Three Days Before the Shooting ... (40 page)

“So, as I say, I kept him from becoming a complete beast—ha-haaa! And what an ugly animal he was! You knew it too. No conscience what-so-ever! And did he ever thank me for keeping the family together? Did it make him more considerate, more human? Do fruit flies practice continence? And such complaining to your poor mother to get rid of me, to de-captain me! And him going to Dr. Reich and all that nursery mumbo jumbo of sitting in a canless can to change his luck! Imagine! I tell you, baby, I had a rough time of it. Yes, and with you wanting to kill me from sheer ignorant envy
.

“Fortunately, though, your mother wouldn’t hear of it. And why should she, since I did, after all, serve an admirable purpose? And I must admit that I served her rather well whenever it was my opportunity and pleasure to do so. In truth, and if it wasn’t a bit immodest, I might say
, entre nous,
that during all those trying years it was I who kept the family intact. Nor should you misunderstand me, baby; for in spite of all the unpleasantness involved in leaving the old man behind, we had some most delightful sails together. We most certainly did. Just your mother and I. With me in my proper place, of course, in the little
Amour Propre
as she called the little craft, and delightful times were had by all
.

“It was up the lazy river in the moonlight while your old man lay drunk and sleeping on the shore. And in the summer when the heat was gone and the gentle breeze came with the cool of the night on the lake, and with your old boy boozing in his cups—that was the very best time of all. I’d be in command then, like the boy who stood on the burning deck from whence all else had fled—Hot peanuts! Hot peanuts!—braced against her gunnels, and she relaxed and powdered from her bath, resting in the stern and trailing her gentle fingers in, shall we say, the limpid lapping of the lake? For with me she could man the craft alone. No messy roll calls. No fruitless inspections. No blanging bells, no pip-squeak bos’un’s pipe, only me, baby, rowing her merrily on and on; through the singing shadows beneath the slender trees, and so gently down the stream that she would swoon!

“It was really a delightful duty
, mon enfant.
And such delightful sighing sounds she made as bye and bye we reached that farther shore. You know? It was always the same; the row, the sail, the sighing sound, and then such sweet exhaustion!

“And here’s something else you didn’t know, baby: She called me her ‘little man,’ and I was proud. And sometimes her ‘darling darky darling.’ And again her ‘handsome African
commodòro
’
and ‘Otello
mio
’—how do you like the swing of that? And in especially pensive moods it was in quick succession ‘Oh, my jigging Joy Boy, Master of my Solitude
,
Dark Secret Delight, Gypsy Lover, Cellmate, Joy Rocker, and Dirty Richard.’ And once in a moment of classical exuberance she called me her Jockey Boy of Artemesion!

“How I thrived, how I expanded! How gently she touched me with her compassion! I tell you, baby, there’s absolutely nothing like good treatment. Why, under her encouragement, and with three more inches added to my height—and how I do wish I’d known of those lovely elevator shoes at the time—I do believe that I’d have taken her exploring. And now, as a matter of fact, we did, but why go into that here? It was in another country, and besides, she went quite out of her head in the brush and tangle of that wild terrain, poor thing.”

Suddenly feeling a release of strength, I raised him above my head, trembling as I prepared to slam him to the earth, hearing him say, “Easy, baby! Ease—sy!”

“Why the hell is he calling me ‘baby’?” I said aloud
.

“Why? WHY? Because you are a follower while I am a leader, that’s why. And why am I a leader? It’s because I have been there, baby. I’ve been to all those places that you only think about and fear to investigate. And while you were yearning for the boat, I was the pilot. And there’s the other painful fact that when your old man started forcing me into the seams and cracks of things I was compelled to grow up in the ways of the wise. One swing things another, you see? Rocks in mother’s arms puts babe up the tree. So you see, it’s simple; and as a result I’ve undergone many metamorphoses. Don’t you believe me? You do and you don’t? You don’t trust me? Is that it? Well, you’re quite right to be suspicious. I do have this gap between my upper central incisors—which is called a ‘liar’s gap,’ and so I suppose that I’m sometimes compelled to tell lies. But not always, baby—as your dear mother could very well affirm
. Au contraire,
I sometimes tell incisive truths, as she could also affirm…. But as I say, I’ve undergone many, many
changes….”

