Three Days Before the Shooting ... (51 page)

Yes, sir, but in the dark I don’t think I…

Never mind the dark, Bliss. When you come to
Why hast Thou forsaken me
, on the “me” I want you to open your eyes and let your head go back, slow. And you want to spread out your arms wide—like this, see? Lemme see you try it….

Like this?

That’s right. That’s pretty good. Only you better look a bit sadder, more solemn. Things have gotten to you, remember—those Roman soldiers and all, you see?—and you’re sad and bewildered by what’s happened. And although you know it had to happen because the prophets had predicted it, you just can’t help but ask the question. That’s the human in you. So you want to look like you feel it, Bliss. So I want you to spread your arms out slow, like this. Then you start with
I am the resurrection and the life
. Say it after me:

I am the resurrection…

I am the resurrection.

And—

An’ the life …

Good, but not too fast, now. I am the Lily of the valley…

I am the Lily of the valley…

Uh huh, pretty good…. I am the bright and morning star…

The bright and morning star…

Thy rod…

Thy rod and Thy staff…

Good, Bliss, I couldn’t trap you in the rhythm. All right, that’s enough. You remember all those
I’s
have got to be in it. Don’t leave out those
I’s
, Bliss, because it takes a heap of
I’s
before the folks can see the true vision or hear the true Word.

They pain here and here and there and there. How far the sight? The Scene?… In Tulsa, after the tent meeting, they gave me a Black Cow, sweet teat of root beer and cool
glob of ice cream…. He taught me to ha and ah deep in my throat like a blues singer
.

Horehound, honey, and lemon drops. Cool against the heat of all that fire…. It hurts here and here and there and there. Long nails
.

“Senator, can you see me?”

Ha! The merry-go-round broke down!

Up there on Brickyard Hill the octagonal tents shimmered white in the sunlight. Below, My God, sweet Jesus, lay the devastation of the green wood! Ha! And in the blackened streets the entrails of men, women, and baby grand pianos, their songs sunk to an empty twang struck by the aimless whirling of violent winds. Behold! Behold the charred foundations of the House of God! Oh, but then, in those sad days came Bliss, the preacher…. Came Bliss, the preacher…. No more came Bliss
.

Daddy Hickman, I said, can I take Teddy too?

Teddy? Just why you have to have that confounded bear with you
all
the time, Bliss? Ain’t the Easter bunny enough? And your little white leather Bible, your kid-bound Word of God? Ain’t that enough for you, Bliss?

But it’s dark in there and I feel much braver with Teddy, because Teddy’s a bear and bears aren’t afraid of the dark….

Never mind all that, Bliss. And don’t you start preaching me no sermon—especially none of them you make up yourself. You just preach what I been teaching you and there’ll be enough folks out there tonight who’ll be willing to listen to you, and some will even be saved. I tell you, Bliss, you’re going to make a fine preacher and you’re starting at just the right age. You’re just a little over six and even Jesus Christ didn’t get started until he was twelve. But you have
got to
leave that bear alone! Why, I even heard you
preaching
to that bear the other day. Bears don’t give a doggone about the Word, Bliss. Did you ever
hear of a
bear of
God? Of course not. Now there was the Lamb of God, and the Holy Dove, and one of the saints, Jerome, he had him a lion, and another had him some kind of bull with wings—a flying bull, that is—it was probably some kind of early airplane; and Peter had the keys to the Rock. But, Bliss, no
bears!
So you think about that, you hear? You find yourself another mascot.

He looked at me with that gentle, joking look then, smiling with his eyes, and I felt better.

You think you could eat some ice cream?

Oh, yes, sir.

You do? Well, here; take this four bits and go get us each a pint. You look kinda hot. Just look at you, Bliss, I can see the steam rising right out of your collar. In fact, I suspect you’re already on fire. You better hurry and get that ice cream fast. Make mine strawberry. Ice cream is good for a man’s belly and if he has to sing and preach a lot like we do it’s good for his throat too. Wait a second, where’d I put that money? Here it is. Ice cream is good if you don’t overdo it—but I don’t guess I have to recommend it to you though, do I, Bliss? ‘Cause you’re already sunk deep in the ice-cream habit, aren’t you? In fact, Bliss, if eating ice cream was a sin you’d sail to hell in a freezer…. Ha!

Ha! Now, now, don’t look at me like that, Bliss. I was only kidding. Don’t look at me that way, old boy. Here, take this dime and bring us some of those chocolate marshmallow cookies you love so well. Hurry on now, and watch out for the wagons and those autos….

Hickman? How here? Long past. From far off he could hear the tinkle of ice in a glass. When he laughed his belly shook like Santa Claus. Huge, tall, slow-moving, like a carriage of state in ceremonial parade, until on the platform, then a man of words. Black Garrick, Alonzo Zuber, “Daddy” Hickman. Reverend Doctor Mixeddiction, Dialectical Donne, Shookup Shakespeare…
.

GOD’S GOLDEN-VOICED HICKMAN
BETTER KNOWN
AS GOD’S TROMBONE

they billed him. Brother A.Z., to Deacon Wilhite, when they were alone. Drank elderberry wine beneath the trees together discussing the Word, and me with a mug of milk and a buttered slice of homemade bread
.

It was Waycross.

I came down the plank walk past the Bull Durham sign where a white, black-spotted dog raised his leg against the weeds and saw them. They were squatting in the dust along the curb, pushing trucks made of wood blocks with snuff-box tops for wheels. Garrets and Tube Rose but all the same size. Then I was there and one turned, fingering for a booger in his nose, saying:

Look here, y’all, here’s Bliss. Says he’s a preacher.

