Native Son (23 page)

“Bigger!”

He stopped, whirled, his hand reaching inside of his shirt for his gun. He saw Jan standing in the doorway of a store. As Jan came forward Bigger backed away. Jan stopped.

“For Chrissakes! Don’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

In the pale yellow sheen of the street lamp they faced each other; huge wet flakes of snow floated down slowly, forming a delicate screen between them. Bigger had his hand inside of his shirt, on his gun. Jan stood staring, his mouth open.

“What’s all this about, Bigger? I haven’t done anything to you, have I? Where’s Mary?”

Bigger felt guilty; Jan’s presence condemned him. Yet he knew of no way to atone for his guilt; he felt he had to act as he was acting.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he mumbled.

“But what have I done to you?” Jan asked desperately.

Jan had done nothing to him, and it was Jan’s innocence that made anger rise in him. His fingers tightened about the gun.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said again.

He felt that if Jan continued to stand there and make him feel
this awful sense of guilt, he would have to shoot him in spite of himself. He began to tremble, all over; his lips parted and his eyes widened.

“Go ’way,” Bigger said.

“Listen, Bigger, if these people are bothering you, just tell me Don’t be scared. I’m used to this sort of thing. Listen, now. Let’s go somewhere and get a cup of coffee and talk this thing over.”

Jan came forward again and Bigger drew his gun. Jan stopped; his face whitened.

“For God’s sake, man! What’re you doing? Don’t shoot…. I haven’t bothered you…. Don’t….”

“Leave me alone,” Bigger said, his voice tense and hysterical. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

Jan backed away from him.

“Leave me alone!” Bigger’s voice rose to a scream.

Jan backed farther away, then turned and walked rapidly off, looking back over his shoulder. When he reached the corner he ran through the snow, out of sight. Bigger stood still, the gun in hand. He had utterly forgotten where he was; his eyes were still riveted on that point in space where he had last seen Jan’s retreating form. The tension in him slackened and he lowered the gun until it hung at his side, loosely in his fingers. He was coming back into possession of himself; for the past three minutes it seemed he had been under a strange spell, possessed by a force which he hated, but which he had to obey. He was startled when he heard soft footsteps coming toward him in the snow. He looked and saw a white woman. The woman saw him and paused; she turned abruptly and ran across the street. Bigger shoved the gun in his pocket and ran to the corner. He looked back; the woman was vanishing through the snow, in the opposite direction.

In him as he walked was a cold, driving will. He would go through with this; he would work fast. He had encountered in Jan a much stronger determination than he had thought would be there. If he sent the kidnap note, it would have to be done before Jan could prove that he was completely innocent. At that moment he did not care if he was caught. If only he could cower Jan and
Britten into awe, into fear of him and his black skin and his humble manners!

He reached a corner and went into a drug store. A white clerk came to him.

“Give me a envelope, some paper and a pencil,” he said.

He paid the money, put the package into his pocket and went out to the corner to wait for a car. One came; he got on and rode eastward, wondering what kind of note he would write. He rang the bell for the car to stop, got off and walked through the quiet Negro streets. Now and then he passed an empty building, white and silent in the night. He would make Bessie hide in one of these buildings and watch for Mr. Dalton’s car. But the ones he passed were too old; if one went into them they might collapse. He walked on. He had to find a building where Bessie could stand in a window and see the package of money when it was thrown from the car. He reached Langley Avenue and walked westward to Wabash Avenue. There were many empty buildings with black windows, like blind eyes, buildings like skeletons standing with snow on their bones in the winter winds. But none of them were on corners. Finally, at Michigan Avenue and East Thirty-sixth Place, he saw the one he wanted. It was tall, white, silent, standing on a well-lighted corner. By looking from any of the front windows Bessie would be able to see in all four directions. Oh! He had to have a flashlight! He went to a drug store and bought one for a dollar. He felt in the inner pocket of his coat for his gloves. Now, he was ready. He crossed the street and stood waiting for a car. His feet were cold and he stamped them in the snow, surrounded by people waiting, too, for a car. He did not look at them; they were simply blind people, blind like his mother, his brother, his sister, Peggy, Britten, Jan, Mr. Dalton, and the sightless Mrs. Dalton and the quiet empty houses with their black gaping windows.

He looked round the street and saw a sign on a building: THIS PROPERTY IS MANAGED BY THE SOUTH SIDE REAL ESTATE COMPANY. He had heard that Mr. Dalton owned the South Side Real Estate Company, and the South Side Real Estate Company owned the house in which he lived. He paid eight dollars
a week for one rat-infested room. He had never seen Mr. Dalton until he had come to work for him; his mother always took the rent to the real estate office. Mr. Dalton was somewhere far away, high up, distant, like a god. He owned property all over the Black Belt, and he owned property where white folks lived, too. But Bigger could not live in a building across the “line.” Even though Mr. Dalton gave millions of dollars for Negro education, he would rent houses to Negroes only in this prescribed area, this corner of the city tumbling down from rot. In a sullen way Bigger was conscious of this. Yes; he would send the kidnap note. He would jar them out of their senses.

