No, the Senator thought, no more of it! NO!
“Yes, Bliss; Juneteenth,” he could hear Hickman saying. “And it was a great occasion. There had been a good cotton crop and a little money was circulating among us. Folks from all over were in the mood for prayer and celebration. There must’ve been five thousand folks out there that week—not counting the real young chillun and the babies. Folks came all the way from Atlanta, Montgomery, Columbus, Charleston and Birmingham, just to be there and hear the Word. Horse teams and mule teams and spans of oxen were standing under the grove of trees around the clearing, and the wagon beds were loaded down with hay and feed for the animals and with quilts for the folks who had come in from the far sections, so they could sleep right there. All those wagons made it look as though everybody in the whole section was waiting for the Word to move on over across Jordan. Or maybe migrate West, as some later did. The feel of those days has gone out of the air now, Bliss. And the shape of our minds is different from then, because time has moved on. Then we were closer to the faceless days, but we had faith. Yes, and ignorant as we knew we were, we had more self-respect. We didn’t have much but we squeezed life harder and there was a warm glow all around. No, and we hadn’t started imitating white folks who in turn were imitating their distorted and low-rated ideas of us. I’m talking now about how it felt when we were together and looking up the mountain where we had to climb….
“But you remember how it was, Bliss: In the daytime hot under the tent with the rows of benches and folding chairs; and the ladies in their summer dresses and their fans whipping up a breeze in time to the preaching and the singing. And the choirs and the old tried and tested workers in the vineyard dressed in their white uniforms. That’s right. All the solid substance of our way of doing things, of our sense of life. Everything ordered and in its place and everything and everybody a part of the ceremony and the evocation. Barrels of ice water and cold lemonade with the cakes of ice in them sitting out under the cool of the trees, and all those yellow cases of soda pop stacked off to one side. Yeah, and at night those coal-oil flares and the lanterns lighting things up like one of those country fairs.
“And the feasting part, you must remember that, Bliss. There was all those ladies turning out fried fish and fried chicken and Mr. Double-Jointed Jackson, the barbecue king, who had come out from Atlanta and was sweating like a Georgia politician on election day—excuse me, Bliss—supervising sixteen cooks and presiding over the barbecue pits all by hisself. Think about it for a second, Bliss; it’ll come back to you, because even if you look at it simply from the point of eating it was truly a great occasion.”
Hickman laughed, shaking his white head; then pushing back in his chair he held up his great left hand, the fingers spread and bending supple as he counted with his right index finger.
“Lord, we et up fifteen hundred loaves of sandwich bread; five hundred pounds of catfish and snapper; fifteeen gallons of hot sauce, Mr. Double-Jointed Jackson’s formula; nine hundred pounds of barbecue ribs; eighty-five hams, direct from Virginia; fifty pounds of potato salad and a whole big cabbage patch of coleslaw. Yes, and enough frying-size chicken to feed the multitude! And let’s not mention the butter beans—naw! And don’t talk about the fresh young roasting-ears and the watermelons. Neither the fried pies, chocolate cakes and homemade ice cream. Lord, but that was a great occasion. A great occasion. Bliss, how after knowing such times as those you could take off for where you went is too much for me to truly understand. At least not to go there and stay. And don’t go taking me simple-minded either. I’m not just talking about the eating. I mean the communion, the coming together—of which the eating was only a part; an outward manifestation, a symbol, like the Blood is signified by the wine, and the Flesh by the bread … Ah yes, boy, we filled their bellies, but we were really there to fill their souls and give them reassurance—and we filled them.
“We moved ’em!
“We preached Jesus on the cross and in the ground. We preached Him in Jerusalem and walking around Atlanta, Georgia. We preached Him, Bliss, to open up heaven and raise up hell. We preached Him till the Word worked in the crowd like a flash of lightning and a dose of salts. Amen! Bliss, we preached and you were with us through it all. You were there, boy. You …”
The Senator lay listening, feeling the pain rise to him again as he tried to surrender himself to the mellow evocation of the voice become so resonant now with pleasure and affirmation. For the moment, his powers to resist were weak, as though the word daddy in his mouth had opened a fresh flood of memory. Perhaps if he entered into the spell he could escape, could scramble the images that now were rising in his mind, could melt them down….
