Native Son (19 page)

“Gee, kid.”

“Bigger.”

He took his hand away and relaxed. He did not feel that he wanted to step forth and resume where he had left off living; not just yet. He was lying at the bottom of a deep dark pit upon a pallet of warm wet straw and at the top of the pit he could see the cold blue of the distant sky. Some hand had reached inside of him and had laid a quiet finger of peace upon the restless tossing of his spirit and had made him feel that he did not need to long for a home now. Then, like the long withdrawing sound of a receding wave, the sense of night and sea and warmth went from him and he lay looking in the darkness at the shadowy outline of Bessie’s body, hearing his and her breathing.

“Bigger?”

“Hunh?”

“You like your job?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I just asked.”

“You swell.”

“You mean that?”

“Sure.”

“Where you working?”

“Over on Drexel.”

“Where?”

“In the 4600 block.”

“Oh!”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“But, what?”

“Oh, I just happen to think of something.”

“Tell me. What is it?”

“It ain’t nothing, Bigger, honey.”

What did she mean by asking all these questions? He wondered if she had detected anything in him. Then he wondered if he were not letting fear get the better of him by thinking always in terms of Mary and of her having been smothered and burnt. But he wanted to know why she had asked where he worked.

“Come on, honey. Tell me what you thinking.”

“It ain’t nothing much, Bigger. I used to work over in that section, not far from where the Loeb folks lived.”

“Loeb?”

“Yeah. One of the families of one of the boys that killed that Franks boy. Remember?”

“Naw; what you mean?”

“You remember hearing people talk about Loeb and Leopold.”

“Oh!”

“The ones who killed the boy and then tried to get money from the boy’s family….

…by sending notes to them
Bigger was not listening. The world of sound fell abruptly away from him and a vast picture appeared before his eyes, a picture teeming with so much meaning
that he could not react to it all at once. He lay, his eyes unblinking, his heart pounding, his lips slightly open, his breath coming and going so softly that it seemed he was not breathing at all.
you remember them aw you ain’t even listening
He said nothing.
how come you won’t listen when I talk to you
Why could he, why could he not, not send a letter to the Daltons, asking for money?
Bigger
He sat up in bed, staring into the darkness,
what’s the matter honey
He could ask for ten thousand, or maybe twenty.
Bigger what’s the matter I’m talking to you
He did not answer; his nerves were taut with the hard effort to remember something. Now! Yes, Loeb and Leopold had planned to have the father of the murdered boy get on a train and throw the money out of the window while passing some spot. He leaped from bed and stood in the middle of the floor.
Bigger
He could, yes, he could have them pack the money in a shoe box and have them throw it out of a car somewhere on the South Side. He looked round in the darkness, feeling Bessie’s fingers on his arm. He came to himself and sighed.

“What’s the matter, honey?” she asked.

“Hunh?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on and tell me. You worried?”

“Naw; naw….”

“Now, I told
you
what was on my mind, but you won’t tell me what’s on
yours
. That ain’t fair.”

“I just forgot something. That’s all.”

“That ain’t what you was thinking about,” she said.

He sat back on the bed, feeling his scalp tingle with excitement. Could he do it? This was what had been missing and this was what would make the thing complete. But this thing was so big he would have to take time and think it over carefully.

“Honey, tell me where you get that money?”

“What money?” he asked in a tone of feigned surprise.

“Aw, Bigger. I know something’s wrong. You worried. You got something on your mind. I can tell it.”

“You want me to make up something to tell you?”

“All right; if that’s the way you feel about it.”

“Aw, Bessie….”

“You didn’t have to come here tonight.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t’ve come.”

“You don’t have to come no more.”

“Don’t you love me?”

“About as much as you love me.”

“How much is that?”

“You ought to know.”

“Aw, let’s stop fussing,” he said.

