Native Son (18 page)

“O.K.!” he mumbled.

“This is Mrs. Dalton!”

“Yessum. Just a minute.”

He reached the door in two long steps, then stood a moment trying to collect himself. He blinked his eyes and wet his lips. He opened the door and saw Mrs. Dalton smiling before him, dressed in white, her pale face held as it had been when she was standing in the darkness while he had smothered Mary on the bed.

“Y-y-yes, mam,” he stammered. “I—I was asleep….”

“You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?”

“No’m,” he drawled, afraid of what she might mean.

“Peggy rang for you three times, and you didn’t answer.”

“I’m sorry, mam….”

“That’s all right. I wanted to ask you about last night…. Oh, you took the trunk to the station, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Yessum. This morning,” he said, detecting hesitancy and confusion in her voice.

“I see,” said Mrs. Dalton. She stood with her face tilted upward in the semi-darkness of the hallway. He had his hand on the doorknob, waiting, his muscles taut. He had to be careful with his answers now. And yet he knew he had a certain protection; he knew that a certain element of shame would keep Mrs. Dalton from asking him too much and letting him know that she was worried. He was a boy and she was an old woman. He was the hired and she was the hirer. And there was a certain distance to be kept between them.

“You left the car in the driveway last night, didn’t you?”

“Yessum. I was about to put it up,” he said, indicating that his
only concern was with keeping his job and doing his duties. “But she told me to leave it.”

“And was someone with her?”

“Yessum. A gentleman.”

“That must have been pretty late, wasn’t it?”

“Yessum. A little before two, mam.”

“And you took the trunk down a little before two?”

“Yessum. She told me to.”

“She took you to her room?”

He did not want her to think that he had been alone in the room with Mary. Quickly, he recast the story in his mind.

“Yessum. They went up….”

“Oh,
he
was with her?”

“Yessum.”

“I see….”

“Anything wrong, mam?”

“Oh, no! I—I—I…. No; there’s nothing wrong.”

She stood in the doorway and he looked at her light-grey blind eyes, eyes almost as white as her face and hair and dress. He knew that she was really worried and wanted to ask him more questions. But he knew that she would not want to hear him tell of how drunk her daughter had been. After all, he was black and she was white. He was poor and she was rich. She would be ashamed to let him think that something was so wrong in her family that she had to ask him, a black servant, about it. He felt confident.

“Will there be anything right now, mam?”

“No. In fact, you may take the rest of the day off, if you like. Mr. Dalton is not feeling well and we’re not going out.”

“Thank you, mam.”

She turned away and he shut the door; he stood listening to the soft whisper of her shoes die away down the hall, then on the stairs. He pictured her groping her way, her hands touching the walls. She must know this house like a book, he thought. He trembled with excitement. She was white and he was black; she was rich and he was poor; she was old and he was young; she was the boss and he was the worker. He was safe; yes. When he heard the kitchen
door open and shut he went to the closet and listened again. But there were no sounds.

Well, he would go out. To go out now would be the answer to the feeling of strain that had come over him while talking to Mrs. Dalton. He would go and see Bessie. That was it! He got his cap and coat and went to the basement. The suction of air through the furnace moaned and the fire was white-hot; there was enough coal to last until he came back.

He went to Forty-seventh Street and stood on the corner to wait for a car. Yes, Bessie was the one he wanted to see now. Funny, he had not thought of her much during the last day and night. Too many exciting things had been happening. He had had no need to think of her. But now he had to forget and relax and he wanted to see her. She was always home on Sunday afternoons. He wanted to see her very badly; he felt that he would be stronger to go through tomorrow if he saw her.

The street car came and he got on, thinking of how things had gone that day. No; he did not think they would suspect him of anything. He was black. Again he felt the roll of crisp bills in his pocket; if things went wrong he could always run away. He wondered how much money was in the roll; he had not even counted it. He would see when he got to Bessie’s. No; he need not be afraid. He felt the gun nestling close to his skin. That gun could always make folks stand away and think twice before bothering him.

