Three Days Before the Shooting ... (87 page)

Suddenly Wilhite’s face broke into a smile.

“Oh, I’m with you, A.Z. I’m still with you. You know that.”

“Good. I don’t know what I’d do without you. The only thing is that I feel that I have to do as much as I can….”

“A.Z.?”

“Yes?”

“You also understand that in spite of what I say the members are still with you too, don’t you? What I mean is that they haven’t lost hope altogether. Because they feel that even though the boy has turned
his public
face against us, maybe he’s doing something behind the scenes to help us. Booker T. was like that too, remember? But mainly they’ve kept the faith because of you, A.Z. You justify them.”

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “I understand and I pray for their continued understanding, especially now. I justify their hope and now I must justify it in fact as well as in spirit. So you understand why I must see him?”

“Yes I do. You have to put your faith to the test….”

“Yes, Deacon, I mean to try….”

“I know. And you have to know whether you’ve been right or wrong. After all these years, you have to know.”

“Yes. And even if I’m wrong, I don’t want anything like what Janey’s hinting at to happen. Because beyond the question of living or dying there’s too much to be said. Too many questions to be answered. The record has to be set
straight.”

“That’s right, A.Z.,” Deacon Wilhite said. “That’s the way it is.”

Suddenly Deacon Wilhite leaned close, lowering his voice.

“A.Z.,” he said, “how did Sister Beaumouth come by this address?”

Hickman smiled. “From her son. You remember, he used to drive and butler for the woman’s mother. She sent him there on a few errands, and knowing the daughter wasn’t married and seeing this man there a few times, he caught on.”

“But he’s of the younger generation, A.Z. How’d he know about the boy?”

“Well, it was like this: At first he only knew the name our boy goes by up here, but then he was on a visit down home and his mother happened to bring up the name at supper—she’d made him some homemade ice cream and got to talking about how crazy our boy used to be about ice cream. Then later he happened to overhear his mama and daddy discussing what had happened to the boy and he put two and two together. Sister Beaumouth told me that he got a big kick out of the joke of the boy’s being who he is….”

“It looks like our boy is living in a glass house,” Deacon Wilhite said.

“Yes, but I guess he figures he’s got some good curtains and shades. Anyway, he doesn’t have to worry about Sister Beaumouth’s boy because he ain’t too smart. He sees the whole thing as just another con game. He’s happy just to see somebody beat them at their own game. To see them confused by the wrapping on the package.”

Deacon Wilhite laughed.

“Yes,” he said, “I guess any glass is dark if you’re dumb enough, or nearsighted enough.”

The address was that of a modern glass-and-concrete building that was approached by a drive which curved past a gracious lawn set with blossoming cherry trees and flower beds, and seeing it he realized his mistake.

There’ll be a doorman
, he thought,
and that’s the first wall we’ll have to deal with…
.

When the cab pulled near the entrance two limousines were ahead of them.

“Driver,” he said, handing over a bill, “let us out here; we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Outside, he caught Wilhite’s arm.

“Wilhite,” he said, “I think this is going to be a disappointment….”

“Yes, A.Z.?”

“Well, I hoped it would be a hotel and we’d only have a desk clerk to deal with but that doorman’s going to check us and call up to see if we’re expected.”

“Yes,” Wilhite said, “that’s the way they do it. But we could use the servants’ entrance.”

“I thought of that, but where is it? And how would we find her once we got in? We don’t even know anybody who works here.”

Deacon Wilhite grimaced. “Yes,” he said, “and the servants are probably all white at that. Immigrants. I guess we should have had Sister Beaumouth get a phone number from her son, because folks who live like this usually try to protect themselves from surprises.”

Looking down the shadowed drive to where the doorman was opening the door of one of the limousines, he felt a nudge.

“A.Z.,” Deacon Wilhite said, “what’s this woman’s name?”

He turned. “Don’t you have it?”

“Why no, I don’t.”

He shook his head. “So that’s the real wall,” he said, turning abruptly and starting back along the drive.

“Wait, A.Z.” Deacon Wilhite called from behind him. “What are you talking about? What wall?”

“I mean the wall of dumbness,” he called over his shoulder. “The wall of forgetfulness—I didn’t bring her name and I don’t remember it. A bellhop would be better at this job than me.”

“Well,” Deacon Wilhite said drawing abreast, “don’t worry about it, A.Z. Some of the ladies will remember it. You can bet on that. We’ll just come back tomorrow.”

Halting a cab as it came down the drive, they rode silently to the hotel and as they entered the lobby he drew Wilhite aside.

“You explain it to the others,” he said. “I’m going to stretch out for a while and try to think of another plan.”

Turning off the lights, he lay across the bed in his shorts but his mind was too active for sleep. He thought of his failure to get into the apartment building and rebuked himself, both for having gone to the address and for having done so without anticipating the obvious problems which he found there.
I must really be getting anxious
, he thought,
anxious and silly. Old folk’s silly…
.

A feeling of anguish came over him and to fight it away he turned on the light and tried to read his Bible, but as though to mock himself he opened the well-thumbed, rededged pages at the point in the story of David and Absalom where David was watching the approach of the two runners, one bearing news of victory and the other of Absalom’s death, and he put it aside with a sigh.
All they needed to do
, he thought,
was to be in the presence of one another, just to face up to one another and say howdy, but that was a task too large for either one, father or son. Pride turned the arrows against them, making for death and anguish…
.