He felt the bed sag gently and heard the bed-covers rustling as she pulled them over her. He turned his head and stared at the dim whites of her eyes in the darkness. Maybe, yes, maybe he could. maybe he could use her. He leaned and stretched himself on the bed beside her; she did not move. He put his hand upon her shoulder, pressing it just softly enough to let her know that he was thinking about her. His mind tried to grasp and encompass as much of her life as it could, tried to understand and weigh it in relation to his own, as his hand rested on her shoulder. Could he trust her? How much could he tell her? Would she act with him, blindly. believing his word?

“Come on. Let’s get dressed and go out and get something to drink,” she said.

“O.K.”

“You ain’t acting like you always act tonight.”

“I got something on my mind.”

“Can’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Sure.”

“Then why don’t you tell me?”

He did not answer. Her voice had come in a whisper, a whisper he had heard many times when she wanted something badly. It brought to him a full sense of her life, what he had been thinking and feeling when he had placed his hand upon her shoulder. The same deep realization he had had that morning at home at the
breakfast table while watching Vera and Buddy and his mother came back to him; only it was Bessie he was looking at now and seeing how blind she was. He felt the narrow orbit of her life: from her room to the kitchen of the white folks was the farthest she ever moved. She worked long hours, hard and hot hours seven days a week, with only Sunday afternoons off; and when she did get off she wanted fun, hard and fast fun, something to make her feel that she was making up for the starved life she led. It was her hankering for sensation that he liked about her. Most nights she was too tired to go out; she only wanted to get drunk. She wanted liquor and he wanted her. So he would give her the liquor and she would give him herself. He had heard her complain about how hard the white folks worked her; she had told him over and over again that she lived their lives when she was working in their homes, not her own. That was why, she told him, she drank. He knew why she liked him; he gave her money for drinks. He knew that if he did not give it to her someone else would; she would see to that. Bessie, too, was very blind. What ought he tell her? She might come in just handy. Then he realized that whatever he chose to tell her ought not to be anything that would make her feel in any way out of it; she ought to be made to feel that she knew it all. Goddamn! He just simply could not get used to acting like he ought. He should not have made her think that something was happening that he did not want her to know.

“Give me time, honey, and I’ll tell you,” he said, trying to straighten things out.

“You don’t have to unless you want to.”

“Don’t be that way.”

“You just can’t treat me any old way, Bigger.”

“I ain’t trying to, honey.”

“You can’t play me cheap.”

“Take it easy. I know what I’m doing.”

“I hope you do.”

“For Chrissakes!”

“Aw, come on. I want a drink.”

“Naw; listen….”

“Keep your business. You don’t have to tell me. But don’t you come running to me when you need a friend, see?”

“When we get a couple of drinks, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Suit yourself.”

He saw her waiting at the door for him; he put on his coat and cap and they walked slowly down the stairs, saying nothing. It seemed warmer outside, as though it were going to snow again. The sky was low and dark. The wind blew. As he walked beside Bessie his feet sank into the soft snow. The streets were empty and silent, stretching before him white and clean under the vanishing glow of a long string of street lamps. As he walked he saw out of the corners of his eyes Bessie striding beside him, and it seemed that his mind could feel the soft swing of her body as it went forward. He yearned suddenly to be back in bed with her, feeling her body warm and pliant to his. But the look on her face was a hard and distant one; it separated him from her body by a great suggestion of space. He had not really wanted to go out with her tonight; but her questions and suspicions had made him say yes when she had wanted to go for a drink. As he walked beside her he felt that there were two Bessies: one a body that he had just had and wanted badly again; the other was in Bessie’s face; it asked questions; it bargained and sold the other Bessie to advantage. He wished he could clench his fist and swing his arm and blot out, kill, sweep away the Bessie on Bessie’s face and leave the other helpless and yielding before him. He would then gather her up and put her in his chest, his stomach, some place deep inside him, always keeping her there even when he slept, ate, talked; keeping her there just to feel and know that she was his to have and hold whenever he wanted to.

“Where we going?”

“Wherever you want to.”

“Let’s go to the Paris Grill.”

