Native Son (8 page)

He went home and sat in a chair by the window, looking out dreamily.

“That you, Bigger?” his mother called from behind the curtain.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What you run in here and run out for, a little while ago?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t you go and get into no trouble, now, boy.”

“Aw, Ma! Leave me alone.”

He listened awhile to her rubbing clothes on the metal washboard, then he gazed abstractedly into the street, thinking of how he had felt when he fought Gus in Doc’s poolroom. He was relieved and glad that in an hour he was going to see about that job at the Dalton place. He was disgusted with the gang; he knew that what had happened today put an end to his being with them in any more jobs. Like a man staring regretfully but hopelessly at the stump of a cut-off arm or leg, he knew that the fear of robbing a white man had had hold of him when he started that fight with Gus; but he knew it in a way that kept it from coming to his mind in the form of a hard and sharp idea. His confused emotions had made him feel instinctively that it would be better to fight Gus and spoil the plan of the robbery than to confront a white man with a gun. But he kept this knowledge of his fear thrust firmly down in him; his courage to live depended upon how successfully his fear was hidden from his consciousness. He had fought Gus because Gus was late; that was the reason his emotions accepted and he did not try to justify himself in his own eyes, or in the eyes of the gang. He did not think enough of them to feel that he had to; he did not consider himself as being responsible to them for what he did, even though they had been involved as deeply as he in the planned robbery. He felt that same way toward everyone. As long as he could remember, he had never been responsible to anyone. The moment a situation became so that it exacted something of him, he rebelled. That was the way he lived; he passed his days trying to defeat or gratify powerful impulses in a world he feared.

Outside his window he saw the sun dying over the roof-tops in the western sky and watched the first shade of dusk fall. Now and then a street car ran past. The rusty radiator hissed at the far end of the room. All day long it had been springlike; but now dark clouds were slowly swallowing the sun. All at once the street lamps came on and the sky was black and close to the house-tops.

Inside his shirt he felt the cold metal of the gun resting against his naked skin; he ought to put it back between the mattresses. No! He would keep it. He would take it with him to the Dalton place. He felt that he would be safer if he took it. He was not planning to use it and there was nothing in particular that he was afraid of, but there was in him an uneasiness and distrust that made him feel that he ought to have it along. He was going among white people, so he would take his knife and his gun; it would make him feel that he was the equal of them, give him a sense of completeness. Then he thought of a good reason why he should take it; in order to get to the Dalton place, he had to go through a white neighborhood. He had not heard of any Negroes being molested recently, but he felt that it was always possible.

Far away a clock boomed five times. He sighed and got up and yawned and stretched his arms high above his head to loosen the muscles of his body. He got his overcoat, for it was growing cold outdoors; then got his cap. He tiptoed to the door, wanting to slip out without his mother hearing him. Just as he was about to open it, she called,

“Bigger!”

He stopped and frowned.

“Yeah, Ma.”

“You going to see about that job?”

“Yeah.”

“Ain’t you going to eat?”

“I ain’t got time now.”

She came to the door, wiping her soapy hands upon an apron.

“Here; take this quarter and buy you something.”

“O.K.”

“And be careful, son.”

He went out and walked south to Forty-sixth Street, then cast-ward. Well, he would see in a few moments if the Daltons for whom he was to work were the ones he had seen and heard about in the movie. But while walking through this quiet and spacious white neighborhood, he did not feel the pull and mystery of the thing as strongly as he had in the movie. The houses he passed were
huge; lights glowed softly in windows. The streets were empty, save for an occasional car that zoomed past on swift rubber tires. This was a cold and distant world; a world of white secrets carefully guarded. He could feel a pride, a certainty, and a confidence in these streets and houses. He came to Drexel Boulevard and began to look for 4605. When he came to it, he stopped and stood before a high, black, iron picket fence, feeling constricted inside. All he had felt in the movie was gone; only fear and emptiness filled him now.

