Hi, there, Mister Love, he yelled. Make her dance, Mister Love, I’ll sing the music. Will you, Mister Love? Won’t you please, Mister Love? Please, please, Mister Love? clapping his hands as he ran pleading beside the mare’s flank.
Dance her, Mister Love, he called, and I’ll call the others and we’ll all sing for you, Mister Love….
Well, I’ll be goddam, Donelson said beside me. What does the little bastard mean, he’ll sing the music?
He means what he says, I guess, I said.
And who the hell is that, the Pied Piper on a gaited mare?
The children were singing now, following alongside the arch-necked mare as she moved, the old fellow holding his seat as though he were off somewhere in an elder’s chair on a church platform—or on the air itself—watching the kids impassively as he stroked the horse’s mane in time to its circus-horse waltzing.
There, I said, now there’s something we can use. We could use that man, I said.
Donelson looked at me. So write a part for the nag and the kids, he said. You decided all of a sudden to make it a horse opera? He laughed. Now, by God, I’ve seen everything, he said.
No, I said. I was looking at the children move; some were waltzing in a whirl along the sidewalk, their arms outstretched, shouting and singing. They went past the houses, whirling in circles as they followed the dancing mare. A dog barked along a fence and through it all I could hear the first little boy’s pure treble sounding high above the rest.
Suddenly I looked at Donelson—Why the hell aren’t you shooting? I said, and saw his mouth drop open in surprise.
No film in the camera, he said. You told me to shoot exteriors of that mansion up in the north section of town. I forgot to reload. Besides you know we’re short of film.
And all this happening right before our eyes, I said.
Maybe we could get them to run it through some other time, Donelson said. With a few chocolate bars and cones of ice cream you could buy all the pickaninnies in town. Though God knows what the horse and rider would cost. That old bastard looks like weathered iron. D’ya ever see anyone like him?
No, I said, and it’ll never happen like this again. How often do I have to tell you that you have to have film in the camera at all times? We don’t have the dough to make up everything, we have to snatch whatever passes, and in places like this anything can happen and does.
I cursed our luck.
A woman came out to stand on the porch of one of the houses shaking her head and hugging her body as though she were cold.
That Love, that ole hoss and those chillen, she said. They ought to put them all out in the meadow somewhere.
What is his name? I called.
That’s ole Love, she said. That’s ole Love New.
Then another voice spoke up and I became aware of an old woman sitting in a rocking chair on a porch two houses away down the street.
That’s him all right. He’s just the devil hisself and he’s going to take those chillen off to Torment one of these days. You just mark my words.
She spat into the yard. Calling hisself an Indian and hound-dogging around. The old black tomcat. She spat again and I saw the snuff flash brown through the sunlight then snake across the bare yard to roll into a ball, like quicksilver across the face of a mirror.
Find out where the old fellow lives, I told Donelson. I watched them dancing on past the big cottonwood tree, the glossy horse moving with ceremonial dignity, its neck beautifully arched, and heard the children’s bright voices carrying the melody pure and sweet along the air. They were coming to the corner now and suddenly I saw the old man rear the horse, the black Cordoba hat suddenly rising in a brisk salute above his white old head, freezing there for a moment, the mare dancing a two-step on her well-shod hooves. Then, as he put her down, I could hear the hooves ringing out on the road as he took the corner at a gallop, the children stringing after, cheering.
Damn, Donelson said, where do you think he comes from? Is there a circus in town?
Only you, I said. Only us out here without film.
We found Karp with one of his faith who ran a grocery store. They were discussing politics. We drank a soda and went back to the hotel to discuss the film. So how do we start? Donelson said. With a covered wagon? There must be enough of them rotting away in barns around this town.
Or how about an Indian attack? Karp said. Enough of them look like Indians to make things go fairly well….