They stood, looking with disbelieving eyes, dust on their knees, making me like Jesus among the Philistines.

Who, him? One of them pointed. A
preacher
?

Yeah, man.

Hi, I, Bliss, said.

He looked at me, one eyebrow raised, his lips protruding. A dark, half-moon-shaped scar showed beneath his left cheekbone. The others were ganging up on me in their faces, closing in.

What he doing all dressed up like Sunday for? he said.

Who?

Him.

‘Cause he’s a preacher, fool.

Heck, he don’t look like no preacher to me. Just looks like another lil ole high-yaller. What you say’s his name?

Bliss
. They swear he’s a preacher.

Sho do, the bowlegged one said. My mama heard him preach. Grown folks talking ‘bout him all over town. He real notoriety, man.

Shucks! Y’all know grown folks is crazy. What can this here lil ole jaybird preach? A.B.C.? Hell, I can preach that just like ole Rev-um McDuffie does and he’s the best.

I watched his hands go behind his back, his chin drawing down and his eyes looking up, as though peering over the rims of spectacles as he frowned.

Brothers and sisters, ladies and what comes with you, my text this mawning is A.B.C. Y’all don’t like to think about such stuff as that, but you better lissen to me. I said
A
—Whew, Lord! I says A! Just listen, just think about it. A! A!
Assay!
In the beginnin’ there was A.B. and C. The Father, the son, and the son-of-a-gun! I want you to think about it. Git in it and git out of it. I said A.B.C., Lawd….

He shook his head grimly, his mouth turning down at the corners, his tone becoming soft then rising as he hammered his palm with his fist. A.B.C.D.E.F.—double-down D! Think about the righteous Word. Where would we be without A? Nowhere ‘cause it’s the start. Turn b around and what you got? I’ll tell you what you got, you got a doggone nowhere d! Y’all better mind! I say you sinners better mind y’all’s A.B.C.s and zees!

He grinned. I had me a Bible and a pulpit I could really lay that stuff, he said. Is that the kind of preachin’ he does?

And one in a blue suit and tettered head defended me on heard words.

You crazy, man. ‘Cause he
really
preaches…. Any of us can do what you doing.

That’s what
you
say. So what do he preach?

Salvation. What all the grown preachers preach.

Sali
vation?
Hey, that’s when your mouth gits sore and your teeth fall out, ain’t it? Don’t he want folks to have no teeth?

I said sal-
va
tion. You heard me.

Oh! Well tell a poor fool!

Don’t you min’ him, Bliss. He’s just acting a clown.

He grinned and picked up a pebble with his toes.

No I ain’t neither, I just ain’t never seen no half-pint preacher before. Hey, Bliss, say “when.”

“When” what?

Just
when
.

Why?

Just ‘cause. Go on, do like I tole you; say “when.”

So maybe I wouldn’t have to fight him—and blessed are the peacemakers—“When,” I said.

Aw come on; if you a preacher say it strong.

WHEN!

WHEN THE HEN BREAKS WIND—See, I got you!

They laughed. I tried to grin. My lip wouldn’t hold.

I sho got you that time, Bliss. Hell, you can’t be no preacher, ‘cause a preacher’d know better than to git caught that easy. You all right, though. You want to shoot some marbles? Man, dressed up the way you is, you ought to be a
real
gambler.

Not now, I have to go to the store. Maybe I can tomorrow.

Say, Rev, if you so smart, what’s the name of that dog who licked those sores poor Lazarus had?

He didn’t have a name, I said.

Yes he did too. He name Mo’ Rover! Dam’, Rev, we got you agin!

I said, You mean
more-over
.

He said, Shucks, how can you have
Mo’
Rover when he ain’t got
no
Rover?

They laughed.

He a nasty dog, licking blood, someone said.

Sho. There’s a heap of nasty things in the Bible, man.

Hey y’all, he said, even for a yella he’s a good fella. Let’s teach him a church song before he goes. They crowded around.

Sing this with me, Rev, he said, beginning like Daddy Hickman lining out a hymn:

Well, ah-mazing grace
How sweet
The sound…
.
A bullfrog slapped
His grand-mammy
Down…
.

He watched me, grinning like an egg-sucking dog. I looked back, feeling my temper rise.

Hey, whatsamatter, Rev, he said. Don’t you like my song?

Man, Bowlegs said, you know don’t no preacher go for none of that mess. Bliss here is a real preacher and that stuff you singing is sinful.

Oh, it is, he said. Then how come nobody never tole me? I guess I better hurry up and sing him a
real
church song so he’ll forgive me. What’s more come Sunday I’m going to his church and do my righteous duty. Here’s a real righteous one, Rev!

Well, I’m going to the church house
And gon’ climb up to the steeple
Said I’m going to Rev’s little ole church house
Gon’ climb up on the steeple
Gon’ take down my britches, baby
,
And doo-doo—whew, Lawd!—
Straight down on the people!

I looked at him and gritted my teeth. My face felt swollen. No bigger’n me and trying to be a great big sinner. I thought: Saint Peter bit off an ear but still got the keys. Amen! I looked on the ground, searching for a rock.

Boy, I said, before you were just pranking with me; now you’re messing with the Lord. And just for that He’s going to turn you into a crow.

Shoots, he said.
Who?
You can’t scair me. Less see you.

I said
He
will do it, not me. You just wait and see.

Hell, I can’t wait that long. Goin’ on a cotton-pick next month. Goin’ hear all those big guys tell all those good ole lies. See, he said, bending over and patting his bottom. I ain’t no crow. Can’t see no feathers shooting outta my behind….

They laughed, watching me. I reproached him with all the four horses galloping in my eyes.