Three Days Before the Shooting ... (121 page)

“That’s the rub, my friend; that’s the skin-scraping rub!”

“And you can say that again. The police would simply laugh at us, and we don’t even know how to describe this young fellow of Janey’s. So we’re in the dark, and as usual with dark men caught in the dark we’ve got to find and follow our own path.”

“Yes, but how? We’ve tried to see the man, we’ve been to his office and left telephone messages, but so far nothing has happened. I’m surprised that the members haven’t gotten sick of wasting their time.”

“Well, they haven’t, because they remember that the man’s life depends on our keeping after him.”

“And is that how you feel?”

“Look, A.Z., I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but let’s be frank about this thing.
I
know that you have a greater need to see this man than any of the rest of us. I understand that and so do most of the others, and we all respect your feeling. The truth is that yours is the really pressing need. Besides, you’re the one who’s setting the direction, so don’t start talking about our giving up. Not at this early stage of the game!”

“I’m not, but I’m trying to consider the rest of you. Have the members been discussing any of this?”

“No—or at least not directly. But it could be in their minds.”

“Yes, I know. And it would have to be, considering what’s happened or
hasn’t
happened. Still, if they’ve begun talking it could make a difference.”

“Not necessarily. Because being faithful to you they’re faithful to your idea and leadership. You loved that little boy, everybody knows that from way back. But so did the rest of us who knew him, and most of us still do. Anyway, it’s been so long ago that it’s gotten mixed up with other attitudes that are too complicated for me to describe. Anger for some, and for others it’s their disbelief that anyone they knew could turn out to be what he’s become. But I think that most of them won’t
really
know what they feel until they see him face-to-face. However—and this is a big ‘however’—if you’d given even a hint that you were losing interest in the mystery of this thing they would have been relieved to put it out of their minds. You didn’t, so you kept the boy alive in their minds if not in all of their hearts.”

Wilhite paused, looking into his eyes.

“A.Z.,” Wilhite continued, “I hope you won’t mind my saying what I’m about to say….”

Hickman smiled. “Of course not, old buddy. Coming from you the truth might hurt, but it won’t kill me. I’ve suspected what you say about the members’ attitudes for a long time. But now, what about you personally?”

“Now, don’t tell me that you think that
I
might be faltering!”

“No, but I’d like to be able to judge the possible strain being put on our friendship.”

“But why would you think of such a thing?”

“Because I realize that I’ve been asking you and the rest to go along with my personal craziness for a long time now…. Yes, and because this afternoon, after letting my emotions take over out there at the memorial … you might have felt … well, that I was losing my grip on reality….”

“… Do you mean because of what I was saying on the bus?”

He nodded.

“So that’s it! But A.Z., I wasn’t arguing against
you
, I was arguing with myself! I was trying to make some sense between what you made us feel about Abe Lincoln and the conditions we’re living with today. Man, that’s what was happening! Out there you had us under the spell of your vision, just as you did when we flew up here. We were being carried along by your faith and the power of your need to learn what had happened to that little boy. And we did it
willingly!
You didn’t force a single soul. No, A.Z., that wasn’t criticism, it was just a matter of my trying to straighten things out in my own mind….”

“Now, don’t go making it light on me,” Hickman said, “because I know I have cause to feel guilty. But I wasn’t faulting you for what you were saying on the bus. How could I, when I know only too well that when it comes to Abe Lincoln there’s a lot to be discussed on either side. And you must know that in spite of what I felt moved to say out there. There’s still too much conflict between what I feel in my heart and what I think about the outcome of even the most well-intended human enterprise for me to lose sight of the other side. I mean the bad in the good, and the good in the bad that often gets coated with whiteness—at least when it’s written as history.”

“If you ask me,” Wilhite said with a grimace as he sat back and crossed his legs, “that kind of history is a living mess. And thank God that we don’t have to live in it, because just living is bad enough. It’s a wonder we aren’t all raving maniacs!”

