"No, we did not see the crowd. How was it?"
"They were moved," I said, "a great number of them. But beyond that I don't know. They were with us, but how far I don't know ..." And for a moment I could hear my own voice in the quiet of the high-ceilinged hall.
"Sooo! Is that all the great tactician has to tell us?" Brother Tobitt said. "In what direction were they moved?"
I looked at him, aware of the numbness of my emotions; they had flowed in one channel too long and too deeply.
"That's for the committee to decide. They were aroused, that was all we could do. We tried again and again to reach the committee for guidance but we couldn't."
"So?"
"So we went ahead on my personal responsibility."
Brother Jack's eyes narrowed. "What was that?" he said. "Your what?"
"My personal responsibility," I said.
"His personal responsibility," Brother Jack said. "Did you hear that, Brothers? Did I hear him correctly. Where did you get it, Brother?" he said. "This is astounding, where did you get it?"
"From your ma --" I started and caught myself in time. "From the committee," I said.
There was a pause. I looked at him, his face reddening, as I tried to get my bearings. A nerve trembled in the center of my stomach.
"Everyone came out," I said, trying to fill it in. "We saw the opportunity and the community agreed with us. It's too bad you missed it ..."
"You see, he's sorry we missed it," Brother Jack said. He held up his hand. I could see the deeply etched lines in his palm. "The great tactician of personal responsibility regrets our absence ..."
Doesn't he see how I feel, I thought, can't he see why I did it? What's he trying to do? Tobitt's a fool, but why is he taking it up?
"You could have taken the next step," I said, forcing the words. "We went as far as we could ..."
"On your personal re-spon-si-bility," Brother Jack said, bowing his head in time with the words.
I looked at him steadily now. "I was told to win back our following, so I tried. The only way I knew how. What's your criticism? What's wrong?"
"So now," he said, rubbing his eye with a delicate circular movement of his fist, "the great tactician asks what's wrong. Is it possible that something could be wrong? Do you hear him, Brothers?"
There was a cough. Someone poured a glass of water and I could hear it fill up very fast, then the rapid rill-like trickle of the final drops dripping from the pitcher-lip into the glass. I looked at him, my mind trying to bring things into focus.
"You mean he admits the possibility of being incorrect?" Tobitt said.
"Sheer modesty, Brother. The sheerest modesty. We have here an extraordinary tactician, a Napoleon of strategy and personal responsibility. 'Strike while the iron is hot' is his motto. 'Seize the instance by its throat,' 'Shoot at the whites of their eyes,' 'Give 'em the ax, the ax, the ax,' and so forth."
I stood up. "I don't know what this is all about, Brother. What are you trying to say?"
"Now there is a good question, Brothers. Sit down, please, it's hot. He wants to know what we're trying to say. We have here not only an extraordinary tactician, but one who has an appreciation for subtleties of expression."
"Yes, and for sarcasm, when it's good," I said.
"And for discipline? Sit down, please, it's hot ..."
"And for discipline. And for orders and consultation when it's possible to have them," I said.
Brother Jack grinned. "Sit down, sit down -- And for patience?"
"When I'm not sleepy and exhausted," I said, "and not overheated as I am just now."
"You'll learn," he said. "You'll learn and you'll surrender yourself to it even under such conditions. Especially under such conditions; that's its value. That makes it patience."
"Yes, I guess I'm learning now," I said. "Right now."
"Brother," he said drily, "you have no idea how much you're learning -- Please sit down."
"All right," I said, sitting down again. "But while ignoring my personal education for a second I'd like you to remember that the people have little patience with us these days. We could use this time more profitably."
"And I could tell you that politicians are not personal persons," Brother Jack said, "but I won't. How could we use it more profitably?"
"By organizing their anger."
"So again our great tactician has relieved himself. Today he's a busy man. First an oration over the body of Brutus, and now a lecture on the patience of the Negro people."
Tobitt was enjoying himself. I could see his cigarette tremble in his lips as he struck a match to light it.
"I move we issue his remarks in a pamphlet," he said, running his finger over his chin. "They should create a natural phenomenon ..."
This had better stop right here, I thought. My head was getting lighter and my chest felt tight.
"Look," I said, "an unarmed man was killed. A brother, a leading member shot down by a policeman. We had lost our prestige in the community. I saw the chance to rally the people, so I acted. If that was incorrect, then I did wrong, so say it straight without this crap. It'll take more than sarcasm to deal with that crowd out there."
Brother Jack reddened; the others exchanged glances.
"He hasn't read the newspapers," someone said.
"You forget," Brother Jack said, "it wasn't necessary; he was there."
"Yes, I was there," I said. "If you're referring to the killing."
"There, you see," Brother Jack said. "He was on the scene."
Brother Tobitt pushed the table edge with his palms. "And still you organized that side show of a funeral!"
My nose twitched. I turned toward him deliberately, forcing a grin.
"How could there be a side show without you as the star attraction, who'd draw the two bits admission, Brother Twobits? What was wrong with the funeral?"
"Now we're making progress," Brother Jack said, straddling his chair. "The strategist has raised a very interesting question. What's wrong, he asks. All right, I'll answer. Under your leadership, a traitorous merchant of vile instruments of anti-Negro, anti-minority racist bigotry has received the funeral of a hero. Do you still ask what's wrong?"
"But nothing was done about a traitor," I said.
He half-stood, gripping the back of his chair. "We all heard you admit it."
"We dramatized the shooting down of an unarmed black man."
He threw up his hands. To hell with you, I thought. To hell with you. He was a man!
"That black man, as you call him, was a traitor," Brother Jack said. "A traitor!"
"What is a traitor, Brother?" I asked, feeling an angry amusement as I counted on my fingers. "He was a man and a Negro; a man and a brother; a man and a traitor, as you say; then he was a dead man, and alive or dead he was jam-full of contradictions. So full that he attracted half of Harlem to come out and stand in the sun in answer to our call. So what is a traitor?"
"So now he retreats," Brother Jack said. "Observe him, Brothers. After putting the movement in the position of forcing a traitor down the throats of the Negroes he asks what a traitor is."
"Yes," I said. "Yes, and, as you say, it's a fair question, Brother. Some folks call me traitor because I've been working downtown; some would call me a traitor if I was in Civil Service and others if I simply sat in my corner and kept quiet. Sure, I considered what Clifton did --"
"And you defend him!"
"Not for that. I was as disgusted as you. But hell, isn't the shooting of an unarmed man of more importance politically than the fact that he sold obscene dolls?"
"So you exercised your personal responsibility," Jack said.
"That's all I had to go on. I wasn't called to the strategy meeting, remember."
"Didn't you see what you were playing with?" Tobitt said. "Have you no respect for your people?"