“O.K.”

They turned a corner and walked to the middle of the block to the grill, and went in. An automatic phonograph was playing. They went to a rear table. Bigger ordered two sloe gin fizzes. They sat silent, looking at each other, waiting. He saw Bessie’s shoulders
jerking in rhythm to the music. Would she help him? Well, he would ask her; he would frame the story so that she would not have to know everything. He knew that he should have asked her to dance, but the excitement that had hold of him would not let him. He was feeling different tonight from every other night; he did not need to dance and sing and clown over the floor in order to blot out a day and night of doing nothing. He was full of excitement. The waitress brought the drinks and Bessie lifted hers.

“Here’s to you, even if you don’t want to talk and even if you is acting queer.”

“Bessie, I’m worried.”

“Aw, come on and drink,” she said.

“O.K.”

They sipped.

“Bigger?”

“Hunh?”

“Can’t I help you in what you doing?”

“Maybe.”

“I want to.”

“You trust me?”

“I have so far.”

“I mean now?”

“Yes; if you tell me what to trust you for?”

“Maybe I can’t do that.”

“Then you don’t trust me.”

“It’s got to be that way, Bessie.”

“If I trusted you, would you tell me?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t say ‘maybe,’ Bigger.”

“Listen, honey,” he said, not liking the way he was talking to her, but afraid of telling her outright. “The reason I’m acting this way is I got something big on.”

“What?”

“It’ll mean a lot of money.”

“I wish you’d either tell me or quit talking about it.”

They were silent; he saw Bessie drain her glass.

“I’m ready to go,” she said.

“Aw….”

“I want to get some sleep.”

“You mad?”

“Maybe.”

He did not want her to be that way. How could he make her stay? How much could he tell her? Could he make her trust him without telling everything? He suddenly felt she would come closer to him if he made her feel that he was in danger. That’s it! Make her feel concerned about him.

“Maybe I’ll have to get out of town soon,” he said.

“The police?”

“Maybe.”

“What you do?”

“I’m planning to do it now.”

“But where you get that money?”

“Look, Bessie, if I had to leave town and wanted dough, would you help me if I split with you?”

“If you took me with you, you wouldn’t have to split.”

He was silent; he had not thought of Bessie’s being with him. A woman was a dangerous burden when a man was running away. He had read of how men had been caught because of women, and he did not want that to happen to him. But, if, yes, but if he told her, yes, just enough to get her to work with him?

“O.K.,” he said. “I’ll say this much. I’ll take you if you help me.”

“You really mean that?”

“Sure.”

“Then you going to tell me?”

Yes, he could dress the story up. Why even mention Jan? Why not tell it so that if she were ever questioned she would say the things that he wanted her to say, things that would help him? He lifted the glass and drained the liquor and set it down and leaned forward and toyed with the cigarette in his fingers. He spoke with bated breath.

“Listen, here’s the dope, see? The gal where I’m working, the
daughter of the old man who’s rich, a millionaire, has done run off with a Red, see?”

“Eloped?”

“Hunh? Er…. Yeah; eloped.”

“With a
Red
?”

“Yeah; one of them Communists.”

“Oh! What’s wrong with her?”

“Aw; she’s crazy. Nobody don’t know she’s gone, so last night I took the money from her room, see?”

“Oh!”

“They don’t know where she is.”

“But what you going to do?”

“They don’t know where she is,” he said again.

“What you mean?”

He sucked his cigarette; he saw her looking at him, her black eyes wide with eager interest. He liked that look. In one way, he hated to tell her, because he wanted to keep her guessing. He wanted to take as long as possible in order to see that look of complete absorption upon her face. It made him feel alive and gave him a heightened sense of the value of himself.

“I got an idea,” he said.

“Oh, Bigger,
tell
me!”

“Don’t talk so loud!”

“Well,
tell
me!”

“They don’t know where the girl is. They might think she’s kidnapped, see?” His whole body was tense and as he spoke his lips trembled.