“Easy, Deacon; easy! Because we’re half in and half out of it. That’s why it can feel as though we’re walking around in somebody else’s nightmare—and we both know whose! Seriously, though, history happens and men have a hand in it, or at least some of them do. Especially those who have the power to push other people around. The good thing is that they don’t have as much control as they’d like to think. They draw a circle and say, ‘Everything outside this line has no meaning and doesn’t count.’ But what’s pushed outside can be anything from a springtime flood to a plague of boll weevils to a cotton-picking machine, or a bunch of Japanese flying plywood airplanes. That’s why I feel guilty when dragging religion into the quicksand called ‘history’—even though the big churches have been in it up to their steeples for centuries. Which means almost from the time they took Christ down from the cross. Still, it’s all focused in mankind, and it’s what our brooding hearts and minds try to make of what has happened irreversibly that moves me beyond all my powers to resist it. All the ifs and ands and the might-have-beens. Things that are sometimes more complex and contradictory than anything that’s put down in the history books….”

“… I’m with you there, A.Z….”

“… I don’t know, Wilhite, but maybe it’s the fact that things in this world can get out of control so easily—Like when a war breaks out, or someone gets assassinated. Or when nature kicks up, like that flood back in ‘27, or that Dust Bowl drought. Things like that can cause a confusion that can take over people’s hearts and minds. Maybe that’s what makes the idea of history so appealing. Folks have such a need to rationalize what happens to them that they’re willing to listen even if to somebody who claims he can cram life’s complexity into a man-made jug with a fountain pen.”

“Yes, but don’t leave out the politicians! They do the things that satisfy their own interests and then they whitewash it and pay folks to tell the rest of us the meaning of what they’ve done and see to it that the unfavorable parts aren’t included.”

“That’s true, but it doesn’t even have to be intentional. After all, everybody likes to look his best, so it can depend upon who’s involved and who sets out to tell the tale.”

“Well, it might not be
intentional
, but when you have to stand outside and watch what they put down it sure can be confusing. And especially when you think
you
know what the truth really is.”

“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but
the truth,” he intoned with a grin. “But that takes in so much territory that a man has to lie even if he wants to be honest. Maybe that’s what they mean by a ‘legal fiction.’ Nevertheless, there’s always going to be folks who’ll swear that they have truth by the tail. Actually, it’s not white or black but a man-made game, so I guess we’re complaining because we’re ruled out of most of it by the rules they set up for themselves. But even for themselves there’s room for choice, for selection. At least as far as the truth is concerned. And that’s where the individual—whether he be judge, historian, or politician—steps in and pretends that he’s the voice of God, which is their nick-name for history. Then he sets out to re-create the world by word of mouth, and all that doesn’t fit into the tale he wants to tell he leaves out. And that makes room for a whole world of complications that go unnoticed. So let’s forget about Abe Lincoln and take a trip out of the jug of history and into the outskirts of town where there are plenty of gullies….”

“Okay, A.Z., but only if I can sit here in this comfortable chair while we’re doing it.”

“Oh, come on Wilhite, don’t you know that up here in D.C. what were once the historical outskirts of town have become the
in-
skirts? Sure you do! Just like you know that things that used to happen only on the
outskirts
of town are now taking place in the so-called ‘inner cities.’ ”

“All right, but what does that have to do with history?”

“I was just getting to that, because I’d like to know if you’ve ever heard of a Saturday night shooting-scrape being termed historical?”

“Which one?”

“Any one you can think of. Can you name me a single one—no matter how much blood was spilled—that went down in history?”

“Nope.”

“And neither can I. But we’ve both heard about a few that folks still talk and sing about. For instance, when I was taking my shower I found myself humming words such as these: ‘Stackalee, said Billy / Please don’t take my life. / I got three little hungry black / Blue-gummed chillen / And a
very
sickly wife!’—now don’t laugh—which was not only a plea worthy of going down in the history books, but enough to strike pity from a man with a heart of stone….”

