The Outsider (18 page)

“Look—Why don't you tell Jenny about your troubles? Maybe we can team up together,” she said seriously.

“Forget it, Jenny. You'll save yourself time.”

“You're in no mood for talking today,” she said, rising. “See you when you're feeling better.”

She let herself out of the room and he sat brooding. Maybe he ought to play safe and move? Was Jenny stooling for the police? But he had no criminal record and even if the police should question him, there was nothing they could pin on him. He had only a day to wait; he would remain where he was. Later, after the descent of the catastrophe, he wondered why he had not acted upon his sense of foreboding and moved…

It was nearing two o'clock when Cross, filled with trepidation, took a trolley to the South Side. He found himself being irresistibly drawn to Gladys' home and, rashly, he boarded an “L” that passed in sight of the house and rode back and forth, snatching a quick glimpse of the front door each time the train sped past. He would ride a station past the house in one direction, get off, traverse the footbridge, and ride past the house again in the other direction to the station beyond it, get off again and return. It was not until nearly two-thirty that he saw any signs of life; the front door opened and Gladys and his mother—both dressed in deep black—came out upon the sidewalk and stood in the snow. Junior, Peter, and Robert followed, being led by a distant cousin of Gladys. Excited, Cross got off the train, concealed himself behind a billboard on the “L” platform, and saw a man garbed formally in black go up to Gladys, his mother, and the children, and tip his hat to them. No doubt the undertaker, Cross thought. His eyes lingered on his mother and his sons and, as they
left, a light seemed to go out of the winter sky. He would never see them again…

His heart bubbled with hot panic when a voice sounded in his ear: “Do you know 'em?”

He spun and looked into the face of a young Negro dressed in the uniform of the “L” company. He had never seen the man before.

“No,” he answered, relaxing.

“That's the family of a guy who was killed in the subway accident last week,” the man spoke in a detached voice. “I reckon they must be going to the funeral.”

“Oh,” Cross said, keeping his face averted. “I read about that.”

“Man, that guy wasn't nothing but meatballs and spaghetti when the subway got through with 'im,” the man went on.

“What do you mean?” Cross asked.

“Brother, your blood is the tomato sauce. Your white guts is the spaghetti. And your flesh is the meat, see? You'd be surprised how like a plate of meatballs and spaghetti you look when you get minced up in one of those subway wrecks. Ha-ha-ha,” the man laughed cynically.

An “L” train rolled to a stop and Cross hurried into it; he had seen and heard enough. He rushed to his rented room and sat at a window overlooking the church entrance. Fifteen minutes later the hearse arrived. There's Tom…! Tom was his old friend from the Post Office and he was one of the pallbearers. And there was Frank…And Pinkie…And Booker…And Joe Thomas…He could not make out the others, for their faces were turned. He watched them lift the black coffin and march slowly into the church. The undertaker's assistants followed, carrying many wreaths
of flowers inside. He saw the undertaker lead Gladys, his mother, and his three sons into the church. He opened the window a crack and caught an echo of a melancholy hymn…The service was so long that he wondered what the preacher could have found to say about him. He was certain, however, of one thing: whatever was being said had no relationship at all to him, his life, or the feelings he was supposed to have had.

An hour later the church doors opened and the crowd began to file out, first Gladys, then his mother; finally his three sons came, led by the preacher and the undertaker. Again he saw them sliding the black coffin into the hearse. Soon a long procession of black cars pulled off through the snow. It was over. He had witnessed a scene about which he could never in his life talk with anybody. And he
did
hanker to talk about it. When men shared normal experiences, they could talk about them without fear, but he had to hug this black secret to his heart.

