Three Days Before the Shooting ... (174 page)

Then as he smiled at the confusion created when Cliofus decided to speak for the first time he shook his head, thinking,
Yes, Hickman, but as you have now come to know all too well, the WORD itself is a cross. And since even sacred communion itself depends upon our communicating through word and gesture, why should the innocent offspring of the Word be free of agony? And least of all for those who were given an unusual gift for using them? When old mouthy Love talked about that denied little man of Janey’s going to Cliofus for information about his father he called him a “word-drunk oracle,” but that’s something like a copper kettle having the gall to low-rate a black iron pot for being smoky. So now just as I went to him I’m going to that same word-drunk Cliofus in search of a word or gesture that might save another man’s life
.

Selecting a dark blue suit, he dressed quickly and made for the lobby, turned in his key, and left the hotel. Heading east on foot, he hailed a passing cab and asked the Negro driver if he knew how to reach a bar called the Cave of the Winds.

“Why sure,” the driver said, “if you mean the one they call Buster’s Funky London—would that be the one?”

“Why not,” Hickman said, “since like they say, a rose by any other name—”

“Yeah,” the driver interrupted with a laugh, “but it wouldn’t be even
half as
funky! ‘Cause I tell you, man—and you better believe me
—Jimson weed
would be more like it. Yes, sir! Because I’ve been there a few times myself and the funk was so thick that you could’ve cut it with a paper napkin!”

“I understand what you mean,” Hickman said, “but, according to an experienced friend of mine, when it comes to good down-home entertainment, ‘No funk, no fun’ is the rule! Of course that was just my friend’s way of saying that no matter what’s happening the flesh still plays host to the spirit.”

“Hey, now!” the driver said with a thoughtful glance in the mirror, “that friend of yours was
on
to something! Because no matter what’s going down, whether it’s work or play—yeah, and no matter what’s being said by his mind and mouth—the rest of a man’s body insists on speaking
body
language. Hell, yes! And you know something else? All this high-priced perfume you see in these ads ain’t nothing but the extract of some overeducated
funk
!”

Hickman laughed, throwing up his hands before the rearview mirror. “Brother,” he said,
“you
are a man with an educated smeller!”

“Who you telling,” the driver said. “And while I might be yeasting the biscuit a bit, it’s still the truth. Hell, man, those people distill that junk out of stuff like
whale
puke,
polecat
juice,
skunk
oil
, bear
grease,
snake shit, bat crap, muskrat sweat
—yeah, and that doggone Spanish
fly
. And by time they get through adding alcohol and flavoring it with sweetening—hell, a female buzzard could spray it under her arms and come up smelling like some kind of de-funked Miss America!”

“Hush,” Hickman said, “hush, or you’ll get us both thrown in jail for revealing classified secrets! What are the best nights at Buster’s?”

“Saturday and Sunday, that’s when that joint really jumps. But tonight’s not bad if you like to hear some good lies. You ever hear that fellow Cliofus perform?”

“No, but I’ve been told that he’s something special.”

“And that’s no lie. I don’t know where they dug him up, but, man, he’s
something!”

“What do you like about him?”

“I like the way he puts himself into those lies he tells. When he’s telling about something sad you can see him crying, and when he’s describing something ugly he looks ugly and you can hear the ugliness in his voice. It’s the same way with happy things and funny things, you can
hear
it. And when he looks down from the stage and sees how his audience is reacting it’s like he’s watching those words of his come alive. And it’s like what he’s telling is as new to him as it is to the rest of us. He swears that his words are in control of him, and damn if I don’t believe him! It’s like he’s one of these spiritualists who claim that the spirits speak through their mouths….”

“Do you mean that he tells the future?”

“Hell, no! You think I’d go for that? No, it’s not the future he tells but things
that happened—or maybe should have happened in the way he tells it. By which I mean that he tells things in such a way that he takes the edge off and lets you think about them and even laugh….”

“Well, now,” Hickman said, “I could stand some of that. I could stand a
heap
of that!”

