Three Days Before the Shooting ... (138 page)

Hickman, my preacher friend, here I must confess that lacking your Christian virtue of total forgiveness, I’ll never really understand the nasty, sadistic business those kids can come up with when they reach that stage of their development. Such as their adolescence-triggered insistence that even the adults who’ve loved and protected them from infancy must address them as “Miss” or “Mister.” Then there’s their contemptuous name-calling and calculated rudeness—not to mention the boys’ sexual exploitation of Negro girls with no social risk to themselves. It’s the direct opposite of what they’re taught in regard to their own, and yet many appear to make the change from relations to us as friends (if not as members of common families) to assuming the roles of social and spiritual superiors as easily as falling off a log into a warm pool of water. But since they are Bible-belt human and possessed of some sense of morality there
has
to be some kind of masochism involved, some form of nagging guilt if not of self-hatred. And this even though they are supported in their rejection of their racially and culturally ambiguous childhoods by all the laws and customs, religious and civic, that support the crooked color line.

So as I mulled over these notions I came to feel that in the boy’s case something unusual had short-circuited the process. And I suspected that it had to do with the strength of his early physical and emotional bonding. Something that left him unable to ignore the difference between what was
said
about his old associates as members of a rejected group, and his own complex memories of them as individuals. In fact, I see his early bonding as having an effect like that of the religious rite which you call “a laying on of hands,” for while it was by no means “sacred” it is so powerfully human and tenacious and affective that it appears to me that many white Southerners spend the rest of their lives struggling with its traces even as they deny its source.

Anyway, following this line of conjecture, I imagined that my suspect’s choice of Negroes as companions began early in his life in the person of some son, husband, or boyfriend of his black mother-figure, and that he in turn was most likely a worldly and utterly irreverent hustler and con man. Not a professional, mind you, but one of a type familiar to us but least suspected by their white victims. Here I refer to that home-grown variety of rascal who operates behind the mask of a genial but not too intelligent butler, waiter, bellhop, chauffeur, or yardman, but who will manipulate anyone rash and arrogant enough to confuse his personality with his job or his color and social status with his intelligence to a fare-thee-well. Those who make such mistakes are his natural prey, and he’ll lure them into a serene quicksand of black-and-white illusion and leave them as naked as fledging jaybirds while strutting like the king who wore no clothes.

But hell, Hickman, you know the type better than I do. Therefore you know that such a trickster will let white folks knock themselves out over chicken-stealing jokes in which he is quoted as asking, “Who dat who say who-dat when Ah say who dat?” and grin like the Cheshire cat. But never in this world will he reveal that when necessary he can speak schoolbook English, understandable French, Spanish, and Yiddish—or that he is knowledgeable as to which of their best friends are having affairs with their supposedly faithful wives.

Since there are many musicians among them I’m sure that you know the type I mean. They can be found in almost any town large enough to provide the conflict of values and stereotypes based on notions of racial superiority that form the social briar patch in which to operate. Playing dumb, they can be quick-witted and even wise; though perceived as cowardly they are capable of a reckless, life-risking daring when the chips are down; and though treated as inferior beings, they delight in taking advantage of such misconceptions of their humanity by infiltrating the most private areas of their employers’ lives. And once there they can manipulate the stereotype role thrust upon them like a magician drawing doves, rabbits, and white elephants out of a hat.

Here—not that he did any of that—I’m reminded of a slave-servant who appears in a book in which two paintings of George Washington are reproduced. In the first the General stands before a field tent holding a scroll of papers as he strikes a pose, à la Napoleon, with his left hand stuck in the breast of his jacket; while in the background, wearing a plumed turban, his round-cheeked, white-toothed young servant holds the bridle of his master’s horse and grins as he looks back knowingly at its docked, high-lifted tail. Incidently, the portrait was done by a Frenchman who was probably as familiar with the natural ways of horses as the slave boy with the ways of his master….

The second painting is actually a family scene in which, resplendent in dress uniform and boots with spurs, General Washington sits crossed-legged beside a table upon which his hat and the hilt of his sword rest upon a large military map. The map covers most of the table but the General appears to be staring far into the future as, to the right of the table, his young grandson stands close by with a hand resting on a globe of the world which sits on a convenient stand. And as the boy looks on, his willowy young lady of a sister (who sits across the table) is holding a furled end of the map in her delicate fingers so that Mrs. Washington (who sits beside her, richly bedecked in a ribboned bonnet, lacy scarf, and silken dress) may trace what appears to have been the course of one of the General’s battles. I’m not sure of what she’s doing, but whatever it is the map is the focal point of the painting. For with the map as its axis the ladies and young boy are portrayed as sweetly genteel and the General relaxed and peaceful. Which was most suitable for a Tory aristocrat who opted for revolution, fought difficult battles, and triumphed against great odds. The General stares from the canvas as though contemplating the invisible viewers who would inherit it, and if so, he was right on target.

Because across the table and in a corner behind the elegant ladies there hovers a shadow of the past—and that shadow is the point of all my bumbling attempt at description.

Because the embodiment of that “shadow” is none other than the man who had been the young boy who appears in the first painting. Presented in semi-profile, he stands erect and attentive with his left hand thrust into the bosom of his vest and his eyes properly averted. His name was William Lee, and though no member of the family he, he’s there because the General must have insisted that his friend and companion through war and peace be included to give depth to the scene and convey some of its historical complexity. Who knows, maybe Washington recognized that William performed an important service which, for one in his own heroic position, could be rendered best by a man beyond the pale. Maybe the slave kept the hero’s feet on the ground and warned him against becoming puffed up with pride. Perhaps he served his hero-master as well by being an ever-present reminder of his human mortality, and thus helped deflate any illusions he might have had as to his infallibility. For after all, the length of his shadow may inspire questions as to the true measure of
any
man, even as it adds texture to and helps define the scene in which he acts. So it is that not only does Lee deepen the painting’s historical perspective but foreshadows other “shadows” to come. What’s more, he’s standing right behind Miss First Lady Martha—which must have been one hell of an observation post! Because if I know anything about our people, old Bill has his eyes and ears wide open to what’s going down, and
nobody
, not even the surveyor, slave-master, general, and father of our country, knew what the hell he was
thinking—
much less the influence for good or evil that he might have been having on the first family’s grandchildren. And here you might recall that the father of our country fathered no children of his own….

