Native Son (46 page)

“Tell me the things you
thought
you’d have liked to do?”

“I’d like to be in business. But what chance has a black guy got in business? We ain’t got no money. We don’t own no mines, no railroads, no nothing. They don’t want us to. They make us stay in one little spot….”

“And you didn’t want to stay there?”

Bigger glanced up; his lips tightened. There was a feverish pride in his blood-shot eyes.

“I
didn’t
,” he said.

Max stared and sighed.

“Look, Bigger. You’ve told me the things you could not do. But you did something. You committed these crimes. You killed two women. What on earth did you think you could get out of it?”

Bigger rose and rammed his hands into his pockets. He leaned against the wall, looking vacantly. Again he forgot that Max was in the room.

“I don’t know. Maybe this sounds crazy. Maybe they going to burn me in the electric chair for feeling this way. But I ain’t worried none about them women I killed. For a little while I was free. I was doing something. It was wrong, but I was feeling all right. Maybe God’ll get me for it. If He do, all right. But I ain’t worried. I killed ’em ’cause I was scared and mad. But I been scared and mad all my life and after I killed that first woman, I wasn’t scared no more for a little while.”

“What were you afraid of?”

“Everything,” he breathed and buried his face in his hands.

“Did you ever hope for anything, Bigger?”

“What for? I couldn’t get it. I’m black,” he mumbled.

“Didn’t you ever want to be happy?”

“Yeah; I guess so,” he said, straightening.

“How did you think you could be happy?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to do things. But everything I wanted to do I couldn’t. I wanted to do what the white boys in school did.
Some of ’em went to college. Some of’em went to the army. But I couldn’t go.”

“But still, you wanted to be happy?”

“Yeah; sure. Everybody wants to be happy, I reckon.”

“Did you think you ever would be?”

“I don’t know. I just went to bed at night and got up in the morning. I just lived from day to day. I thought maybe I would be.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” he said in a voice that was almost a moan.

“What did you think happiness would be like?”

“I don’t know. It wouldn’t be like this.”

“You ought to have some idea of what you wanted, Bigger.”

“Well, Mr. Max, if I was happy I wouldn’t always be wanting to do something I know I couldn’t do.”

“And why did you always want to?”

“I couldn’t help it. Everybody feels that way, I reckon. And I did, too. Maybe I would’ve been all right if I could’ve done something I wanted to do. I wouldn’t be scared then. Or mad, maybe. I wouldn’t be always hating folks; and maybe I’d feel at home, sort of.”

“Did you ever go to the South Side Boys’ Club, the place where Mr. Dalton sent those ping-pong tables?”

“Yeah; but what the hell can a guy do with ping-pong?”

“Do you feel that that club kept you out of trouble?”

Bigger cocked his head.

“Kept me out of trouble?” he repeated Max’s words. “Naw; that’s where we planned most of our jobs.”

“Did you ever go to church, Bigger?”

“Yeah; when I was little. But that was a long time ago.”

“Your folks were religious?”

“Yeah; they went to church all the time.”

“Why did you stop going?”

“I didn’t like it. There was nothing in it. Aw, all they did was sing and shout and pray all the time. And it didn’t get ’em nothing. All the colored folks do that, but it don’t get ’em nothing. The white folks got everything.”

“Did you ever feel happy in church?”

“Naw. I didn’t want to. Nobody but poor folks get happy in church.”

“But you are poor, Bigger.”

Again Bigger’s eyes lit with a bitter and feverish pride.

“I ain’t that poor,” he said.

“But Bigger, you said that if you were where people did not hate you and you did not hate them, you could be happy. Nobody hated you in church. Couldn’t you feel at home there?”

“I wanted to be happy in this world, not out of it. I didn’t want that kind of happiness. The white folks like for us to be religious, then they can do what they want to with us.”

“A little while ago you spoke of God ‘getting you’ for killing those women. Does that mean you believe in Him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you afraid of what’ll happen to you after you die?”

“Naw. But I don’t want to die.”

“Didn’t you know that the penalty for killing that white woman would be death?”

“Yeah; I knew it. But I felt like she was killing me, so I didn’t care.”

“If you could be happy in religion now, would you want to be?”

“Naw. I’ll be dead soon enough. If I was religious, I’d be dead now.”

“But the church promises eternal life?”