“Think back, Bliss,” Hickman was saying. “Seven preachers in black broadcloth suits and Stacy Adams shoes working full-time to bring them the Word of God. Starting with sunrise services, all kneeling in the dark down on the black earth, bending there on our knees and praying the sun right up out of the ground and into the sky there in the green dawn. Then preaching the clock around; sunup and sundown—from kin to cant. What I mean is seven powerful men; men who had the true feeling and the power to drive it home. Men who had the know-how of the human heart!
“What? Who? Seven grade-A-number-one first-class preachers. Big men. Sitting up there on the platform, big-souled and big-voiced; all worked up by the occasion and inspiring one another as well as the congregation. Seven great preachers, not to mention Eatmore and you, Bliss.
“And lots of unbelievers were there too; there just to hear those big Negroes preach. Ha! Some of them thought they came out there to hear a preaching contest—which was all right because when the good ones at anything get together there is just naturally going to be a battle. Men who love the Word are concerned with the way they preach it, that’s how the glory comes shining through.… Oh, but we caught our share of those who thought we were nothing but entertainers. Reveren Eubanks got aroused there one evening and started to preaching up under some sinner women’s clothes and brought ’em in like fish in a net. One got so filled up with the spirit she started testifying to some things so outrageous that I had to grab my trombone and drown her out. HA! HA! HA! Why she’d have taught them more sin in trying to be saved than they’d have blundered into in a whole year of hot Novembers. Don’t smile, Bliss; it’s not really funny and you have to save your strength. Sho, I myself preached fifteen into the fold—big gold earrings, blood-red stockings, short skirts, patent-leather shoes and all. Preached them right out of the back of the crowd and down front to the mourners’ bench. Fifteen Magdalenes, Bliss. ‘Fancy who’s in fancy clothes.’ Yes, indeed. Brought them down humbled with hanging heads and streaming eyes and the paint on their faces running all red and pink with tears …
“But what could they do, Bliss? We were playing for keeps; we had seven of the most powerful preachers you could find anywhere; we had the best individual singers in the nation; we had the best choirs from all over the southeastern division—And look who else we had: Singing Williams was there—remember him? and Laura Minnie Smith, who could battle Bessie note for note and tone for tone, and on top of that was singing the Word of God. Fess Mackaway was there playing the piano most of the time and conducting the assembled choirs like the master he was. Young Tom Dorsey had come down all the way from Chicago to sit in—even then flirting around with God. Whitby’s Heavenly Harmonizers were there, singing the Word in a way that made everything from animals to birds and the flowers of the fields to L & N Railroad trains sing in the sound and give thanks to God. There, Bliss, were four Negroes who could make everything of this earth burst into song. They played on Jew’s harps, hair combs, zu-zus, washtubs—anything. They blowed Joshua on sorghum jugs—and harmony? Shucks, it ain’t never been writ down!
“So what could the poor sinners do? In fact, what could anybody do? Bliss, let me tell you: Ole Eatmore, God bless his memory, Ole Rev Eatmore unlimbered some homiletic there one evening that had the hair standing up on my head—and
I was already a seasoned preacher! Why, I sat there listening to that Negro making pictures rise up out of the Word and he lifted me plumb up out of my chair! Bliss, I’ve heard you cutting some fancy didoes on the radio, but son, Eatmore was romping and rampaging and walking through Jerusalem just like John! Oh, but wasn’t he romping! Maybe you were too young to get it all, but that night that mister was ten thousand misters and his voice was pure gold. And it wasn’t exactly what he was saying, but how he was saying. That Negro was always a master, but that evening he was an inspired master. Bliss, he was a supermaster!”
Hickman chuckled, studying the Senator’s face; thinking, This won’t hurt him, not this part and the smile in it might catch him and help him….
