roaring behind him. To his left the sun is beaming through the big stained-glass windows, and especially through the clear pane they were forced to install after some rock-throwing boys knocked out the section with the heads of Saint Paul and John the Baptist on it. And as he leads the singing and waves his arms in time with the music he’s keeping his eyes on the rear like he’s mapping a strategy. And it seems to be working. Because even though folks have to be wondering what’s happening behind them they’re looking straight ahead and getting on with the singing.

“But the tension keeps rising. So then the head deacon steps up to Caruthers, buzzes his ear, and gets told to get lost. Then, with folks fidgeting and turning to see what’s happening behind them, another deacon steps up to offer Caruthers some assistance.

“This time it’s a tall, lanky fellow who looks like a grasshopper with frost in his bones who comes tiptoeing across the platform in his swallow-tailed coat, gambling-striped britches, moleskin vest, and rimless glasses. But without missing a beat or turning his head Caruthers waves him away and keeps sweating and singing.

“Meanwhile, with everybody’s eye on Caruthers, the tension keeps building. And that’s where being both an outsider and a heathen works to my advantage. Because while everybody else is looking forward and stewing I’m sneaking looks to the rear to see what’ll happen when the white-black one makes his next move. I’m also beginning to respect the way Caruthers is handling his problem, because even though he hasn’t yet come up with a solution it’s clear that come hell or high water he means to stay in command.

“So now he turns and whispers to the head deacon, no doubt telling him to get that movie-making fellow into his study, which is in a room just back of the choir and the organ. Or maybe it’s to get him the hell
anywhere
, as long as it’s out of his sight.

“And he damn well needs to do
something
, because by now all those women dressed in beaded dresses and wide-brimmed hats have gone to waving their fans so hard and fast that it sounds like a storm blowing in from the prairie. Even the organist sitting with his back to the pews is feeling the tension, because once or twice he loses control of his fingers and something which ain’t exactly church music reels from the organ. But Caruthers keeps singing, and with that mule-driver’s voice of his getting stronger and stronger I’m beginning to think he’ll come out the winner.

“But I’m wrong, because now the tune runs out of verses. Then as he stands waving his arms there’s a pause which ends with the organ easing into a high, smoke-curling tune that’s dream-like and peaceful. But there’s no peace for Caruthers.

“Because by now he’s so frustrated by what’s been brewing back in the rear that instead of getting on with his sermon he’s dabbing at his face with a big white handkerchief and looking desperate. And that’s exactly when one of the old ladies down front on the mourners’ bench goes into action.

“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!’