Would they expect him to come in the front way or back? It was queer that he had not thought of that. Goddamn! He walked the length of the picket fence in front of the house, seeking for a walk leading to the rear. But there was none. Other than the from gate, there was only a driveway, the entrance to which was securely locked. Suppose a police saw him wandering in a white neighborhood like this? It would be thought that he was trying to rob or rape somebody. He grew angry. Why had he come to take this goddamn job? He could have stayed among his own people and escaped feeling this fear and hate. This was not his world; he had been foolish in thinking that he would have liked it. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk with his jaws clamped tight; he wanted to strike something with his fist. Well…. Goddamn! There was nothing to do but go in the front way. If he were doing wrong, they could not kill him, at least; all they could do was to tell him that he could not get the job.

Timidly, he lifted the latch on the gate and walked to the steps. He paused, waiting for someone to challenge him. Nothing happened. Maybe nobody was home? He went to the door and saw a dim light burning in a shaded niche above a doorbell. He pushed it and was startled to hear a soft gong sound within. Maybe he had pushed it too hard? Aw, what the hell! He had to do better than this; he relaxed his taut muscles and stood at ease, waiting. The doorknob turned. The door opened. He saw a white face. It was a woman.

“Hello!”

“Yessum,” he said.

“You want to see somebody?”

“Er…. Er…. I want to see Mr. Dalton.”

“Are you the Thomas boy?”

“Yessum.”

“Come in.”

He edged through the door slowly, then stopped halfway. The woman was so close to him that he could see a tiny mole at the corner of her mouth. He held his breath. It seemed that there was not room enough for him to pass without actually touching her.

“Come on in,” the woman said.

“Yessum,” he whispered.

He squeezed through and stood uncertainly in a softly lighted hallway.

“Follow me,” she said.

With cap in hand and shoulders sloped, he followed, walking over a rug so soft and deep that it seemed he was going to fall at each step he took. He went into a dimly lit room.

“Take a seat,” she said. “I’ll tell Mr. Dalton that you’re here and he’ll be out in a moment.”

“Yessum.”

He sat and looked up at the woman; she was staring at him and he looked away in confusion. He was glad when she left. That old bastard! What’s so damn funny about me? I’m just like she is…. He felt that the position in which he was sitting was too awkward and found that he was on the very edge of the chair. He rose slightly to sit farther back; but when he sat he sank down so suddenly and deeply that he thought the chair had collapsed under him. He bounded halfway up, in fear; then, realizing what had happened, he sank distrustfully down again. He looked round the room; it was lit by dim lights glowing from a hidden source. He tried to find them by roving his eyes, but could not. He had not expected anything like this; he had not thought that this world would be so utterly different from his own that it would intimidate him. On the smooth walls were several paintings whose nature he tried to make out, but failed. He would have liked to examine them, but dared not. Then he listened; a faint sound of piano music floated to him from somewhere. He was sitting in a white home;
dim lights burned round him; strange objects challenged him; and he was feeling angry and uncomfortable.

“All right. Come this way.”

He started at the sound of a man’s voice.

“Suh?”

“Come this way.”

Misjudging how far back he was sitting in the chair, his first attempt to rise failed and he slipped back, resting on his side Grabbing the arms of the chair, he pulled himself upright and found a tall, lean, white-haired man holding a piece of paper in his hand. The man was gazing at him with an amused smile that made him conscious of every square inch of skin on his black body.

“Thomas?” the man asked. “Bigger Thomas?”

“Yessuh,” he whispered; not speaking, really; but hearing his words roll involuntarily from his lips.

“Come this way.”

“Yessuh.”

He followed the man out of the room and down a hall. The man stopped abruptly. Bigger paused, bewildered; then he saw coming slowly toward him a tall, thin, white woman, walking silently, her hands lifted delicately in the air and touching the walls to either side of her. Bigger stepped back to let her pass. Her face and hair were completely white; she seemed to him like a ghost. The man took her arm gently and held her for a moment. Bigger saw that she was old and her grey eyes looked stony.

“Are you all right?” the man asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Where’s Peggy?”

“She’s preparing dinner. I’m quite all right, Henry.”