“That’s for whipped folks.”

“You don’t feel like you’ve had a chance, do you?”

“Naw; but I ain’t asking nobody to be sorry for me. Naw; I ain’t asking that at all. I’m black. They don’t give black people a chance, so I took a chance and lost. But I don’t care none now. They got me and it’s all over.”

“Do you feel, Bigger, that somehow, somewhere, or sometime or other you’ll have a chance to make up for what you didn’t get here on earth?”

“Hell, naw! When they strap me in that chair and turn on the heat, I’m through, for always.”

“Bigger, I want to ask you something about your race. Do you love your people?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Max. We all black and the white folks treat us the same.”

“But Bigger, your race is doing things for you. There are Negroes leading your people.”

“Yeah; I know. I heard about ’em. They all right, I guess.”

“Don’t you know any of ’em?”

“Naw.”

“Bigger, are there many Negro boys like you?”

“I reckon so. All of ’em I know ain’t got nothing and ain’t going nowhere.”

“Why didn’t you go to some of the leaders of your race and tell them how you and other boys felt?”

“Aw, hell, Mr. Max. They wouldn’t listen to me. They rich, even though the white folks treat them almost like they do me. They almost like the white people, when it comes to guys like me. They say guys like me make it hard for them to get along with white folks.”

“Did you ever hear any of your leaders make speeches?”

“Yeah, sure. At election time.”

“What did you think of them?”

“Aw, I don’t know. They all the same. They wanted to get elected to office. They wanted money, like everybody else. Mr. Max, it’s a game and they play it.”

“Why didn’t you play it?”

“Hell, what do I know? I ain’t got nothing. Nobody’ll pay any attention to me. I’m just a black guy with nothing. I just went to grammar school. And politics is full of big shots, guys from colleges.”

“Didn’t you trust them?”

“I don’t reckon they wanted anybody to trust ’em. They wanted to get elected to office. They paid you to vote.”

“Did you ever vote?”

“Yeah; I voted twice. I wasn’t old enough, so I put my age up so I could vote and get the five dollars.”

“You didn’t mind selling your vote?”

“Naw; why should I?”

“You didn’t think politics could get you anything?”

“It got me five dollars on election day.”

“Bigger, did any white people ever talk to you about labor unions?”

“Naw; nobody but Jan and Mary. But she oughtn’t done it…. But I couldn’t help what I did. And Jan. I reckon I did him wrong by signing ‘Red’ to that ransom note.”

“Do you believe he’s your friend now?”

“Well, he ain’t against me. He didn’t turn against me today when they was questioning him. I don’t think he hates me like the others. I suppose he’s kind of hurt about Miss Dalton, though.”

“Bigger, did you think you’d ever come to this?”

“Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Max, it seems sort of natural-like, me being here facing that death chair. Now I come to think of it, it seems like something like this just had to be.”

They were silent. Max stood up and sighed. Bigger watched to see what Max was thinking, but Max’s face was white and blank.

“Well, Bigger,” Max said. “We’ll enter a plea of not guilty at the arraignment tomorrow. But when the trial comes up we’ll change it to a plea of guilty and ask for mercy. They’re rushing the trial; it may be held in two or three days. I’ll tell the judge all I can of how you feel and why. I’ll try to get him to make it life in prison. That’s all I can see under the circumstances. I don’t have to tell you how they feel toward you, Bigger. You’re a Negro; you know. Don’t hope for too much. There’s an ocean of hot hate out there against you and I’m going to try to sweep some of it back. They want your life; they want revenge. They felt they had you fenced off so that you could not do what you did. Now they’re mad because deep down in them they believe that they made you do it. When people feel that way, you can’t reason with ’em. Then, too, a lot depends upon what judge we have. Any twelve white men in this state will have already condemned you; we can’t trust a jury. Well, Bigger, I’ll do the best I can.”

They were silent. Max gave him another cigarette and took one
for himself. Bigger watched Max’s head of white hair, his long face, the deep-grey, soft, sad eyes. He felt that Max was kind, and he felt sorry for him.

“Mr. Max, if I was you I wouldn’t worry none. If all folks was like you, then maybe I wouldn’t be here. But you can’t help that now. They going to hate you for trying to help me. I’m gone. They got me.”