The procession had gone and the church doors had shut. He had to go back to his hotel and prepare to catch a train for New York. But he did not move. He was empty, face to face with a sense of dread more intense than anything he had ever felt before. He was alone. He was not only without friends, their hopes, their fears, and loves, to buoy him up, but he was a man tossed back upon himself when that self meant only a hope of hope. The church across the street was still there, but somehow it had changed into a strange pile of white, lonely stone, as bleak and denuded of meaning as he was. And the snowy street, like the church, assumed a dumb, lifeless aspect. He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bed and stared about the room. His movements were mechanical. The dingy walls seemed to loom over against him, asking wordlessly questions that
he could not answer. Nothing made meaning; his life seemed to have turned into a static dream whose frozen images would remain unchanged throughout eternity.

He told himself that he was brooding too much; he had to get out of this room. On the snow-cushioned sidewalk, his legs led him to a taxi, but when he reached his hotel, he did not want to go in. Instead he ambled into a nearby bar, THE CAT'S PAW, and ordered a whiskey. He drank eleven shots before he could feel the influence of the alcohol. He ordered his twelfth and the bartender told him: “If I were you, I'd get some air.”

“I can pay you,” Cross told him.

“That ain't the point,” the bartender said. “Get rid of what you've got, then I'll sell you some more.” The bartender studied him. “Worried about something, eh?”

He paid and went out. He was not drunk; there was simply no purpose in him. When he finally entered the hotel, he met Jenny in the corridor near the door of his room. Because she had no meaning, she meant everything to him now.

“Speak of the devil,” she greeted him, smiling.

“Hi,” he breathed.

“Look, I got a bottle,” she said, showing it to him. “How about it?”

“I don't mind.”

He needed a drink. He felt her take hold of his hand and squeeze it.

“You're freezing,” she said.

“Yeah.”

He unlocked the door and let her go in; he followed, pulled off his coat and flopped on the bed.

“You're all in,” she commented sympathetically.

“Tired,” he said and closed his eyes.

“You must relax,” she said.

He was silently grateful when he felt her cool, soft
hand moving slowly across his hot forehead. Her hand left him; he heard her pouring whiskey, felt the glass as she took his fingers and gently forced them about it. He pulled up and drank. She sat next to him on the bed, cradling her glass in her palms.

“Don't you want to know anything about me?” she asked him.

“Jenny, you don't understand,” he said kindly.

“I'm a little better than you think I am,” she said; she bent forward and fingered his ear.

“Maybe.”

“You
could
do a lot worse than me, and maybe you
could
do a lot better. But whatever it is, it's not for keeps,” she told him.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Take me with you,” she said. “When you're tired of me, then dump me. I don't care. I want to get out of Chicago.”

“I can't.”

“Why?”

Her soft arm went around his neck and his nostrils were full of the scent of her hair; he drained his glass and a moment later he heard her ask: “What's the matter? If you talk about it, it'll be easier.”

She searched for his mouth and kissed him. His world was a blur. He needed what she was trying to give him but he was afraid.

“Why do you bother about me?” he asked.

“'Cause I like you. Ain't that enough?”

“Guess so,” he mumbled. He was alone, empty. “Give me another drink.”

She poured the glasses full. He drank again, stood, swayed, tugged at his tie.

“What're you doing?”

“Going to bed…”

“Wait, I'll help you undress,” she said. “You're three sheets to the wind.”

His limbs were like rubber. She aided him in pulling off his clothes, rolled back the blanket and pushed him into bed. His eyes closed; he heard her moving about, pulling down the shade, locking the door. Then he felt the sensual smoothness of her skin as she slid into bed beside him. She blended her body with his and he could feel the tender spread of her fingers on his back. His senses were dreaming. He looked at her and she was not a dangerous girl; those deep, tranquil, bluish-grey-green eyes were dark and helpful now and the heat of her body was filling him with thankfulness.

“Can't you talk to me?” she asked him.

“You wouldn't understand.”

“I would. Just
try
.”

He laughed, took her face between his palms and stared at her, feeling foolishly proud of the irony of his life.

“I'm dead,” he said.