This time I didn’t hesitate. It was as though a powerful spring had torn free within me, and I raised him above my head, striding forward with a burst of unexpected strength as I yelled, “Speak up, you—you Joady. Get on with your confession!” and sent him against the ground with a resounding WHUMP!

“Speak up!” I yelled, becoming aware that now, no longer loquacious, he lay staring fixedly at the sky
.

“Go on, tell me about your metamorphoses,” I shouted, running forward to continue my attack—only to stop short at a sudden movement in his face. For a flash his expression seemed to waver and flow, accompanied by a high, grating sound. Then I was watching the black orbicular cheeks give way and my own face, pale and ghastly, eyes closed and dank-haired, was emerging as from the cracked shell of a black iron egg. I thought
, Something horrible is about to happen,
as a movement underneath me hurled me backwards and away to land on a hard surface. Whereupon, looking straight ahead I faced a dim white rectangle of a wall cut by a threatening grid of cagelike shadows which popped in and out of focus in time with a throbbing which had set up in my ears
. Where did I throw him?
I thought, for now the groom was nowhere to be seen
. Where did he land?

Then a grating sound from somewhere above and beyond caused me to roll swiftly to my left, and I could feel my chin brush the hardness as I came over, flush on my stomach now, from where, looking a distance along the slight incline, I could see the soles of a large pair of men’s shoes
. He’s growing,
flashed through my mind
, expanding like a balloon—What the hell?

Fighting to focus my eyes, I could see them, toes up and tilted slightly forward, resting back on their heels, as though a body had been suspended four-fifths of the way down in the sudden interrupting of a slow, nerve-chilled fall. As heavy as he was, what could be delaying him, holding him up, I wondered as I watched them warily for signs of continued expansion. Then my eyes snapped into sharp focus, and I came out of it
.

The shoes were Hickman’s, and I lay on the corridor floor watching with disgust as he slept with his huge legs stretched full-length before him, his head resting against the back of his chair. I could see the fleshy darkness of his chin, the broad curve of his chest, his arms hanging limply to either side so that the backs of his fingers gently touched the floor. And as I watched the rise and fall of his breathing, there came a peaceful sigh which erupted in a grating gasp which sent him snapping erect to look blankly around.

“Bones! We need Elisha,” he said. “Get us Elisha!” Then, falling back as though stoned, he snored again; so swiftly asleep that I wondered if I were awake or still dreaming. Why was he calling for Bones and Elisha? And who was Elisha—Deacon Wilhite? What was going on with him?

I lay watching him out of a depth of disorientation. From the floor, vibrations arising deep within the building reached me through elbow and knee, stirring like the low, barely audible tone of a pipe organ. Yet the quiet of the corridor was broken only by the rattling gasps of surprise which continued to punctuate Hickman’s snoring. Echoes of the iron groom’s precise and tauntingly loquacious ventriloquist’s voice sounded in my head as I watched him.

What in my waking life could have conjured
him
up? I wondered. What taking place in the depths of my mind would bring on his malicious insinuations? Surely it wasn’t Hickman, because as annoying as I found him, I could see nothing about the old man that should inspire me to dream of the iron monster. And yet, as I watched him fold his hands across his lap in sleep, I couldn’t be sure. Perhaps if I looked at him for a moment longer he’d become aware of me and I’d see the smaller, iron-cast face again, grinning at me through the features of a living man.

I got to my feet now, thinking,
To hell with this story. It’s costing me too much. I’ll have to take care of myself, or soon I’ll do something to get myself thrown into a cell such as Tolliver said LeeWillie Minifees is occupying
.

Besides, I was hungry. I needed fresh air and a bath. And where was Tolliver? I’d seen him last entering the Senator’s room—what if he’d left while I slept? How long had it been?

As I looked down the corridor past the sleeping Hickman even Bates was no longer to be seen. Perhaps he was standing just around the corner, but I wouldn’t trust myself to investigate; I might be tempted to stay and forgo my need for food and air. Hurrying, I left by the stairs, hoping that nothing would develop before I returned.