But of the whole business there was one angle that bothered him; he should have gotten more money out of it; he should have
planned
it. He had acted too hastily and accidentally. Next time things would be much different; he would plan and arrange so that he would have money enough to keep him a long time. He looked out of the car window and then round at the white faces near him. He wanted suddenly to stand up and shout, telling them that he had killed a rich white girl, a girl whose family was known to all of them. Yes; if he did that a look of startled horror would come over their faces. But, no. He would not do that, even though the satisfaction would be keen. He was so greatly outnumbered that he would be arrested, tried, and executed. He wanted the keen thrill
of startling them, but felt that the cost was too great. He wished that he had the power to say what he had done without fear of being arrested; he wished that he could be an idea in their minds: that his black face and the image of his smothering Mary and cutting off her head and burning her could hover before their eyes as a terrible picture of reality which they could see and feel and yet not destroy. He was not satisfied with the way things stood now; he was a man who had come in sight of a goal, then had won it, and in winning it had seen just within his grasp another goal, higher, greater. He had learned to shout and had shouted and no ear had heard him; he had just learned to walk and was walking but could not see the ground beneath his feet; he had long been yearning for weapons to hold in his hands and suddenly found that his hands held weapons that were invisible.

The car stopped a block from Bessie’s home and he got off. When he reached the building in which she lived, he looked up to the second floor and saw a light burning in her window. The street lamps came on suddenly, lighting up the snow-covered sidewalks with a yellow sheen. It had gotten dark early. The lamps were round hazy balls of light frozen into motionlessness, anchored in space and kept from blowing away in the icy wind by black steel posts. He went in and rang the bell and, in answer to a buzzer, mounted the stairs and found Bessie smiling at him in her door.

“Hello, stranger!”

“Hi, Bessie.”

He stood face to face with her, then reached for her hands. She shied away.

“What’s the matter?”

“You know what’s the matter.”

“Naw, I don’t.”

“What you reaching for me for?”

“I want to kiss you, honey.”

“You don’t want to kiss me.”

“Why?”

“I ought to be asking
you
that.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I saw you with your white friends last night.”

“Aw; they wasn’t my friends.”

“Who was they?”

“I work for ’em.”

“And you eat with ’em.”

“Aw, Bessie….”

“You didn’t even
speak
to me.”

“I
did
!”

“You just growled and waved your hand.”

“Aw, baby. I was working then. You understand.”

“I thought maybe you was ’shamed of me, sitting there with that white gal all dressed in silk and satin.”

“Aw, hell, Bessie. Come on. Don’t act that way.”

“You really want to kiss me?”

“Sure. What you think I came here for?”

“How come you so long seeing me, then?”

“I told you I been working, honey. You saw me last night. Come on. Don’t act this way.”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head.

He knew that she was trying to see how badly he wanted her, trying to see how much power she still had over him. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to him, kissing her long and hard, feeling as he did so that she was not responding. When he took his lips away he looked at her with eyes full of reproach and at the same time he felt his teeth clamping and his lips tingling slightly with rising passion.

“Let’s go in,” he said.

“If you want to.”

“Sure I want to.”

“You stayed away so long.”

“Aw, don’t be that way.”

They went in.

“How come you acting so cold tonight?” he asked.

“You could have dropped me a postcard,” she said.

“Aw, I just forgot it.”

“Or you could’ve phoned.”

“Honey, I was busy.”

“Looking at that old white gal, I reckon.”

“Aw, hell!”

“You don’t love me no more.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You could’ve come by just for five minutes.”

“Baby, I was busy.”

When he kissed her this time she responded a little. To let her know that he wanted her he allowed her to draw his tongue into her mouth.

“I’m tired tonight,” she sighed.

“Who
you
been seeing?”

“
No
body.”

“What you doing tired?”

“If you want to talk that way you can leave right now. I didn’t ask you who you been seeing to make you stay away this long, did I?”

“You all on edge tonight.”

“You could have just said, ‘Hello, dog!’”

“Really, honey. I was busy.”

“You was setting there at that table with them white folks like you was a lawyer or something. You wouldn’t even look at me when I spoke to you.”