Her lips parted in bewilderment and she pushed his hands roughly from her face. She looked off a second and then back to him.

“You're nuts,” she said.

He wanted to tell her. He knew now that she was not working for the police, but for herself. She needed a man and had fastened her hope on him. If she had been well-known to him, he would never have had the impulse to tell her. But a strange girl was different and he would be leaving soon. Dammit, he had to tell somebody just to make sure that his situation was not a fantasy of his own mind. He was too much alone and it was insupportable.

“I'm in a funny fix,” he began. “You remember that subway accident last week? Well, I was in it.”

“You were hurt in it? Is that what's making you act so funny?”

“I wasn't really hurt,” he continued, knowing that he ought not talk, but hearing the words spilling out in spite of himself. “Listen, they found a body down there all mangled and they think it's mine…”

“Are you
sure
you weren't hurt?” Her eyes were round with concern.

“No. I wasn't hurt,” he went on, nettled that she was not believing him. “Today, just two hours ago, they buried that body thinking that it was mine…”

She pulled abruptly away from him, rose, walked across the room and got her cigarettes. She lit one and sat near him.

“Are you trying to shit me? Now, come on; tell me what you've done.”

Cross buried his face in the pillow to stifle his laughter. She did not believe him. He knew that his story was wild, but he had not counted upon so much outright disbelief.

“This is funny,” he chuckled.

“What's so goddamn funny?” she snapped at him.

“You asked me to tell you, now you don't believe me.”

“If you had done something like that, you wouldn't tell me,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because the insurance companies would want to know about it,” she explained. “And you're smarter than that.”

He grew sober. Her intelligence was frightening.

“All right,” he said, relieved. “I'm lying.” He stood and got his bathrobe and struggled into it. “
I'm not dead, then
.”

“Where're you going?” she asked.

“Down the hall to see a man about a coffin,” he said.

He lumbered into the corridor, feeling swamped by confusion. This damn girl was making him lose control of the project he had planned. I'm really crazy to talk to her, he reproached himself. He resolved that upon his return from the bathroom he was going to get dressed and get the hell out of the city as fast as a train could carry him. And from now on he would keep firm hold on himself. He turned a bend in the corridor, his head lowered in reflection; he drew in his breath sharply as he felt his body colliding with that of another man. Before his senses could register what was happening, he heard a familiar voice bursting in his ears and saw an old, familiar smile of incredulous astonishment spreading over a fat, black face.

“As I live and breathe! You're either Cross or his twin!”

Cross stared at the face and had the stupid desire to shake his head and make it vanish. He was looking into the eyes of a man he had known for six years! Like he, the man wore a bathrobe and had evidently just come from the bathroom. He was done for; there was no way out of this except
…He had to decide what to do quickly
! Tension made him hot as fire; he had to check a crazy impulse to wave his arm and try to sweep this man from sight and keep his freedom. It was big, fat, black Joe Thomas who stood in front of him, the same man he had seen acting as a pallbearer around his coffin earlier that afternoon!

“
Speak
, man! They say you're dead, but you ain't no ghost and I damn well
know
it! We just put your coffin in the ground, man! What the
hell
is this?” Joe's eyes were dancing in his fat, black face; he threw out his hands, hesitated, then clapped both of them on Cross's shoulders. “I got to
touch
you to believe it!” Joe's face
was a mixture of fear and gladness. “They
all
think you're dead, and
here
you are in a cat house with the chippies! Good God Almighty! I feel weak…” Joe blinked, his lips hanging open. “I just came in here to knock off a piece of tail 'fore going to work—Hell, the whole town's talking 'bout how you died—” Joe rocked back on his heels and burst into a gale of hysterical laughter. “This is a new way to cover up cunt hunting! Oh, Jesus, this is hot!” Joe sobered for a moment; he was struggling with himself to adjust his mind to what his eyes saw. “But,
say
something! You
are
Cross, ain't you?”