“And did he set me a hard row to hoe, Bliss, when it came my turn I was so moved I could hardly make words. He had us up so high, Bliss, that it called for pure song. I just took off and led them in ‘Let Us Break Bread Together’ till I could get myself under control and relieve the strain a bit. I taught you that song, Bliss. It was the very first. It’s a song of fellowship, so simple and yet so deep and powerful because in it the lion and the lamb lie down together. Out there in Oklahoma, where they sometimes had the nerve and weren’t ashamed to be helped, I brought many a poor white sinner to God with that song.… Well, as I stood there singing I looked out there into all those faces shining there in the dark and in the light, and I asked the Lord, ‘Master, what does it all mean beyond a glad noise for Juneteenth Day? What does freedom, what does emancipation mean?’ And the Lord said to me through all that sound, ‘Hickman, the Word has found its flesh and there’s salvation in the Word.’ ‘But, Master,’ I said, ‘back there in the night there’s those mean little towns, and on beyond the towns there’s the city, with police power and big buildings and factories and the courts and the National Guard; and newspapers and telephones and telegraphs and all those folks who act like they’ve never heard of your Word. All that while we here are so small and weak …’ And the Master said, ‘Still here the Word has found flesh and the complex has been confounded by the simple, and here is the better part. Hickman,’ He said, ‘Rise up on the Word and ride. All time is mine.’ Then He spoke to me low, in the idiom: He said, ‘You just be ready when the deal goes down. And have your people ready. Just be prepared. Now get up there and ride!’ And Bliss, I threw back my head and rode! It was like a riddle or a joke, but if so, it was the Lord’s joke and I was playing it straight. And maybe that’s what a preacher really is, he’s the Lord’s own straight man.
“Anyway, Bliss, that night, coming after Eatmore and Pompey and Revern’ Brazelton—yes, and that little Negro Murray, who had been to a seminary up North and could preach the pure Greek and the original Hebrew and could still make all our uneducated folks swing along with him; who could make them understand and follow him—and not showing off, just needing all those languages to give him room to move around in. Besides, he knew that ofttimes the meaning of the Word is in the way you make it sound. No, now don’t interrupt me, save yourself. I know that you know these secrets; you have hurt us enough with them.… But as I was saying, what’s more important, Revern’ Murray’s education didn’t get him separated from the folks. Yeah, and he used to sit there in his chair bent forward like a boxer waiting for the bell, with his fists doubled up and his arms on his knees. Then when it came his turn to preach, he’d shoot forward like he was going to leap right out there into the congregation and start giving the Devil some uppercuts. Lord, what a little rough mister! One night he grabbed a disbelieving bully who had come out to break up the meeting, and threw him bodily out into the dark; tossed him fifteen feet or more into the mule-pissed mud. Then he came on back to the pulpit and preached like Peter….”
“Yes,” the Senator said, “I remember him. And there was the tongue-tied one….”
“Yes, yes, I’m not forgetting Reverend Eubanks. He’s the one who folks couldn’t understand any more than they could Demosthenes before he put those rocks in his jaws—but when he got into the pulpit and raised his hands to heaven—then whoooo, Lord! didn’t the words come down like rain!
“Well, Bliss, coming after all them and having to start up there in the clouds where Eatmore left those five thousand or more folks a-straining, I found myself knowing that I had to preach them down into silence. I knew too that only a little child could really lead them, and I looked around at you and gave you the nod and I saw you get up wearing that little white dress suit—you were a fine-looking little chap, Bliss; a miniature man of God … And I saw you leave the platform to go get ready while I tried to make manifest the Word….”
Suddenly the Senator twisted violently upon the bed.
“Words, words,” he said wearily. “What you needed was a stage with a group of actors. You might have been a playwright.”
“Rest back, Bliss,” Hickman said. “I preached them down into silence that night. True, there was preacher pride in it, there always is. Because Eatmore had set such a pace that I had to accept his challenge, but there was more to it too. We had mourned and rejoiced and rejoiced and moaned and he had released the pure agony and raised it to the skies. So I had to give them transcendence. Wasn’t anything left to do but shift to a higher gear. I had to go beyond the singing and the shouting and reach into the territory of the pure unblemished Word. I had to climb up there where fire is so hot it’s ice, and ice so cold it burns like fire. Where the Word was so loud that it was silent, and so silent that it rang like a timeless gong. I had to reach the Word within the Word that was both song and scream and whisper. The Word that was beyond sense but leaping like a tree of flittering birds with its own dictionary of light and meaning.
