Native Son (25 page)

“Bigger?”

“Hunh?” he answered before he knew who had called.

“Where’ve you been? Your dinner’s been waiting for you since five o’clock. There’s a chair. Eat….”

as much as you want…
. He stopped listening. In Peggy’s hand was the kidnap note.
I’ll heat your coffee go ahead and eat
Had she opened it? Did she know what was in it? No; the envelope was still sealed. She came to the table and removed the napkins. His knees were shaking with excitement and sweat broke out on his forehead. His skin felt as though it were puckering up from a blast of heat.
don’t you want the steak warmed
the question reached him from far away and he shook his head without really knowing what she meant,
don’t you feel well

“This is all right,” he murmured.

“You oughtn’t starve yourself that way.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You’re hungrier than you think,” she said.

She set a cup and saucer at his plate, then laid the letter on the edge of the table. It held his attention as though it were a steel magnet and his eyes were iron. She got the coffee pot and poured his cup full. No doubt she had just gotten the letter from under the door and had not yet had time to give it to Mr. Dalton. She placed a small jar of cream at his plate and took up the letter again.

“I’ve got to give this to Mr. Dalton,” she said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Yessum,” he whispered.

She left. He stopped chewing and stared before him, his mouth dry. But he
had
to eat. Not to eat now would create suspicion. He shoved the food in and chewed each mouthful awhile, then washed it down with swallows of hot coffee. When the coffee gave out, he used cold water. He strained his ears to catch sounds. But none came. Then the door swung in silently and Peggy came back. He could see nothing in her round red face. Out of the corners of his eyes he watched her go to the stove and putter with pots and pans.

“Want more coffee?”

“No’m.”

“You ain’t scared of all this trouble we’re having round here, are you, Bigger?”

“Oh, no’m,” he said, wondering if something in his manner had made her ask that.

“That poor Mary!” Peggy sighed. “She acts like such a ninny. Imagine a girl keeping her parents worried sick all the time. But there are children for you these days.”

He hurried with his eating, saying nothing; he wanted to get out of the kitchen. The thing was in the open now; not all of it, but some of it. Nobody knew about Mary yet. He saw in his mind a picture of the Dalton family distraught and horrified when they found that Mary was kidnapped. That would put them a certain distance from him. They would think that white men did it; they would never think that a black, timid Negro did that. They would go after Jan. The “Red” he had signed to the letter and the hammer and curving knife would make them look for Communists.

“You got enough?”

“Yessum.”

“You better clean the ashes out of the furnace in the morning, Bigger.”

“Yessum.”

“And be ready for Mr. Dalton at eight.”

“Yessum.”

“Your room all right?”

“Yessum.”

The door swung in violently. Bigger started in fright. Mr. Dalton came into the kitchen, his face ashy. He stared at Peggy and Peggy, holding a dish towel in her hand, stared at him. In Mr. Dalton’s hand was the letter, opened.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Dalton?”

“Who…. Where did…. Who gave you this?”

“What?”

“This
letter
.”

“Why, nobody. I got it from the door.”

“When?”

“A few minutes ago. Anything wrong?”

Mr. Dalton looked round the entire kitchen, not at anything in particular, but just round the entire stretch of four walls, his eyes wide and unseeing. He looked back at Peggy; it was as if he had thrown himself upon her mercy; was waiting for her to say some word that would take the horror away.

“W-what’s the matter, Mr. Dalton?” Peggy asked again.

Before Mr. Dalton could answer, Mrs. Dalton groped her way into the kitchen, her white hands held high. Bigger watched her fingers tremble through the air till they touched Mr. Dalton’s shoulder. They gripped his coat hard enough to tear it from his body. Bigger, without moving an eyelid, felt his skin grow hot and his muscles stiffen.

“Henry! Henry!” Mrs. Dalton called. “What’s the matter?”

Mr. Dalton did not hear her; he still stared at Peggy.

“Did you see who left this letter?”

“No, Mr. Dalton.”

“You, Bigger?”

“Nawsuh,” he whispered, his mouth full of dry food.

“Henry, tell me!
Please!
For Heaven’s sake!”

Mr. Dalton put his arm about Mrs. Dalton’s waist and held her close to him.

“It’s…. It’s about Mary…. It’s…. She….”

“What? Where is she?”

“They…. They got her! They kidnapped her!”

