But what kind of society will make him see me, I thought, hearing Tobitt answer, "Six-fifteen."
"Then we'd better leave immediately, we've got a long way to travel," he said, coming across the floor. He had his eye in place now and he was smiling. "How's that?" he asked me.
I nodded, I was very tired. I simply nodded.
"Good," he said. "I sincerely hope it never happens to you. Sincerely."
"If it should, maybe you'll recommend me to your oculist," I said, "then I may not-see myself as others see-me-not."
He looked at me oddly then laughed. "See, Brothers, he's joking. He feels brotherly again. But just the same, I hope you'll never need one of these. Meanwhile go and see Hambro. He'll outline the program and give you the instructions. As for today, just let things float. It is a development that is important only if we make it so. Otherwise it will be forgotten," he said, getting into his jacket. "And you'll see that it's best. The Brotherhood must act as a co-ordinated unit."
I looked at him. I was becoming aware of smells again and I needed a bath. The others were standing now and moving toward the door. I stood up, feeling the shirt sticking to my back.
"One last thing," Jack said, placing his hand on my shoulder and speaking quietly. "Watch that temper, that's discipline, too. Learn to demolish your brotherly opponents with ideas, with polemic skill. The other is for our enemies. Save it for them. And go get some rest."
I was beginning to tremble. His face seemed to advance and recede, recede and advance. He shook his head and smiled grimly.
"I know how you feel," he said. "And it's too bad all that effort was for nothing. But that in itself is a kind of discipline. I speak to you of what I have learned and I'm a great deal older than you. Good night."
I looked at his eye. So he knows how I feel. Which eye is really the blind one? "Good night," I said.
"Good night, Brother," they all except Tobitt said.
It'll be night, but it won't be good, I thought, calling a final "Good night."
They left and I took my jacket and went and sat at my desk. I heard them passing down the stairs and the closing of the door below. I felt as though I'd been watching a bad comedy. Only it was real and I was living it and it was the only historically meaningful life that I could live. If I left it, I'd be nowhere. As dead and as meaningless as Clifton. I felt for the doll in the shadow and dropped it on the desk. He was dead all right, and nothing would come of his death now. He was useless even for a scavenger action. He had waited too long, the directives had changed on him. He'd barely gotten by with a funeral. And that was all. It was only a matter of a few days, but he had missed and there was nothing I could do. But at least he was dead and out of it.
I sat there a while, growing wilder and fighting against it. I couldn't leave and I had to keep contact in order to fight. But I would never be the same. Never. After tonight I wouldn't ever look the same, or feel the same. Just what I'd be, I didn't know; I couldn't go back to what I was -- which wasn't much -- but I'd lost too much to be what I was. Some of me, too, had died with Tod Clifton. So I would see Hambro, for whatever it was worth. I got up and went out into the hall. The glass was still on the table and I swept it across the room, hearing it rumble and roll in the dark. Then I went downstairs.
Chapter 23
The bar downstairs was hot and crowded and there was a heated argument in progress over Clifton's shooting. I stood near the door and ordered a bourbon. Then someone noticed me, and they tried to draw me in.
"Please, not tonight," I said. "He was one of my best friends."
"Oh, sure," they said, and I had another bourbon and left.
When I reached 125th Street, I was approached by a group of civil-liberties workers circulating a petition demanding the dismissal of the guilty policeman, and a block further on even the familiar woman street preacher was shouting a sermon about the slaughter of the innocents. A much broader group was stirred up over the shooting than I had imagined. Good, I thought, perhaps it won't die down after all. Maybe I'd better see Hambro tonight.
Little groups were all along the street, and I moved with increasing speed until suddenly I had reached Seventh Avenue, and there beneath a street lamp with the largest crowd around him was Ras the Exhorter -- the last man in the world I wanted to see. And I had just turned back when I saw him lean down between his flags, shouting, "Look, look, Black ladies and gentlemahn! There goes the representative of the Brotherhood. Does Ras see correctly? Is that gentlemahn trying to pass us unnoticed? Ask him about it. What are you people waiting for, sir? What are you doing about our black youth shot down beca'se of your deceitful organization?"
They turned, looking at me, closing in. Some came up behind me and tried to push me further into the crowd. The Exhorter leaned down, pointing at me, beneath the green traffic light.
"Ask him what they are doing about it, ladies and gentlemahn. Are they afraid -- or are the white folks and their black stooges sticking together to betray us?"
"Get your hands off me," I shouted as someone reached around and seized my arm.
I heard a voice cursing me softly.
"Give the brother a chance to answer!" someone said.
Their faces pressed in upon me. I wanted to laugh, for suddenly I realized that I didn't know whether I had been part of a sellout or not. But they were in no mood for laughter.
"Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters," I said, "I disdain to answer such an attack. Since you all know me and my work, I don't think it's necessary. But it seems highly dishonorable to use the unfortunate death of one of our most promising young men as an excuse for attacking an organization that has worked to bring an end to such outrages. Who was the first organization to act against this killing? The Brotherhood! Who was the first to arouse the people? The Brotherhood! Who will always be the first to advance the cause of the people? Again the Brotherhood!
"We acted and we shall always act, I assure you. But in our own disciplined way. And we'll act positively. We refuse to waste our energies and yours in premature and ill-considered actions. We are Americans, all of us, whether black or white, regardless of what the man on the ladder there tells you, Americans. And we leave it to the gentleman up there to abuse the name of the dead. The Brotherhood grieves and feels deeply the loss of its brother. And we are determined that his death shall be the beginning of profound and lasting changes. It's easy enough to wait around for the minute a man is safely buried and then stand on a ladder and smear the memory of everything he believed in. But to create something lasting of his death takes time and careful planning --"
"Gentlemahn," Ras shouted, "stick to the issue. You are not answering my question. What are you doing about the shooting?"
I moved toward the edge of the crowd. If this went any further, it could be disastrous.
"Stop abusing the dead for your own selfish ends," I said. "Let him rest in peace. Quit mangling his corpse!"
I pushed away as he raged, hearing shouts of, "Tell him about it!" "Grave robber!"
The Exhorter waved his arms and pointed, shouting, "That mahn is a paid stooge of the white enslaver! Wheere has he been for the last few months when our black babies and women have been suffering --"
"Let the dead rest in peace," I shouted, hearing someone call "Aw man, go back to Africa. Everybody knows the brother."
Good, I thought, good. Then there was a scuffle behind me and I whirled to see two men stop short. They were Ras's men.