I was watching the little boy in blue overalls who had been left by the others. He had suddenly become a centaur, his back arched as he waltzed horse-style to his own Taaa ta ta ta taaa ta ta, back between the houses. At that age I preached Job, boils and all, but I didn’t dance, and all his losses my loss of mother …
What about doing the Boston Tea Party, Donelson said, with these coons acting both the British and the Beantowners. That would be a riot. Make some up as Indians, take the rest and Harvard-up their talk. Even the camera would laugh. Too bad we can’t film sound. We could out-do the minstrels ’Lasses White and all. I understand enough of them around here are named Washington and Jefferson and Franklin—put them in powdered wigs, give them red coats, muskets, carpetbags …
Some are named Donelson too, I said, watching the smile die out on his face.
So why not, he said. I’d feel awful bad if my folks didn’t get their share.
No, I said, it’ll be a modern romance. They’ll have dignity and they’ll play simple Americans. Good, hardworking, kindly ambitious people with a little larceny here and there.… Let’s not expect to take their money and make fools of them while doing it.
What! And how the hell are we going to make these tar babies look like God’s fair chosen creatures?
That’s your problem, Donelson, I said.
God’s going to turn you into a crow for that.… Who? You, that’s who.
You must think you’re a magician, Donelson said. Sometimes I have the feeling that you think you can do anything with a camera. So what’s the romance all about? What’ll we call it?
The Taming of the West, I said, or The Naming of the Baby, or Who’s Who in Tamarac …
That’s enough, Donelson said, I’ll get it bye and bye.
Donelson, I said, we can shoot the scene right here. See, the lights should shine from above there, at an angle, cutting the shadow. And the leading lady will move through just as the hero comes into the door….
Okay, okay, but who’s going to play the part?
Never mind, there’s bound to be some good-looking young gal in this town who’ll be anxious to play it. There’s bound to be plenty of talent here. I have a hunch.
Donelson looked at his glass. Say, he said, what you say they call this drink?
Black Cow.
You sure it isn’t white mule? From the way you’re talking I’d think so.
You just wait, you’ll see.
I’ll have to wait but we’d better get something going quick, because the dough is going fast. Go West, young man, where the pickings are easy—that’s still the best idea for us.
We’ll go West but for the while we’ll linger here.
So we’ll stay, but what about a script?
She smiled, her head back, and I could see the sweet throbbing of her throat. Thinking, Time—time is all I need to take the mountain. But now her mind was on the sheerest shadow she hoped to be upon the wall. I looked into the trees, the shadows there. Blossoms … fall.
He had called me to him on a bright day….
I would like to have seen you when you were a little boy, she said.
That was a long time ago, I said.
Did you have a happy childhood?
I looked into her serious eyes. She was smiling.
It was blissful, I said.
I’m happy. I’m very happy because now there’s something sad about you, she said. Something lonesome-like.
Like what?
She turned to rest on her elbow, looking into my eyes.
 
; I don’t rightly know, she said. It’s something moody, and in the way you look at me sometimes. Do you feel sad?
No, I said, I just have a lot on my mind these days.
Yes, I guess you do, she said. Must be a lot on your hands too, judging from the way it’s wandering.
I removed my hand. I’m sorry.
And is your hand sorry?
Yes.
Then give it here.
I gave it and she looked at me softly, taking my hand and holding it against her breast.
I didn’t mean to be mean, she said.
I came close now, breathing the fever, the allure playing about her lips, her quick breath.
Please, I said, Please….
You’ll be good to me? Really good? Her eyes were frightened, the whites pale blue.
Oh yes, I said. Oh yes!
Ho, all that the seed for all that became the seed of all this, the Senator thought—hearing, Bliss? What are you trying to tell me, boy? Want me to get you the nurse?
Tell? Ah yes, tell … How she looked when I took her there in the shade, beneath the flowering tree, that warm brown face looking past my head to the sky, her long-lashed eyelids dreamily accepting me, the stranger, and lifelove the sky—What? Who? Fate? All creation, the rejected terms I fled?
Mister Man, she said, you’re making me a problem I never had before.