And as his mind dwelled upon the ancient story, his thoughts drifted back to the afternoon at the monument, and once again he saw the colossus brooding enigmatically in the shadowed coolness of its edifice, and heard his words uttered there returned, sounding small and hollow in his mind like words spoken in the depths of a well.
Every time a man gives tongue to what he
feels as against the doubts and restraints of his mind he’s taking a chance
, he thought.
He’s bared his head to foolishness and he tests his faith, and when he’s trying to guide and lead others he’s taken on a burden of guilt, because if he’s wrong he’s led them astray
.

Just the same, we shall see him and I shall see him and talk with him
, he thought,
and soon
.

Then, realizing that he was hungry, suddenly very hungry, he got up and dressed. He wanted ribs and leaving the room quietly he left the building and took a cab, directing the driver to a small, smoky restaurant which he had noticed earlier in the day.

“That’s Moore’s,” the driver said. “I know the place.”

“How are the ribs?” he said.

“They’ll do all right—for up here.”

“What do you mean, do they know how to barbecue or don’t they?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” the driver said, “If you don’t know too much about how ribs ought to be cooked, they’ll do. They have the hickory smoke—know what I mean?—and they baste them like they ought to….”

“Yes?”

“… and they serve a pretty good cole slaw and they have good greens with ham butts and bacon scraps cut up in them but not too greasy—know what I mean?”

“Yes, that’s the way I like them.”

“That’s right, me too. And they even have a sweet-potatoe pie which ain’t too heavy….”

“Do they have them fried?”

“Fried?
The driver stepped on the brakes, lurching forward and looking back. “Man, where you come from?”

Hickman laughed. “Why, I come from Georgia….”

“You sure must be!” the driver said. “Why I haven’t even
heard of
a fried pie in twenty years. Now why don’t some of our people put some of them up for sale? That’s some of the best eating a man ever heard about. So you know about fried pies!”

“I know and I love them,” he said.

The car shot away, moving to the left lane as the driver leaned over the wheel.

“Look,” he said, “I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to take you to a place where you can get some
real
ribs. Moore’s is okay for squares and folks in a hurry, but forget it—I know a place where they have the real hick’ry log fire, cole slaw, collards, spaghetti, potato salad,
and
some of the best hot sauce you ever et. That’s what Moore’s doesn’t have, the real honest-to-goodness down-home hot sauce. You go up there and you smell that smoke and see the meat laying out there on the rack and you say, ‘Uh huh, this man knows his business,’ but then you bite into some of that meat and something’s
missing. That’s the hot sauce. Now as I see it, this here is hot weather and if a man is going to eat him some ribs then they ought to be the best he can get. And I’ma
take you
to the best you can get. I mean here in Washington. Because if you want some real barbecue you have to go to Virginia for that….”

“I’ll settle for your place,” he said. “I’m too hungry and it’s too late to go to Virginia.”

“Well, now, you just hold on! We’re going to Moore’s!”

Leaving the cab, he could smell hickory smoke on the nighttime air, the bite of grease. The room was narrow and dimly lit and through the window he could see a long counter at which a number of men in shirtsleeves sat with heads bowed reverently over plates of food. From the rear, the blades of a large pedestal-mounted fan caught the light, droning loudly as it blew a warm, steady breeze toward the door, and as he entered he removed his topcoat and started toward a booth located to the side of the room and was startled to hear a voice call his name:

“A.Z., what are you doing here?”

It was Deacon Wilhite.

“Me,” he laughed, “that’s what I should be asking you. I thought you were in bed.”

“I was, but I must have gotten homesick because I woke up with barbecue on my mind, and since I was still worrying about seeing that boy I thought I’d just go somewhere and do my worrying over a plate of ribs….” He broke off, seeing a huge, dark-skinned, weary-looking waitress approaching as though on sore feet.

“That’s all right, miss,” he called, “there’s no point in tiring yourself, just bring me the same thing my friend here has.”

“Everything?”

“Everything, only you can make the servings a little heavier and see that all the ribs are little ends. And, miss, don’t hold back on the ice tea. I drink it by the gallon.”

“Now, at this hour you’re the kind of customer I like,” she said. “A man who knows what he wants.”

Smiling, she propped herself against the back of a swivel stool and called back to the kitchen, reading the order from a pad, and he could hear the cook answering as she sang out in a deep contralto voice,

“A hefty breast of guinea hen …”

“Yes!”

“All from the little end….”

“Uh huh!”

“And make it nasty and sassy, ‘cause it’s for a
coal
heaver!”

“Right! For a boarder and a heavy loader!”

“Hit him with some swamp seed and let it come by Charleston with black eyes looking up at him … ‘cause he’s guilty.”

“Guilty of what?”

“Of being peckish!”

“So he can use some swamp seed—and why not by New Orleans?”

“It’s got to be from Charleston, I say, because he’s big and reachy and just might be Geechi….”

“Yes, mam!”

“A side of little Italy!”

“Sing on!”

“And a mound of Irish with the Bermuda to talk sweet to him! And make his collards easy ‘cause he knows that pig meat’s greasy!”

“You mean he’s been around and had his ups and downs so now he wants his vittles,” the cook called. “What else?”

“That wraps it, darling,” the waitress called, “and don’t forget to sauce that breast.”

Hickman laughed. “Wilhite,” he said, “it’s a good thing I dropped in here, because if you’re eating all the things she just ordered for me you’re liable to hurt yourself. How’re the ribs?”