Three Days Before the Shooting ... (37 page)

“But this is impossible.”

“Like hell, it is. This is some
new
kind of nigra.”

“A new kind?”

“That’s right; I wouldn’t lie about a thing like this.”

“So why don’t you simply push him aside?”

McGowan recoiled. “Hell, man, I don’t want to touch him,” he said, staggering a bit as he rubbed his wrists. Great beads of sweat stood out over his hands, and there was a genuine expression of revulsion on his face. “This ain’t the kind of nigra you touch,” he said, “not even for luck!”

“Then call the police,” I said. “That’s what they’re paid for. Why not make use of the law for once in your life?”

“Hell, no, McIntyre; I can’t do that. It would be against my honor.”

“Your honor!” I said. “What has honor to do with it? A man should have free access to his own house. His home is his castle, so defend it!”

“But you haven’t seen him yet,” he said. “He’s too little to head-whip, and it’s against
my tradition and my principles both to call the police to handle a nigra. It just ain’t Southern. Besides, I think he’s crazy, and today I simply don’t feel up to dealing with a crazy nigra.”

There was real anguish in his face, and I felt an uneasiness growing within me. It simply wasn’t like McGowan to be fazed by a Negro…
.

“What did you do to make this fellow block your doorway?”

“I be damned if I know, McIntyre; but I’ve already told you that the nigra is loco. This is some kind of metaphysical nigra bastard!”

“He’s what?”

“I just told you, he’s metaphysical.”

“But that isn’t logical.”

“Does he have to be logical for you to help me get him out of my door?”

“No, I guess not, but—”

“Then why don’t you help a man instead of standing here arguing with me like a damn Yankee lawyer!”

He was quite exasperated and so weak that he hardly seemed his old blustering self. All of the old rebel verve and bluster were gone
.

“Okey,” I said, “so I’ll help, but first tell me, did you say something outrageous to him? Insult him in some way?”

“Oh, hell, no, that was the Senator, not me. Didn’t I just tell you that I didn’t bother that nigra?”

“But you must have done something to him. Now I’m going to help you, but it’s only because I believe that the rights of property must be respected. Nevertheless, I don’t think you’re telling me the whole story.”

He looked away, shrugging impatiently
.

“Oh, I know that the nigras are getting awful touchy these days, McIntyre, but I swear that I didn’t do a thing to this one. All I tried to do was to enter my own house. But like I told you, this is some new kind of little nigra. He talks Yankee talk, McIntyre. Why, you never heard anything like it. This nigra talks what the hack editors call Mandarin prose! That’s right, man; and he’s got a tongue that’s as hot as the south end of a yellow jacket. I tell you, somebody must have done something
awful
to that little bastard for him to be acting like he is, but it sure wasn’t me. I swear it wasn’t.”

“I can’t understand it,” I said
.

“I’m not asking you to explain him, McIntyre. All I want you to do is to tell him to let me into my own house. I’m tired as hell, and I need to get some sleep. Be a good fellow and go tell him.”

“Okey,” I said, “where do I find your house?”

“It’s just down the street a piece. It’s the one with the white pillars. Number sixty-eight You just pass through the gate and go along the path, and you’ll see the bastard on the porch.”

It’s probably Sam or one of the bellmen at the club,
I thought. Moving along the street, I felt a sudden gratification for the opportunity of undoing some of the effects
of McGowan’s constant provocation, his humiliating attitudes. I would persuade the obstinate Negro with logic and kindliness. When, I wondered, would McGowan learn that politeness was always more effective than insults? Anyway, it was flattering to have him admit that someone else might be able to deal with these people more effectively than himself. God, I thought, old Mac must be pretty sick. Too much burb, too little branch
. Yes.
I smiled, thinking
, Spare the branch and roil the Bible….

I hurried now, but at the address he’d given me I found not a mansion but a pathetically mean, badly designed little bungalow which, instead of occupying the spacious grounds and gardens that I’d expected, sat rather close to the public sidewalk behind a barren yard. And then I received the real shock. Instead of the stubborn, angry Negro of the stature of Jack Johnson or Joe Louis whom I’d expected, I saw, standing smack in the middle of the doorway, a small cast-iron hitching-post figure in the form of a diminutive Negro
.