What kind of a problem?
She teased me with an elfish smile, then for a while she seemed to dream.
What is the problem?
Well, I’ll tell you the truth, Mister Movie-Man—I’m so country I don’t know where the long nose you have is supposed to go….
She laughed then, placing the tips of her fingers there, tweaking my nose. Her own was barely flatter than mine and I was provoked, sweetly. My face suspended in her breath, the moisture came and I went through, upon the sweet soft lips I rested mine….
Bliss?
… And I could tell you how I drew her close then and how her surrender was no surrender but something more, a materialization of the heart, the deeper heart that lives in dreams—or once it did—that roams out in the hills among the trees, that sails calm seas in the sunlight; that sings in the stillness of star-cast night … The heart’s own that rejoins its excited mate once in a lifetime—like Adam’s rib returned transformed and glorious. I can tell you of her black hair waved out upon the grass with leaves in it; the demands of her hand, soft and soothing, with the back of my neck in it; her breath’s sweet fever inflaming my face. Even after all these years I can tell you of passion so fierce that it danced with gentleness, and how the whole hill throbbed with silence, the day gathering down, ordered and moving radiant beneath the firm pumping of our enraptured thighs, I can tell you, tell you how I became she and she me with no questions asked and no battle fought. We grasped the secret of that moment and it was and it was enough. I can tell you as though it were only an hour past, of her feel within my arms, a girl-woman soft and yielding. Innocent, unashamed, yet possessing the necessary knowledge. How I was at rest then, enclosed in peace, obsessionless and accepting a definition for once and for once happy. How I kissed her eyes, pushed back the hair from her smooth forehead, held that face between my palms as I tried to read the mystery of myself within her eyes. Spoke words into her ear of which only then I was capable—how the likes of me could say, I love, I love … And having loved moved on.
CHAPTER 6
Bliss, boy?
Leaning forward, mountainous in the dwarfed easy chair, the old man watched the Senator’s face now, observing the expressions flickering swiftly over the restless features of the man tossing beneath the sheet. He called again, softly, Bliss? Then heaved with a great sigh. I guess he’s gone again, he thought.
Hickman searched his lower vest pockets with a long finger, extracting a roll of Life Savers and placing one of the hard circles of minty whiteness upon his tongue as he rested back again. Before him the Senator breathed more quietly now, the face still fluid with potential expressions, like a rubber mask washed by swift water. He looks like he’s trying to smile, Hickman thought. Every now and then he really looks as though he would, if he had a little help. Maybe that’s the way. When he wakes up I’ll see what I can do. Anyway, he looks a little better. If only I could do something besides talk. Those doctors are the best though; the Government and his Party saw to that. He’ll have the best of everything, so there’s nothing to do but wait and hope. The fact that they let me in here when he asked them is proof of something—I hope that they mean to save him.… There’s such a lot I have to ask him. Why didn’t I hop a plane and go and find out just what Janey Mason was telling me in her letter? I knew she didn’t know how to say very much in a letter. Why? And who was that young fellow who did the shooting? Was it really that boy who Janey mentioned? It’ll all come out, they’ll find it out even if they have to bring him back from the dead—Ha! Bliss lost all sense of reason; he should have known that he couldn’t do what he did to us without making somebody else angry or afraid. This here is a crazy country in which politicians have been known to be shot; even presidents. Pride. Let it balloon up and some sharpshooter’s going to try to bring you down. What did Janey mean? Who? I remember back about twenty-five years ago when Janey sent word that a preacher showed up out there. That may have been Bliss. That’s when he started whatever she was trying to tell me. One thing is sure, I heard that young fellow speak to the guard, he wasn’t from Oklahoma and he wasn’t one of us. A Northern boy, sounded like to me …
Suddenly he was leaning forward, staring intently into the Senator’s face. The eyes, blue beneath the purplish lids, were open, regarding him as from a deep cave.
“Are you still here?” the Senator whispered.