“That’s right,” Wilhite laughed, “providing that he knew about those blue-gummed children! Those little rascals were so hungry that they ate up the cow and the calf and the railing fence, and if Stackalee hadn’t shot their daddy they probably would have eaten him too!”

“Yes, and they might as well, because in spite of all their daddy’s pleading Stack blew him away. Therefore if there hadn’t been somebody on the scene to make up a song about what happened both Billy and Stack would have been long forgotten. And that holds true no matter how many others were on hand to hear that bulldog bark and the shooting start.”

“Right, A.Z., but all you’re doing is citing
outskirts
history. Which means that you’re violating your own rules.”

“I know, and I realize that I’m stretching my point a bit. But as I see it Billy and Stack were simply human beings, and therefore what happened to them should count down here on earth just as it does upstairs with the Lord. But since they weren’t important and the argument that caused one to kill and the other to die didn’t involve important people—unless it was the Sheriff—nobody considered what happened to them historical. So now let
us
praise two famous men. And as the boys in the pool hall used to say, ‘Rack ‘em back, Mister Gamekeeper, and set ‘em up for one more round!’ ”

“A.Z.,” Wilhite said with a frown, “before you became converted you must have been on your way to becoming a truly
great
sinner! So level with me now, were you there?”

“Who, me? No, sir! It was long before my time. I’m simply going by the account given in the song—which holds that the killing had to do with money—brand
-new
money, you hear me? Brand-new money and a Stetson hat. And it says that it came about because Billy was cheating at cards. Which raises the point I was making about history: Who knows exactly
what led
to the shooting? It could have been that Stack himself was cheating, or he could have used the situation to prove to himself that he had the nerve to kill another man—any man—and get away with it. Or maybe he was just anxious to try out his pistol. There were many possible motives, so who knows exactly what was on his mind when he pulled that trigger. All we really
know
is that there was a bang and a burst of smoke, then one man was dead and the other took off running. So while the who-shot-John of it might not be a question of history it surely involves a mystery….”

“You make a pretty frail case,” Wilhite said, “but I wish you’d picked a better example. After all, those two were nothing but a couple of rounders….”

“… But they were also human beings….”

Suddenly Hickman sat up and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee. “Now, let’s take a look at this thing in terms of the three men involved in terms of their possibility of becoming historical figures. Besides Stackalee and Billy there was also the Sheriff, remember? So by all means remember the Sheriff!”

“O.K., but Stack and Billy were the most important.”

“True, but keep your eye on the Sheriff. So it all began with Stack and Billy gambling….”

“… Right …”

“Then Stack gets mad and shoots Billy….”

“… Right! …”

“… and Billy dies.”

“So?”

“So then Stack grabs his hat and the money and takes off. Then, after a lot of mealymouthed talk about Negroes having no respect for law and order, the Sheriff tracks Stack down and throws him in jail….”

“… Probably after pistol-whipping him so bad that his legs roped like okra.”

“That the song doesn’t say, but we’ll let it lay. So the Sheriff throws Stack in jail, takes his pistol, his bankroll, and the money that Stack had taken off Billy. But most important of all, he takes that Stetson hat which was supposed to have a magic in it which had gotten Stack out of all kinds of trouble. Such as run-ins with angry husbands, evil fancy women, knife-wielding gamblers,
and
the law. Now the song leaves it just about there, Stack’s in jail and can’t be freed on bail, but
we’re
going to follow the action into the realm of what’s called ‘history.’ ”

“But it didn’t make it that far, at least not the way I’ve heard it. So if you take it any farther you’ll be blunting your point—whatever it is.”

“Oh, no! Because now we want to take a look at that Sheriff. The Sheriff doesn’t have much of a role in the song, but that’s the way with history, and it didn’t keep him from going on to rise into history on the magical power of Stackalee’s Stetson hat!”

With a groan Wilhite got to his feet. “A.Z., I’m glad we’ve been sitting here by ourselves, because all of a sudden you’ve started to lying as though this fancy hotel lobby was a barbershop. I call that taking advantage of my good nature and abusing my sense of propriety!”