Black William Lee was with George Washington for thirty-one years, during which time an undeclared independence of observation was, perhaps, his only self-defining area of freedom. But don’t forget that although a slave he was still privy to many matters having to do with affairs of family, state, and politics. And if interested he might well have used his shadowy position as unsurveyed landscape for self-exploration, or a dimly lit stage upon which to perform the kind of playacting which is the speciality of the type I mentioned above. And like the type he could have been quite fascinating to children; perhaps because in the eyes of the children of that day the slaves were natural allies in a silent war with powerful forces that limited their own freedom of self-assertion. A similarity of situation which makes for a potent point of mutual identification and ground for all kinds of rebellion, and perhaps explains why their parents insist that they break with us once they reach the stage of self-discovery and procreation—which is adolescence. No wonder white kids are admonished not to act like “niggers”!

Hickman, I suspect that all this abstract speculation is bugging you, so now, back to the boy. While keeping clear of any eye-to-eye contact of which I was aware I scouted around for some down-close down-home contact of color who might fit the type I’ve been describing—and by George it worked! For by keeping an eye on our strange bronco stray I finally tracked him to a most unrighteous stud! And in the course of my investigation I learned exactly what type of Negro had taken him in charge. I must warn you, however, not to take my “exactly” too seriously, because this character who I finally connected with the boy was so tricky that he could walk straight through a plate-glass window without a scratch, or dive through a sieve without leaving even a microscopic shred, thread, or bubble!

[PAIRS]

This was a guy who went by the name of “Missippy Brown,” or simply “Sippy,” a self-bestowed moniker which sums up the mocking irreverence of his character. But if Mississippi missed the rascal it was only because he eluded some irate mob by being so fast on his feet. At the time he came to my attention he was supposed to be the butler of a young multimillionaire, but the moment I laid eyes on Sippy I doubted that he’d ever worked for anyone except
himself
—and I was right. For although quite personable, he turned out to be of the type who never loses sight of the “bread” or the side that’s spread thickest with butter. And even if the “bread” is tossed past them and out of a ten-story window they’ll be there waiting to grab it before it can hit the ground. So while I’m hopelessly fascinated by maverick types (being something of one myself) I found Sippy’s character so unusually outrageous that my initial impulse was to steer clear of him and all his exploitations. I was already having enough trouble trying to bring a college course in Culture and Civilization into line with the reality around me, so why make matters more confusing by introducing a rambunctious embodiment of living chaos into the neat symmetry of my textbook? Nevertheless, out of respect for your interest and spurred by my own irrepressible curiosity, I felt compelled to investigate Sippy’s connection with the boy. But again I must confess that my decision was also influenced by sheer chance.

Shortly after our long-distance conversation I happened to pass a music-store window in which was a publicity photograph for Ted Lewis’s version of “Me and My Shadow,” wherein a strutting Lewis wearing top hat, tails, and silk-lined cape is pointing his clarinet skyward as he plays pied piper to the little brown-skinned boy whom he featured in his act as “Ted Lewis Junior.” Dressed in miniature top hat and tails, the kid enacts his role of “shadow” a short distance behind his partner, and as he dances to Lewis’s reedy noodling he has a signifying grin on his face which reminded me of the way young William Lee had grinned when eyeing the raised tail of George Washington’s horse. The coincidence was, as the saying goes, a “gasser” which damn near knocked me out!

Hickman, I had been passing the shop for weeks without any conscious reaction, but this time those two familiar characters leaped from their position beneath pedestals bearing busts of Bach, Beethoven, and Wagner and threw me slap-dab into the middle of that murky context of relationships between children and adults, blacks with whites, and whites with blacks, which your problem had triggered in my mind. It was as though the two, man and boy, had been
waiting
for me! And once they caught my attention they were like pied pipers in summoning up other couples like themselves to join them in a game of firing jeering riddles at me that were so outrageous that I felt like kicking my own behind!

Recalling how you kidded me for wasting my time reading for pleasure, my fascination with such characters will probably have little meaning for you, but while the idea might disgust you they did, nevertheless, play a significant role in my investigation. Starting with George Washington and William Lee and continuing through such characters from books as Uncle Remus and his little white friend, Uncle Tom and Little Eva, Captain Ahab and his cabin boy, Pip, and especially those famous runaways, poor white and slave, Huck Finn and Jim. If you remember any of them (and I’m sure you do), perhaps my agitation over the similarity between their relationships and that of Sippy and the boy will become a bit clearer.

For one thing, each of the pairs had relationships which bridged the color line—you might say that they performed feats of daring on an invisible high wire that stretched dangerously above the gap which separates the races. For another, each of the pairs sported and spieled within areas that were usually taboo. Therefore one could say that they operated on privileged ground—or at least the
Negro
members of these unusual duos did. In a sense these couples were innocents who lived in a screwed-up Eden after the Fall—no, not the Fall you preach about but the Civil War, Reconstruction, and all the other mess which was its aftermath. With all the hostility around them they lived charmed lives which made them invulnerable to the taboos which defined their friendships as threats to social order.