“Yes, Bliss, I’m still here. How do you feel?”
“Let’s not waste the time. I can see it on your face, so go ahead and ask me. What is it?”
Hickman smiled, moving the Life Saver to the side of his mouth with his tongue. “You feel better?” he said.
“I still feel,” the Senator said. “Why don’t you leave? Go back where you came from, you don’t owe me anything and there’s nothing I can do to help your people.…”
“My people?” Hickman said. “That’s interesting; so now it’s my people—But don’t you realize we came to help you, Bliss? Remember? You should’ve seen us when we first arrived; things might have been different. But never mind all that. Bliss, was it you who went out there to McAlester and fainted on the steps of Greater Calvary one Sunday morning? That would be about twenty-five years ago. Was that you, Bliss?”
“Calvary?” The Senator’s weak voice was wary. “How can I remember? I was flying above all that by then. I was working my way to where I could work my way to …” He sank to a safer depth. It was hot there but he could still hear Daddy Hickman.
“Think about it now, Bliss. Didn’t you light there for a while and didn’t you land on the Bible? In fact, Bliss, haven’t you landed on a church each and every time you had to come down?”
Twenty-five years? He thought, Maybe he’s right. “Perhaps the necessities, as they say, of bread brought me to earth. But remember, they always found me and took me in. It was in their minds. They saw what they wanted to see. It was their own desire.… It takes two as with the con game and the tango—ha!”
“Maybe so, Bliss,” Hickman said, “but you allowed them to find you. Nobody went to get you and put you up there in the pulpit. Look here, can you see me? This is Daddy Hickman, I raised you from a little fellow. Was it you? Don’t play with me.”
“So much has happened since then. I was at McAlester, yes; but they were white. Or were they? Was it Me? Are you still here?”
“You mean you preached in a white church? That early?”
I think it’s all mixed up. He closed his eyes, his voice receding. Is it my voice?
“Yes, High Style,” the Senator said. “Huge granite columns and red carpets. Great space. Everyone rich and looking hu
ngry; full of self-denial for Sunday. Ladies in white with lacy folding fans. Full bosoms, sailor straws. White shoes and long drawers in July. Men in shiny black alpaca, white ties. Stern Puritan faces, dry concentrate of pious Calvinist dilution distilled and displayed for Sunday. Yes, I was there. Why not? They sang and I preached. The singing was all nasal, as though God was evoked only by and through the nose; as though He lived, was made manifest in that long pinched vessel narrowly. That was a long time ago.…”
“So what happened?”
“I’ve told you, I preached.”
“So what did you preach them, Bliss? Can you remember?”
Where can I hide? Nowhere to run here. It’s a joke.
Yes, but what kind of joke?
“I preached them one of the famous sermons of the Right Reverend John P. Eatmore. In my, our, condition, what else?”
“Ha, Bliss, so you remembered Eatmore, Old Poor John. Now that there was a great preacher. We did our circuit back there. Revivals and all. Don’t laugh at fools. Some are His. Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty. Which of Eatmore’s did you preach ’em, Bliss? Which text?”
Dreamily the Senator smiled. “They needed special food for special spirits, I preached them one of the most subtle and spirit-filling—one in which the Right Reverend Poor John Eatmore was most full of his ministerial eloquence: Give a Man Wood and He Will Learn to Make Fire … Eatmore’s most Promethean vision …” Hot here.
No, Reverend Hickman seemed to say, his eyes twinkling, that’s one that I’ve forgotten. I reckon I’m getting old. But Eatmore was the kind of man who was always true to his name and reputation. He put himself into everything he did. Preach me a little of it, Bliss; I’ll lean close so you won’t have to use up your voice. Let’s hear you, it’ll probably do us both some good. Go on, son.
But how? the Senator thought. Where are the old ones to inspire me? Where are the amen corner and old exhorters, the enviable shouting sister with the nervous foot tapping out the agitation on which my voice could ride?…