What the hell goes on here?
I thought. It was the figure of a little jockey or groom, such as were once to be seen mainly in the South, but which in recent years have mushroomed throughout the North and are now all over the place—especially before the meanest, least aristocratic of dwellings—where they stand in strident postures. It was a cheap, crudely made symbol of easily acquired tradition; the favorite statuary of the lazy seeker for facile symbolic status. I was sweating profusely now, for I had approached the house with the growing certainty that I’d find Sam the waiter—
what the hell is Sam’s last name?
—standing at the door with a tray of iced drinks; now I was staring down at this iron manikin the size of a small child, its face gleaming black with white teeth showing through parted bloodred lips, its peaked head reminiscent of a famous boogie-woogie pianist whom I’d admired during the thirties, and its thyroid eyes, jaded and froglike, reminded me of certain examples of primitive African sculpture which appear to have grown satiated on the blood of endless human sacrifices
.

But hell,
I thought
, it’s only a hitching-post boy, a little iron groom. What the hell’s wrong with McGowan? Is he that drunk?

Then I stopped short, for instead of the traditional blouse, short-visored beanie, and flapping trousers of such figures, this one wore a tiny blue suit which, oddly, was cut in the fashionable short-jacketed style known as “Italian Continental.” Its sharp-toed shoes, with large brass buckles, were also Continental. Four closely set mother-of-pearl buttons adorned its single-breasted jacket, which, cut loose and capelike in the shoulders, gave the eerie effect of bat wings at rest. And with its white shirt, which was rather grubby about the cuffs and collar, it gave me the uncanny feeling that he could run straight up a vertical wall and walk across a ceiling with no show of exertion whatsoever. One of the tiny hands rested delicately on a tiny hip, and the other, outstretched in the classical manner designed to receive the reins of a horse—but now I saw that the traditional metal ring had been replaced by a glass of dark oily liquid
.

Is this some crazy joke McGowan is playing on me?
I thought. But when I turned to look down the street, I couldn ‘t see him, he’d disappeared
.

He’s probably too drunk to handle the weight of this thing—or too weak. If so, why does he try to hide it? We’re all weak in some fashion. In any case, I’d better move it, or the poor bastard might stumble over it and break his neck…
.

All of this passed through my mind so logically that I could hear the words echoing in my head as I bent and lifted the figure, the iron boy, straining with the unexpected weight, and I had hardly taken three steps when the voice spoke in my ear:

“Watch it, baby, you mustn’t squeeze!”

The heavy weight barely missed my foot as it plunged to the floor of the porch. I stepped back, staring as it rocked with a dull rumbling, back and forth on its feet. I looked quickly around. Except for the roar of a distant truck, it was silent
. Hell, I’m hearing things,
I thought. I bent, lifting the figure again
.

“What are you staring at, McGowan, baby?”

Still stooping, I looked around. There was no one in sight. The door to the house was closed, the street empty. There was no doubt about it; the sound had come from the hitching-post boy. He had spoken. And now the eyes appeared to have come alive with malicious fire
.

“Why are you staring, McGowan?” the voice said
.

“Sir?
McGowan?
Hell, my name is
McIntyre
!”

“Really now,” it said, regarding me with the fixed intensity of a hypnotist. “Well, baby, you’re McGowan to me. All of you ofays are McGowan to me—McGowan.”

McGowan!
I shook my head and closed my eyes, then opened them rapidly. He was still there, blazing back at me
.

Are you drunk?
I thought
. You must be. True, it is said that on rare occasions animals and birds have been known to talk to human beings who are in tune with nature, and I know too that this is the age of the semiconductor, the transistor, space probes—But hell, this is obviously a piece of old iron, a hitching-post groom. There’s even rust on his pants leg….

“Hitching post?” he said. “It’s been a hell of a time since I had anything to do with a horse, so why are you staring? Answer me, baby!”

“This,” I said aloud, “is insanity!”