CHAPTER 14

O
UTSIDE IT WAS BREATHLESS
, the stars hanging high and the street-quiet broken only by the ringing clang of a distant piece of metal, struck by a passing car. At the corner I hailed a cruising taxi and climbed inside.

“Where to?” the driver said.

“Just drive until I tell you to stop,” I said. “I’m bushed.”

Through his mirror his eyes met mine.

“It’s okey,” I said, taking out my press card. “I’m a reporter. I’ve been inside too long, working on my story. I need the air. And food.”

Then, as he pulled away, I told him on impulse to drive west. A voice from the nighttime radio sang languidly,

Oh, darlin’, squeeze me
And squeeze me
       
Ag’in
Oh, mama, don’t stop ‘til
I Tell you when …

as the driver made a U-turn, slamming down the flag as we rolled.

I watched the darkened buildings, spotlighted national monuments, park spaces. The Capitol glowed pristine upon the hill. An old lady carrying a clublike cane walked a large black dog. Planes blinking their landing lights wheeled above, vibrating the night as they circled the field. And in my mind the events of the day rolled in a whirlpool of anxiety as we rolled wordlessly to the sound of the radio’s
You must remember this / A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh … / As time goes by
. Then as we stopped for a traffic light, I noticed a lunchroom, paid the driver, and hurried inside.

The place was a bright, cool flash of monel metal and white enamel, a parade of empty stools. A noisily droning air conditioner muffled the sound of my entrance, and I felt dreamy and remote, as the chef-capped counterman
who occupied the last stool failed to look up from his engrossment with a newspaper. I watched him remove a pencil from his cap and begin to print upon the page and realized that he was working a crossword puzzle. My stomach growled impatiently with the lingering aroma of fried onions as I watched him with silent self-containment, expecting him to look up. Finally I called out, “What word are you looking for?” and saw his head swing up and around.

“Oh,” he said, “sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve had a request in about that air conditioner for over a week, and nothing has been done about it—I was looking for a twelve-letter word meaning ‘peace.’ ”

His was a Southern accent, though not so aggressively Southern as McGowan’s, and I thought
Virginian
as I suggested “tranquillity.”

“Tranquillity,” he said.

“That’s right.”

His lips moved, spelling. “But that’s only eleven.”

“No,” I shook my head, “twelve. Two ‘1’s.”

His lips moved again as he counted the spaces with his pencil. “Hey, you’re right,” he said, printing it in the squares with slow deliberation.

He stood now and went around the counter. “Thanks,” he said. “All I could think of was ‘death’—which didn’t even begin to be long enough. I knew it was a ‘t’ word, though, because the vertical called for ‘taxes.’ ”

He shook his head. “Tranquillity
and
taxes, who would have thought of that!”

“Some congressman,” I said. “He promises us tranquillity and taxes us for it. Anyway, I’d like two double hamburgers and a chocolate malted. I’ll have coffee later.”

“Coming up,” he said, and while he prepared the order I sat on a stool thinking of tranquillity and death, the disturbing illogic of dreams, the dream-like illogic of my recent hours….

The counterman hummed an indistinct tune as he worked, but the food was nothing special. Nevertheless, I left feeling much better physically but no calmer in my thoughts.

Out in the quiet of the street, strands of the dream still teased me. If a hitching-post boy could really speak, what would he say? What would he really tell us about ourselves, society, the world? What if all the little black cast-iron bastards on all the lawns throughout the country started talking? What a horrible, obscene chorus of accusations, insinuations, and provocations
that
would be! I could still hear the voice so vividly as I strolled along that I wondered whether I’d left the hospital so much for food and air as to offset its possible return. But where was I headed now? I asked myself, since there were still the facts to be gathered, a report to be written. Where was I heading, when anything could be happening in my absence!

A glance at the street markers supplied an answer. I was only a few blocks
from the morgue, and I hurried there under the pressure of a growing sense of urgency, feeling that by seeing the gunman’s body I would be able to reestablish the boundaries between dream and reality. Nor was I unaware that our discovery of Jessie Rockmore sitting erect in his coffin had led us not into logic and tranquillity, but into a more intense confusion. Indeed, it had foreshadowed the shooting which I in all innocence was to witness only a few hours later.