“Henry! No!” Mrs. Dalton screamed.

“Oh, no!” Peggy whimpered, running to Mr. Dalton.

“My baby,” Mrs. Dalton sobbed.

“She’s been kidnapped,” Mr. Dalton said, as though he had to say the words over again to convince himself.

Bigger’s eyes were wide, taking in all three of them in one constantly roving glance. Mrs. Dalton continued to sob and Peggy sank into a chair, her face in her hands. Then she sprang up and ran out of the room, crying:

“Lord, don’t let them kill her!”

Mrs. Dalton swayed. Mr. Dalton lifted her and staggered, trying to get her through the door. As he watched Mr. Dalton there flashed through Bigger’s mind a quick image of how he had lifted Mary’s body in his arms the night before. He rose and held the door open for Mr. Dalton and watched him walk unsteadily down the dim hallway with Mrs. Dalton in his arms.

He was alone in the kitchen now. Again the thought that he had the chance to walk out of here and be clear of it all came to him, and again he brushed it aside. He was tensely eager to stay and see how it would all end, even if that end swallowed him in blackness. He felt that he was living upon a high pinnacle where bracing winds whipped about him. There came to his ears a muffled sound of sobs. Then suddenly there was silence. What’s happening? Would Mr. Dalton phone the police now? He strained to listen, but no sounds came. He went to the door and took a few steps into the hallway. There were still no sounds. He looked about to make sure that no one was watching him, then crept on tiptoe down the hall. He heard voices. Mr. Dalton was talking to someone. He crept farther; yes, he could hear….
I want to talk to Britten please
. Mr. Dalton was phoning.
come right over please yes at once something awful has happened I don’t want to talk about it over the phone
That meant that when Britten came back he would be questioned again.
yes right away I’ll be waiting

He had to get back to his room. He tiptoed along the hall, through the kitchen, down the steps and into the basement. The torrid cracks of the furnace gleamed in the crimson darkness and he heard the throaty undertone of the draft devouring the air. Was she burnt? But even if she were not, who would think of looking in the furnace for her? He went to his room, into the closet, closed the door and listened. Silence. He came out, left the door open and, in order to get to the closet quickly and without sound, pulled off his shoes. He lay again on the bed, his mind whirling, with images born of a multitude of impulses. He could run away; he could remain; he could even go down and confess what he had done. The mere thought that these avenues of action were open to him made him feel free, that his life was his, that he held his future in his hands. But they would never think that he had done it; not a meek black boy like him.

He bounded off the bed, listening, thinking that he had heard voices. He had been so deeply taken up with his own thoughts that he did not know if he had actually heard anything or had imagined it. Yes; he heard faint footsteps below. He hurried to the closet. The footsteps ceased. There came to him the soft sound of sobbing. It was Peggy. Her sobbing quieted, then rose to a high pitch. He stood for a long time, listening to Peggy’s sobs and the long moan of the wind sweeping through the night outside. Peggy’s sobs ceased and her footsteps sounded once more. Was she going to answer the doorbell? Footsteps came again; Peggy had gone to the front of the house for something and had come back. He heard a heavy voice, a man’s. At first he could not identify it; then he realized that it was Britten’s.

“…and you found the note?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“About an hour.”

“You’re sure you didn’t see anyone leave it?”

“It was sticking under the door.”

“Think, now. Did you see anybody about the house or drive way?”

“No. The boy and me, that’s all that’s been around here.”

“And where’s the boy now?”

“Upstairs in his room, I think.”

“Did you ever see this handwriting before?”

“No, Mr. Britten.”

“Can you guess, can you think, imagine who would send such a note?”

“No. Not a soul in this whole wide world, Mr. Britten,” Peggy wailed.

Britten’s voice ceased. There was the sound of other heavy feet. Chairs scraped over the floor. More people were in the kitchen. Who were they? Their movements sounded like those of men. Then Bigger heard Britten speaking again.

“Listen, Peggy. Tell me, how
does
this boy act?”

“What do you mean, Mr. Britten?”

“Does he seem intelligent? Does he seem to be
acting
?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Britten. He’s just like all the other colored boys.”

“Does he say ‘yes mam’ and ‘no mam’?”

“Yes, Mr. Britten. He’s polite.”

“But does he seem to be trying to appear like he’s more ignorant than he
really
is?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Britten.”