Whereupon I gave a mighty heave, determined to lift it out of the way, and discovered that it had suddenly become so heavy that I staggered with the weight
.

This time the voice was imperious: “I
demand
an answer, baby!”

This was too much. I banged it upon the white floor of the porch and stepped back, looking down
. What trick was this? Who wired this thing for sound?,
I thought, seeing the eyes widen and stare up at me indignantly
.

“Well, McGowan, I’m waiting!”

What on earth? My mind flew up and around. Overhead, three black-and-yellow wasps flew in circles, intersecting my field of vision
. It’s all rationally explainable,
I told myself
. And remember, this is a nation of practical jokers, so play along with the gag. Don’t be taken in….

I stopped and set it on its feet again, carefully
.

“Forgive me,” I said, forcing a pleasant tone. “And just how did you come to be here? I mean, who left you here?”

The eyes narrowed. “Take it easy, baby; I’m asking the question. Where are your manners? And take your drink before you answer!”

“Drink?” I said. “An iron tonic, I suppose. But thank you, no. A drink’s the last thing I want just now.”

“Oh, but you do, baby. You really do, you know you do. And of course if I say you do, you doooo!”

I didn’t know what to make of it. The voice was getting to me, irritating me. The speech was precise, even cultured, with a certain archness and theatrical stridency. It was the very last type of speech I’d have associated with a hitching-post figure—even taking into account the absurd clothing. Indeed, that voice and diction would have been incredible even if I’d encountered him in the window of a women’s shop, dressed in ballooning pantaloons and silken turban and holding the train of a high-fashion mannequin bride. Clearly, things were quite mixed up. How are they getting this stuff into his head? Because obviously Mac and some of his friends are behind it all, having fun with a Yankee. Very well, we’ll see
.

“Listen,” I said, touching its shoulder with my index finger, “it’s all a mistake. I didn’t order a drink because I had quite enough hours ago, and I didn’t even ring for you….”

“Oh, but you didn’t have to ring, McGowan. I have the ring in my pocket. So why be rude simply because you sent for me yesterday and and I’ve arrived today?”

“But I’m not being rude,” I said, feeling suddenly hot and, despite myself, on the defensive
.

“Variety,” he said, “after all, and no matter how intensely one would deny it, is the very froth of existence, baby. So now drink your medicine and when you’ve finished I’ve got your bathwater on.”

“Bathwater!” I cried, “BATHWATER! Now you listen: My name is Mc-In-Tyre! Get that into your iron head! What’s more, I don’t want a bath, and I don’t want a drink!”

“McGowan, dear—” he began
.

“Mc-IN-TYRE!”

He grinned. “So solly please, not interested in fetal position. Most blad. Bathwasser so necessary for be born one more in time fugit. WE splesiall, if you wish to follow me. Please, no speak now. Because, baby, you’ll bathe! Because you see,” he said, rocking his head delicately on his slender neck, “there’ll be no funky blues here tonight. Mister Crump forbids it, Miss Vanderbilt rejects it, Miss Otis regrets, and
I
abhor it. So, McGohard, you’ll bathe …”

I studied him silently, thinking:
If I ignore him he’ll simply talk on. Perhaps if I move him and remain silent, I can be done with him. And besides, this is sheer foolishness, a delusion….

This time I managed to take a few steps before it spoke again, in a coy, ingratiating tone
.

“McGow-wand, baby, tell me true—do you fine me repulsive?”

I was silent, aware now of an odor like that of old tennis shoes
.

“You’d better answer, McGowan; repression is bad for the bowels, and we won’t mention the soul.”

I gave a brisk shove, trying to push him out of the doorway as he laughed maliciously. It was oppressively warm and he moved barely an inch
.

“Take it easy, baby. Even if it hurts you to do so. And by the way, McGowan, everything seems to hurt you. That’s because you think only of yourself. That’s why you’re no damn good. You find me repulsive, and you have absolutely no feeling for my suffering, simply because I don’t choose to reveal it to every passerby. You refuse to recognize my humanity, you really do, so admit it!”