The man let go of the woman and she walked on slowly, the long white fingers of her hands just barely touching the walls Behind the woman, following at the hem of her dress, was a big white cat, pacing without sound. She’s blind! Bigger thought in amazement.

“Come on; this way,” the man said.

“Yessuh.”

He wondered if the man had seen him staring at the woman. He would have to be careful here. There were so many strange things. He followed the man into a room.

“Sit down.”

“Yessuh,” he said, sitting.

“That was Mrs. Dalton,” the man said. “She’s blind.”

“Yessuh.”

“She has a very deep interest in colored people.”

“Yessuh,” Bigger whispered. He was conscious of the effort to breathe; he licked his lips and fumbled nervously with his cap.

“Well, I’m Mr. Dalton.”

“Yessuh.”

“Do you think you’d like driving a car?”

“Oh, yessuh.”

“Did you bring the paper?”

“Suh?”

“Didn’t the relief give you a note to me?”

“Oh, yessuh!”

He had completely forgotten about the paper. He stood to reach into his vest pocket and, in doing so, dropped his cap. For a moment his impulses were deadlocked; he did not know if he should pick up his cap and then find the paper, or find the paper and then pick up his cap. He decided to pick up his cap.

“Put your cap here,” said Mr. Dalton, indicating a place on his desk.

“Yessuh.”

Then he was stone-still; the white cat bounded past him and leaped upon the desk; it sat looking at him with large placid eyes and mewed plaintively.

“What’s the matter, Kate?” Mr. Dalton asked, stroking the cat’s fur and smiling. Mr. Dalton turned back to Bigger. “Did you find it?”

“Nawsuh. But I got it here, somewhere.”

He hated himself at that moment. Why was he acting and feeling this way? He wanted to wave his hand and blot out the white man who was making him feel this. If not that, he wanted to blot himself out. He had not raised his eyes to the level of Mr. Dalton’s
face once since he had been in the house. He stood with his knees slightly bent, his lips partly open, his shoulders stooped; and his eyes held a look that went only to the surface of things. There was an organic conviction in him that this was the way white folks wanted him to be when in their presence; none had ever told him that in so many words, but their manner had made him feel that they did. He laid the cap down, noticing that Mr. Dalton was watching him closely. Maybe he was not acting right? Goddamn Clumsily, he searched for the paper. He could not find it at first and he felt called upon to say something for taking so long.

“I had it right here in my vest pocket,” he mumbled.

“Take your time.”

“Oh, here it is.”

He drew the paper forth. It was crumpled and soiled. Nervously, he straightened it out and handed it to Mr. Dalton, holding it by its very tip end.

“All right, now,” said Mr. Dalton. “Let’s see what you’ve got here. You live at 3721 Indiana Avenue?”

“Yessuh.”

Mr. Dalton paused, frowned, and looked up at the ceiling.

“What kind of a building is that over there?”

“You mean where I live, suh?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, it’s just an old building.”

“Where do you pay rent?”

“Down on Thirty-first Street.”

“To the South Side Real Estate Company?”

“Yessuh.”

Bigger wondered what all these questions could mean; he had heard that Mr. Dalton owned the South Side Real Estate Company, but he was not sure.

“How much rent do you pay?”

“Eight dollars a week.”

“For how many rooms?”

“We just got one, suh.”

“I see…. Now, Bigger, tell me, how old are you?”

“I’m twenty, suh.”

“Married?”

“Nawsuh.”

“Sit down. You needn’t stand. And I won’t be long.”

“Yessuh.”

He sat. The white cat still contemplated him with large, moist eyes.

“Now, you have a mother, a brother, and a sister?”

“Yessuh.”

“There are four of you?”

“Yessuh, there’s four of us,” he stammered, trying to show that he was not as stupid as he might appear. He felt a need to speak more, for he felt that maybe Mr. Dalton expected it. And he suddenly remembered the many times his mother had told him not to look at the floor when talking with white folks or asking for a job. He lifted his eyes and saw Mr. Dalton watching him closely. He dropped his eyes again.

“They call you Bigger?”

“Yessuh.”

“Now, Bigger, I’d like to talk with you a little….”