“Oh, they’ll hate me, yes,” said Max. “But I can take it. That’s the difference. I’m a Jew and they hate me, but I know why and I can fight. But sometimes you can’t win no matter how you fight; that is, you can’t win if you haven’t got time. And they’re pressing us now. But you need not worry about their hating me for defending you. The fear of hate keeps many whites from trying to help you and your kind. Before I can fight your battle, I’ve got to fight a battle with them.” Max snuffed out his cigarette. “I got to go now,” Max said. He turned and faced Bigger. “Bigger, how do you feel?”

“I don’t know. I’m just setting here waiting for ’em to come and tell me to walk to that chair. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk or not.”

Max averted his face and opened the door. A guard came and caught Bigger by the wrist.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Bigger,” Max called.

Back in his cell, Bigger stood in the middle of the floor, not moving. He was not stoop-shouldered now, nor were his muscles taut. He breathed softly, wondering about the cool breath of peace that hovered in his body. It was as though he were trying to listen to the beat of his own heart. All round him was darkness and there were no sounds. He could not remember when he had felt as relaxed as this before. He had not thought of it or felt it while Max was speaking to him; it was not until after Max had gone that he discovered that he had spoken to Max as he had never spoken to anyone in his life; not even to himself. And his talking had eased from his shoulders a heavy burden. Then he was suddenly and violently angry. Max had tricked him! But no. Max had not compelled him to talk; he had talked of his own accord, prodded by excite
ment, by a curiosity about his own feelings. Max had only sat and listened, had only asked questions. His anger passed and fear took its place. If he were as confused as this when his time came, they really
would
have to drag him to the chair. He had to make a decision: in order to walk to that chair he had to weave his feelings into a hard shield of either hope or hate. To fall between them would mean living and dying in a fog of fear.

He was balanced on a hair-line now, but there was no one to push him forward or backward, no one to make him feel that he had any value or worth—no one but himself. He brushed his hands across his eyes, hoping to untangle the sensations fluttering in his body. He lived in a thin, hard core of consciousness; he felt time slipping by; the darkness round him lived, breathed. And he was in the midst of it, wanting again to let his body taste of that short respite of rest he had felt after talking with Max. He sat down on the cot; he had to grasp this thing.

Why had Max asked him all those questions? He knew that Max was seeking facts to tell the judge; but in Max’s asking of those questions he had felt a recognition of his life, of his feelings, of his person that he had never encountered before. What was this? Had he done wrong? Had he let himself in for another betrayal? He felt as though he had been caught off his guard. But this, this—confidence? He had no right to be proud; yet he had spoken to Max as a man who
had
something. He had told Max that he did not want religion, that he had not stayed in his place. He had no right to feel that, no right to forget that he was to die, that he was black, a murderer; he had no right to forget that, not even for a second. Yet he had.

He wondered if it were possible that after all everybody in the world felt alike? Did those who hated him have in them the same thing Max had seen in him, the thing that had made Max ask him those questions? And what motive could Max have in helping? Why would Max risk that white tide of hate to help him? For the first time in his life he had gained a pinnacle of feeling upon which he could stand and see vague relations that he had never dreamed of.
If that white looming mountain of hate were not a mountain at all, but people, people like himself, and like Jan—then he was faced with a high hope the like of which he had never thought could be, and a despair the full depths of which he knew he could not stand to feel. A strong counter-emotion waxed in him, urging him, warning him to leave this newly-seen and newly-felt thing alone, that it would lead him to but another blind alley, to deeper hate and shame.

Yet he saw and felt but one life, and that one life was more than a sleep, a dream; life was all life had. He knew that he would not wake up some time later, after death, and sigh at how simple and foolish his dream had been. The life he saw was short and his sense of it goaded him. He was seized with a nervous eagerness. He stood up in the middle of the cell floor and tried to see himself in relation to other men, a thing he had always feared to try to do, so deeply stained was his own mind with the hate of others for him. With this new sense of the value of himself gained from Max’s talk, a sense fleeting and obscure, he tried to feel that if Max had been able to see the man in him beneath those wild and cruel acts of his, acts of fear and hate and murder and flight and despair, then he
too
would hate, if
he
were
they
, just as now
he
was hating
them
and
they
were hating
him
. For the first time in his life he felt ground beneath his feet, and he wanted it to stay there.