“Aw, forget it. Let’s talk about something else.”

He attempted to kiss her again and she shied away.

“Come on, honey.”

“Who
you
been with?”

“Nobody. I swear. I been working. And I been thinking hard about you. I been missing you. Listen, I got a room all my own where I’m working. Some nights you can stay there with me, see? Gee, I been missing you awful, honey. Soon’s I got time I came right over.”

He stood looking at her in the dim light of the room. She was teasing him and he liked it. At least it took him away from that terrible image of Mary’s head lying on the bloody newspaper. He wanted to kiss her again, but deep down he did not really mind her standing off from him; it made him hunger more keenly for her.
She was looking at him wistfully, half-leaning against a wall, her hands on her hips. Then suddenly he knew how to draw her out, to drive from her mind all thought of her teasing him. He reached into his pocket and drew forth the roll of bills. Smiling, he held it in his palm and spoke as though to himself:

“Well, I reckon somebody else might like this if you don’t.”

She came a step forward.

“Bigger! Gee! Where you get all that money from?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“How much is it?”

“What you care?”

She came to his side.

“How much is it, really?”

“What you want to know for?”

“Let me see it. I’ll give it back to you.”

“I’ll let you see it, but it’ll have to stay in
my
hand, see?”

He watched the expression of coyness on her face change to one of amazement as she counted the bills.

“Lord, Bigger! Where you get this money from?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said, slipping his arm about her waist.

“Is it yours?”

“What in hell you reckon I’m doing with it?”

“Tell me where you get it from, honey.”

“You going to be sweet to me?”

He felt her body growing gradually less stiff; but her eyes were searching his face.

“You ain’t got into nothing, is you?”

“You going to be sweet to me?”

“Oh, Bigger!”

“Kiss me, honey.”

He felt her relax completely; he kissed her and she drew him to the bed. They sat down. Gently, she took the money from his hand.

“How much is it?” he asked.

“Don’t you know?”

“Naw.”

“Didn’t you
count
it?”

“Naw.”

“Bigger, where you get this money from?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you some day,” he said, leaning back and resting his head on the pillow.

“You into something.”

“How much is there?”

“A hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“You going to be sweet to me?”

“But, Bigger,
where
you get this money from?”

“What do that matter?”

“You going to buy me something?”

“Sure.”

“What?”

“Anything you want.”

They were silent for a moment. Finally, his arm about her waist felt her body relax into a softness he knew and wanted. She rested her head on the pillow; he put the money in his pocket and leaned over her.

“Gee, honey. I been wanting you bad.”

“For real?”

“Honest to God.”

He placed his hands on her breasts just as he had placed them on Mary’s last night and he was thinking of that while he kissed her. He took his lips away for breath and heard Bessie say:

“Don’t stay away so long from me, hear, honey?”

“I won’t.”

“You love me?”

“Sure.”

He kissed her again and he felt her arm lifting above his head and he heard the click as the light went out. He kissed her again, hard.

“Bessie?”

“Hunh?”

“Come on, honey.”

They were still a moment longer; then she rose. He waited. He
heard her clothes rustling in the darkness; she was undressing. He got up and began to undress. Gradually, he began to see in the darkness; she was on the other side of the bed, her dark body like a shadow in the denser darkness surrounding her. He heard the bed creak as she lay down. He went to her, folding her in his arms, mumbling.

“Gee, kid.”

He felt two soft palms holding his face tenderly and the thought and image of the whole blind world which had made him ashamed and afraid fell away as he felt her as a fallow field beneath him stretching out under a cloudy sky waiting for rain, and he slept in her body, rising and sinking with the ebb and flow of her blood, being willingly dragged into a warm night sea to rise renewed to the surface to face a world he hated and wanted to blot out of existence, clinging close to a fountain whose warm waters washed and cleaned his senses, cooled them, made them strong and keen again to see and smell and touch and taste and hear, cleared them to end the tiredness and to reforge in him a new sense of time and space;—after he had been tossed to dry upon a warm sunlit rock under a white sky he lifted his hand slowly and heavily and touched Bessie’s lips with his fingers and mumbled,