Chester Himes - The crazy kill

Big Joe's coffin, banked with hothouse roses and lilies of the valley, occupied the place of honor in front of the soapbox pulpit. Green flies buzzed above the coffin.

Behind it, Reverend Short was jumping up and down on the flimsy pulpit like some devil with the hotfoot dancing on red- and white-hot flames.

His bony face was quivering with religious fervor and streaming with rivers of sweat that overflowed his high celluloid collar and soaked into the jacket of his black woolen suit. His gold-rimmed spectacles were clouded. A band of sweat had formed about his trousers' belt and was coming through his coat.

" And the Lord said," he was screaming, swatting at the green flies trying to light on his face and spraying hot spit like a garden sprinkler. " As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten… Does you hear me? "

"We hears you," the church members chanted in response.

" Be zealous therefore, and repent…"

"… repent…"

" So I'm going to take my text from Genesis…"

"… Genesis…"

" The Lord God made Adam in his image…"

"… Lord made Adam…"

" Therefore I'm your preacher and I want to make a parable."

"… preacher make parable…"

" There lies Big Joe Pullen in his coffin, as much of a man as Adam ever was, as dead a man as Adam ever will be, made in God's image

…"

"… Big Joe in God's image…"

" Adam bore two sons, Cain and Abel…"

"… Cain and Abel…"

" And Cain rose up against his brother in the field, and he stuck a knife in Abel's heart and he murdered him…"

"… Jesus Savior, murdered him…"

" I see Jesus Christ leaving heaven with all His grandeur, clothing himself in the garments of your preacher, making his face black, pointing the finger of accusation, and saying to you unrepented sinners, 'He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword…' "

"… die by the sword, Lord, Lord…"

" I see Him point his finger and say, 'If Adam was alive today he'd be laying in that coffin dead and his name would be Big Joe Pullen…' "

"… have mercy, Jesus…"

" And he'd have a son named Abel…"

"… have a son, Abel…"

" And his son would have a wife…"

"… son would have a wife…"

" And his wife would be the sister of Cain…"

"… sister of Cain…"

" I can see Him step out on the rib bone of nothing…"

"… rib bone of nothing…"

Spit drooled from the corners of his fishlike mouth as he pointed a trembling finger straight in Dulcy's direction.

" I can hear him say, 'Oh, you sister of Cain, why slayest thou thy brother? ' "

A dead silence dropped like a pall over the cooking congregation. Every eye was turned on Dulcy. She cringed in her seat. Johnny stared at the preacher with a sudden alertness, and the scar in his forehead came suddenly alive.

Mamie half arose and cried, "It ain't so! You know it ain't so!"

Then a sister in the amen corner jumped to her feet, with her arms stretched upward and her splayed fingers stiffened, and screamed, "Jesus in heaven, have mercy on the poor sinner."

Pandemonium broke loose as the Holy Rollers jumped to their feet and began having convulsions.

" Murderess! " Reverend Short screamed in a frenzy.

"… murderess…" the church members responded.

"It ain't so!" Mamie shouted.

" Adulteress! " Reverend Short screamed.

"… adulteress…" the congregation responded.

"You lying mother-raper!" Dulcy shouted, finally finding her voice.

"Let him rave on," Johnny said, his face wooden and his voice toneless.

" Fornication! " Reverend Short screamed.

At the mention of fornication the joint went mad. Holy Rollers fell to the floor, frothing at the mouth, rolled and threshed, screaming, "Fornication… fornication…"

Men and women wrestled and rolled. Benches were splintered. The church rocked. The coffin shook. A big stink of sweating bodies arose. "Fornication… fornication…" the religious, mad people screamed.

"I'm getting out of here," Dulcy said, getting to her feet.

"Sit down," Johnny said. "These religious folks are dangerous."

The church organist began jamming the chorus of Roberta Lee on the church harmonium trying to restore order, and a big fat dining-car waiter cut loose in a high tenor voice:

"Dis world is high,

Dis world is low,

Dis world is deep and wide,

But de longes' road I ever did see,

Was de one I walked and cried…"

Thoughts of the long road brought the fanatics to their feet. They brushed off their clothes and sheepishly straightened up the broken benches, and the organist went into Roll, Jordan, Roll.

But Reverend Short had gone beyond restraint. He'd left the pulpit and come down in front of the coffin to shake his finger in Dulcy's face. The undertaker's two assistants threw him to the floor and knelt on him until he'd calmed down; then the business of the funeral proceeded.

The congregation arose to the harmonium strains of Nearer My God To Thee and filed past the coffin for a last look at Big Joe Pullen's mortal remains. Those on the mourners' bench were the last to pass, and when the coffin lid was finally closed Mamie flung herself across it, crying, "Don't go, Joe, don't leave me here all alone."

The undertaker pried her loose, and Johnny put his arm about her waist and started guiding her toward the exit. But the undertaker stopped him, tugging at his sleeve.

"You're the chief pallbearer, Mr. Perry, you can't go." Johnny turned Mamie over to the care of Dulcy and Alamena.

"Go along with her," he said.

Then he took his place with the five other pallbearers, and they lifted the coffin, bore it down the cleared aisle and between the lines of police on the sidewalk and slid it into the hearse.

Members of Big Joe's lodge were lined up in parade formation in the street, clad in their full regalia of scarlet coats with gold braid, light blue trousers with gold stripes, and headed by the lodge band.

The band broke out with The Coming of John, and the people in the street joined in singing with the choir.

The funeral procession, led by the hearse, fell in behind the marching lodge brothers.

Dulcy and Alamena sat flanking Mamie Pullen in the first of the black limousines.

Johnny rode alone behind the third limousine in his big open-top fishtail Cadillac.

Two cars behind him, Chink and Doll Baby followed in a blue Buick convertible.

The band was playing the old funeral chant in swingtime, and the trumpet player took a chorus and rode the staccato notes clear and high in the hot Harlem sky. The crowd was electrified. The people broke loose in mass hysteria, marching in swingtime. But they marched in all directions, forward, backward, circling, zigzagging, their bodies gyrating to the rocking syncopation. They went rocking and rolling back and forth across the street, between the parked cars, up and down the sidewalks, sometimes a boy taking a whirl with a girl, most times marching alone to the music, but not in time with the music. They were marching and dancing to the rhythm, between the beats, not on them, marching and dancing to the feeling of the swing, and still keeping up with the slowly moving procession.

The procession went down Eighth Avenue to 125th Street, east to Seventh Avenue, turned the corner by the Theresa Hotel and went north toward the 155th Street Bridge to the Bronx.

But at the bridge the band pulled up, the marchers halted, the crowd began to disperse, the procession thinned out. Harlem ended at the bridge, and only the principals crossed into the Bronx and made the long journey out Bronx Park Road, past the Bronx Park Zoo, to Woodlawn Cemetery.

The built-in record player in the hearse began playing an organ recording, the thin saccharine notes drifting back over the procession from the amplifiers.