“I don’t really know how I got up there, Bliss, there’s no elevator for such things. First it was Eatmore and then I was leading them in ‘Let us break bread together on our knees’—and it happened. Instead of sliding off into silence I started preaching up off the top of that song and they were still singing under me, holding me up there as I started to climb. Bliss, I was up there, boy. I was talking like I always talk, in the same old down-home voice, that is, in the beloved idiom, but I was no loud horn that night, I was blowing low—and we didn’t have microphones either, not in those days. But they heard me. I preached those five thousand folks into silence, five thousand Negroes, and you know that’s the next thing to a miracle. But I did it. I did it and it was hot summertime, and the corn whiskey was flowing out back of the edge of the crowd. Sure, there was always whiskey—and fornicating too. Always. But inside there was the Word and the Communion in the Word, and just as Christ Jesus had to die between two criminals, just so did we have to put up with the whiskey and the fornication. Even the church has to have its outhouse, just as it has to have a back door as well as a front door, a basement as well as a steeple. Because man is always going to be man and there’s no true road without sides to it, and gulleys too, no true cross without arms that point away in two directions from the true way. But that Juneteenth night they all came quiet. And, Bliss, when I faded out they were still quiet. That’s when ole Fess took over and got them singing again and I came down out of it and gave the nod to the boys and they started marching you down the aisle….”
CHAPTER 8
Wait, Wait! the Senator’s mind cried beneath the melodic line of Hickman’s reminiscing voice, feeling himself being dragged irresistibly along. Yes, Bliss is here, for I can see myself, Bliss, again, on the night that changed it all, dropping down from the back of the platform with the seven black-suited preachers in their high-backed chairs onto the soft earth covered with sawdust, hearing the surge of fevered song rising above me as Daddy Hickman’s voice sustained a note without apparent need for breath, rising high above the tent as I moved carefully out into the dark to avoid the ropes and tent stakes, walking softly over the sawdust and heading then across the clearing for the trees where Deacon Wilhite and the big boys were waiting. I moved reluctantly as always, yet hurrying; thinking, He still hasn’t
breathed. He’s still up there, hearing Daddy Hickman soaring above the rest like a great dark bird of light, a sweet yet anguished mellowing cry. Still hearing it hovering there as I began to run to where I can see the shadowy figures standing around where it lies white and threatening upon a table set beneath the pines. Leaning huge against a tree off to the side is the specially built theatrical trunk they carried it in. Then I am approaching the table with dragging feet, hearing one of the boys giggling and saying, What you saying there, Deadman? And I look at it with horror—pink, frog-mouthed, with opened lid. Then looking back without answering, I see with longing the bright warmth of the light beneath the tent and catch the surging movements of the worshippers as they rock in time to the song which now seems to rise up to the still, sustained line of Daddy Hickman’s transcendent cry. Then Deacon Wilhite said, Come on little preacher, in you go! Lifting me, his hands firm around my ribs, then my feet beginning to kick as I hear the boys giggling, then going inside and the rest of me slipping past Teddy and Easter Bunny, prone now and taking my Bible in my hands and the shivery beginning as the tufted top brings the blackness down.
And not even ice cream, nothing to sustain me in my own terms. Nothing to make it seem worthwhile in Bliss’s terms.
At Deacon Wilhite’s signal they raise me and it is as though the earth has fallen away, leaving me suspended in air. I seem to float in the blackness, the jolting of their measured footsteps guided by Deacon Wilhite’s precise instructions, across the contoured ground, all coming to me muted through the pink insulation of the padding which lined the bottom, top, and sides, reaching me at blunt points along my shoulders, buttocks, heels, thighs. A beast with twelve disjointed legs coursing along, and I its inner ear, its anxiety; its anxious heart; straining to hear if the voice that sustained its line and me still soared. Because I believed that if he breathed while I was trapped inside, I’d never emerge. And hearing the creaking of a handle near my ear, the thump of Cylee’s knuckle against the side to let me know he was out there, squinch-eyed and probably giggling at my fear. Through the thick satin-choke of the lining the remote singing seeming miles away and the rhythmical clapping of hands coming to me like sharp, bright flashes of lightning, promising rain. Moving along on the tips of their measured strides like a boat in a slow current as I breathe through the tube in the lid of the hot ejaculatory air, hushed now by the entry and passage among them of that ritual coat of silk and satin, my stiff dark costume made necessary to their absurd and eternal play of death and resurrection … Back to that? No!