When Hickman entered the Cave of the Winds it was hot and packed with noisy customers. Painted a deep blue, the room was spacious, with a high ceiling and circular walls that curved forward to embrace a performing stage which he glimpsed over the heads of the crowd. An elbow-to-elbow-crowded bar stood near the entrance, and in the dining and dancing area men and women sat with drinks before them at tables arranged to provide the best view of the entertainment. Aglow with lights, the stage reminded him of the many on which he’d performed in the old days, but since it was empty and the customers appeared to be enjoying themselves he concluded that he had arrived during an intermission and relaxed as he looked them over.

Warm and friendly, the room’s atmosphere was alive with that tension of hopeful expectation which he knew to arouse the best efforts of jazz musicians. Yes, and the best revival meetings. For both shared some of the same hopeful anticipation of joyful fulfillment. And looking over the crowd for a familiar face he thought,
Hickman, what was once your worldly bread and joy is now your competition
, and decided with a mixture of relief and disappointment that there was no one present, whether churchgoers or old-time sinners, to recognize him from the old days. Most of the customers appeared to be working people, the rest fashionably dressed members of a younger sporting crowd; an impression which increased his feeling of lonely but comfortable anonymity.

Then, suddenly reminded of his dual mission by observing the presence of a handsome waiter with Anglo-Saxon features, he scanned the crowd’s faces more slowly and was relieved that he recognized not a single “white” white face among them.

So, Hickman
, he thought,
it seems that the confusion of social change hasn’t caught up with this particular sanctuary, but what if the boy has been here and gone? Or is it possible that he hasn’t learned about its connection with Cliofus?

Squeezing toward the bar, he ordered a beer, paid for the cold, napkin-protected stein, and retreated to a spot near the entrance. Then as he sipped his beer, he saw a man in an invalid’s wheelchair being rolled onto the stage.

Immediately a burst of applause erupted, and he was staring at a big, dark brown, bald-headed man who wore a white short-sleeved shirt, red fireman’s suspenders, and the gray, black-striped pants that were once the favorite of old-time gamblers and jazz musicians. Below his trousers’ flesh-bulged legs the man wore a pair of black, highly polished high-topped shoes, and he thought,
Not much of a costume
, then noted that with the rays from a spotlight playing around
his head the huge man in the wheelchair sat gazing into the crowd with the dignified immobility of a circus fat man, or with that air of self-acceptance displayed by the physically deformed who are confident that they are of far more worth and interest than can be seen by the unknowing eye.

Then as the rhythmical applause increased he watched a waiter appear with a small table which he placed at the huge man’s side, then shot offstage to reappear bearing a tray with a pitcher of ice-cubed water, a glass, and a white bath towel, which he arranged on the table with a flourish, gave a curt bow, and disappeared.

And now as Hickman studied the play of light and shadow upon the stage he was struck by the ironic development of the boy who had been the strangest of Janey’s brood of little men.

So
, he thought,
after years of being considered some kind of natural-born clown, he’s found a setting where he’s recognized as an entertainer—which I guess he’s always been, whether he liked it or not. So through all the flipping and flopping of fate which set the rest of us running, HE ends up on a public stage, while I in my need am here to hear to him. And what’s important beyond all appearances isn’t whether he’s now a stand-up or sit-down comedian—no, nor whether he should be doing whatever he does in a place like this—but what he might say that might cause trouble or save a life. That’s what’s important, and if I can learn what he told that mixed-up boy I’ll be on my way to do something about it…
.