“Have you missed anything around the house since he’s been here?”

“No; nothing.”

“Has he ever insulted you, or anything?”

“Oh, no! No!”

“What kind of a boy is he?”

“He’s just a quiet colored boy. That’s all I can say….”

“Did you ever see him reading anything?”

“No, Mr. Britten.”

“Does he speak more intelligently at some times than at others?”

“No, Mr. Britten. He talked always the same, to me.”

“Has he ever done anything that would make you think he knows something about this note?”

“No, Mr. Britten.”

“When you speak to him, does he hesitate before he answers, as though he’s thinking up what to say?”

“No, Mr. Britten. He talks and acts natural-like.”

“When he talks, does he wave his hands around a lot, like he’s been around a lot of Jews?”

“I never noticed, Mr. Britten.”

“Did you ever hear ’im call anybody
comrade
?”

“No, Mr. Britten.”

“Does he pull off his cap when he comes in the house?”

“I never noticed. I think so, Mr. Britten.”

“Has he ever sat down in your presence without being asked, like he was used to being around white people?”

“No, Mr. Britten. Only when I told him to.”

“Does he speak first, or does he wait until he’s spoken to?”

“Well, Mr. Britten. He seemed always to wait until we spoke to him before he said anything.”

“Now, listen, Peggy. Think and try to remember if his voice goes
up
when he talks, like Jews when they talk. Know what I mean? You see, Peggy, I’m trying to find out if he’s been around Communists….”

“No, Mr. Dalton. He talks just like all other colored folks to me.”

“Where did you say he is now?”

“Upstairs in his room.”

When Britten’s voice ceased Bigger was smiling. Yes; Britten was trying to trap him, trying to make out a case against him; but he could not find anything to go upon. Was Britten coming to talk to him now? There came the sound of other voices.

“It’s a ten-to-one chance that she’s dead.”

“Yeah. They usually bump ’em off. They’re scared of ’em after they get ’em. They think they might identify them afterwards.”

“Did the old man say he was going to pay?”

“Sure. He wants his daughter back.”

“That’s just ten thousand dollars shot to hell, if you ask me.”

“But he wants the girl.”

“Say, I bet it’s those Reds trying to raise money.”

“Yeah!”

“Maybe that’s how they get their dough. They say that guy, Bruno Hauptmann, the one who snatched the Lindy baby, did it for the Nazis. They needed the money.”

“I’d like to shoot every one of them Goddamn bastards, Red or no Red.”

There was the sound of a door opening and more footsteps.

“You have any luck with the old man?”

“Not yet.” It was Britten’s voice.

“He’s pretty washed up, eh?”

“Yeah; and who wouldn’t be?”

“He won’t call the cops?”

“Naw; he’s scared stiff.”

“It might seem hard on the family, but if you let them snatchers know they can’t scare money out of you, they’ll stop.”

“Say, Brit, try ’im again.”

“Yeah; tell ’im there ain’t nothing to do now but to call the cops.”

“Aw, I don’t know. I hate to worry ’im.”

“Well, after all, it’s
his
daughter. Let him handle it.”

“But, listen, Brit. When they pick up this Erlone fellow, he’s going to tell the cops and the papers’ll have the story anyway. So call ’em now. The sooner they get started the better.”

“Naw; I’ll wait for the old man to give the signal.”

Bigger knew that Mr. Dalton had not wanted to notify the police; that much was certain. But how long would he hold out? The police would know everything as soon as Jan was picked up, for Jan would tell enough to make the police and the newspapers investigate. But if Jan were confronted with the fact of the kidnapping of Mary, what would happen? Could Jan prove an alibi? If he did, then the police would start looking for someone else. They would start questioning him again; they would want to know why he had lied about Jan’s being in the house. But would not the word “Red” which he had signed to the ransom note throw them off the track and make them still think that Jan or his comrades did it? Why would anybody want to think that Bigger had kidnapped Mary?
Bigger came out of the closet and wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He had knelt so long that his blood had almost stopped and needle-like pains shot from the bottom of his feet to the calves of his legs. He went to the window and looked out at the swirling snow. He could hear wind rising; it was a blizzard all right. The snow moved in no given direction, but filled the world with a vast white storm of flying powder. The sharp currents of wind could be seen in whorls of snow twisting like miniature tornadoes.