And now as he turned to see a group of noisy customers entering the door behind him he thought,
Hickman, it’s a cliché, but life remains a puzzle within a puzzle and a mystery within a mystery, and try as you can it’s hard to predict what will happen or grasp what it means after it happens. Years ago you lost a son who was to be lost by a son, and now both you and the son of that son are trying to find him, while sitting up there in the spotlight is a fellow whose parents denied him both their love and protection because he was unlike his brothers and sisters. And yet, thank the Lord, he survived their lack of love and faith. And then comes the twist: They thought he was dumb, but while obviously strange he turned out to be an odd but exceptional talker. They thought he was mentally retarded, but he turned out to be more intelligent than many who put him down. For they approached him with unseeing eyes and listened to his speech with unhearing ears. Because in spite of their erring, both speech and intelligence were there all the time. And not only there, but just waiting for recognition in the form of a little love and understanding. So thank God that Janey took him in and gave him the love and encouragement he needed to accept himself and his world. Yes, Hickman, you’re beginning to understand—maybe—but don’t forget that he needed both a carrot and a stick to do it! And it turned out that the carrot was nothing more than a second helping of dessert! Like any kid he had to be punished before he could discipline himself, and after he started talking Janey knew that his way with words was a reward for her charity. So thanks to her faith and love this is what Cliofus has become
.

And now, as the applause increased in volume, he looked up to see the man who had rolled Cliofus onto the stage emerging from the shadow behind him with a smile on his face and hands in the air.

So this must be Buster
, Hickman thought,
and what a little devil of a boy he was! With that liar’s gap in his upper teeth and knots and sores on his head from protecting Cliofus from boys who tried to pick on him. So now that rough little rascal has turned into this smart-looking dude in a tuxedo!

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he now heard Buster call out from the stage, “welcome to the Cave of the Winds! And if there are any of you who wonder why we gave it that name, it’s because this is a place of
good
food,
good
drinks,
good
music,
good
talk,
good
feeling, and plenty of all those
good-bad
winds of satisfaction that come and go with them! In other words, this is
the
place for the
good-bad
and the
bad-good
folks. And if you don’t dig that, don’t ask me, because I’m ignorant!”

“What you mean,” a voice called from the bar, “is that this is a place for righteous funk-busters!”

“Yes, sir,” Buster called, “and may God bless ‘em! And that said, let’s get on with the show. And now it is with pleasure that I turn the evening over to the Great Cliofus. He’s waiting to entertain you, and you know the rules: Give him a theme and he’ll take it from there. He’ll tell you stories, he’ll give you toasts as juicy as our good beef roasts. He’ll give you speeches, poems, and orations—hell, if you want it he’ll even give you the United Nations, discord included! He’ll give you Abe Lincoln and Frederick Douglass, he’ll give you Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. Dubois, he’ll give you Franklin Roosevelt, the Happy Warrior, or the Sermon on the Mountain—but
you
know, and
I
know that that’s not why you came here to the Cave of the Winds! So now the joint is yours to call the tune.”

And as he watched Buster take a bow and retreat into the shadows Hickman thought,
That fellow would have known Janey’s returned prodigal as well as Cliofus—so what if he’s been to see him?
and broke off as he heard a gravelly voice calling out from the bar, “Hey, Cliofus, hit us with some
Shine
!”

And as he thought,
What! And with these women present
, and looked toward the stage to see Cliofus thrust his head in the direction of the voice and begin spieling with a machine-gun burst of words: “
You
shine,
I
shine, we
all
Shine-shine in the sunshine’s shine!”

“Hell, man,” the voice yelled over the explosion of laughter, “that ain’t the Shine I’m thinking about!”

“And it serves you right,” he heard from a table off to his left, “because after that you’ll be wanting to hear some juvenile crap like the Signifying Monkey! Every time a man comes in here to enjoy himself some of you clowns are asking Cliofus for that or for
Shine!
Hell, you need to go somewhere and get
educated
!”

Me too
, thought Hickman,
and the last thing I came here for was to witness a fistfight or a riot…
.

Then: “Gentlemen, GENTLEMEN!” he heard Buster calling from the shadows. “Let’s keep it cool! And remember, you don’t
command
Cliofus, you give him
suggestions
! Yes! And then you wait to see what comes out. Cliofus is a man of
words
, remember? So now to get him started I’ll suggest that he give us an account of his reaction to a visitor he had just yesterday. How about it, Cliofus?”