When the car came he rode south and got off at Fifty-first Street and walked to Bessie’s. He had to ring five times before the buzzer answered. Goddammit, I bet she’s drunk! he thought. He mounted the steps and saw her peering at him through the door with eyes red from sleep and alcohol. His doubt of her made him fearful and angry.

“Bigger?” she asked.

“Get on back in the room,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, backing away, her mouth open.

“Let me in! Open the door!”

She threw the door wide, almost stumbling as she did so.

“Turn on the light.”

“What’s the matter, Bigger?”

“How many times do you want me to ask you to turn on the light?”

She turned it on.

“Pull them shades.”

She lowered the shades. He stood watching her. Now, I don’t want any trouble out of her. He went to the dresser and pushed her jars and combs and brushes aside and took the package from his pocket and laid it in the cleared space.

“Bigger?”

He turned and looked at her.

“What?”

“You ain’t really planning to do that, sure ’nough?”

“What the hell you think?”

“Bigger, naw!”

He caught her arm and squeezed it in a grip of fear and hate.

“You ain’t going to turn away from me now! Not now, Goddamn you!”

She said nothing. He took off his cap and coat and threw them on the bed.

“They’re wet, Bigger!”

“So what?”

“I ain’t doing this,” she said.

“Like hell you ain’t!”

“You can’t make me!”

“You done helped me to steal enough from the folks you worked for to put you in jail already.”

She did not answer; he turned from her and got a chair and pulled it up to the dresser. He unwrapped the package and balled the paper into a knot and threw it into a corner of the room. Instinctively, Bessie stooped to pick it up. Bigger laughed and she straightened suddenly. Yes; Bessie was blind. He was about to write a kidnap note and she was worried about the cleanliness of her room.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

He was smiling grimly. He took out the pencil; it was not sharpened.

“Gimme a knife.”

“Ain’t you got one?”

“Hell, naw! Get me a knife!”

“What you do with your knife?”

He stared at her, remembering that she knew that he had had a knife. An image of blood gleaming on the metal blade in the glare of the furnace came before his eyes and fear rose in him hotly.

“You want me to slap you?”

She went behind a curtain. He sat looking at the paper and pencil. She came back with a butcher knife.

“Bigger, please…. I don’t want to do it.”

“Got any liquor?”

“Yeah….”

“Get you a shot and set on that bed and keep quiet.”

She stood undecided, then got the bottle from under a pillow and drank. She lay on the bed, on her stomach, her face turned so that she could see him. He watched her through the looking-glass of the dresser. He sharpened the pencil and spread out the piece of paper. He was about to write when he remembered that he did not have his gloves on. Goddamn!

“Gimme my gloves.”

“Hunh?”

“Get my gloves out of the inside of my coat pocket.”

She swayed to her feet and got the gloves and stood back of his chair, holding them limply in her hands.

“Give ’em here.”

“Bigger….”

“Give me the gloves and get back on that bed, will you?”

He snatched them from her and gave her a shove and turned back to the dresser.

“Bigger….”

“I ain’t asking you but once more to shut up!” he said, pushing the knife out of the way so he could write.

He put on the gloves and took up the pencil in a trembling hand and held it poised over the paper. He should disguise his handwriting. He changed the pencil from his right to his left hand. He would not write it; he would print it. He swallowed with dry throat. Now, what would be the best kind of note? He thought, I want you to put ten thousand…. Naw; that would not do. Not “I.” It would be better to say “we.”
We got your daughter
, he printed slowly in big round letters. That was better. He ought to say something to let Mr. Dalton think that Mary was still alive. He wrote:
She is safe
. Now, tell him not to go to the police. No! Say something about Mary first! He bent and wrote:
She wants to come home….
Now, tell him not to go to the police.
Don’t go to the police if you want your daughter back safe
. Naw; that ain’t good. His
scalp tingled with excitement; it seemed that he could feel each strand of hair upon his head. He read the line over and crossed out “safe” and wrote “alive.” For a moment he was frozen, still. There was in his stomach a slow, cold, vast rising movement, as though he held within the embrace of his bowels the swing of planets through space. He was giddy. He caught hold of himself, focused his attention to write again. Now, about the money. How much? Yes; make it ten thousand.
Get ten thousand in 5 and 10 bills and put it in a shoe box….
That’s good. He had read that somewhere
…. and tomorrow night ride your car up and down Michigan Avenue from 35th Street to 40th Street
. That would make it hard for anybody to tell just where Bessie would be hiding. He wrote:
Blink your headlights some. When you see a light in a window blink three times throw the box in the snow and drive off. Do what this letter say
. Now, he would sign it. But how? It should be signed in some way that would throw them off the trail. Oh, yes! Sign it “Red.” He printed,
Red
. Then, for some reason, he thought that that was not enough. Oh, yes. He would make one of those signs, like the ones he had seen on the Communist pamphlets. He wondered how they were made. There was a hammer and a round kind of knife. He drew a hammer, then a curving knife. But it did not look right. He examined it and discovered that he had left the handle off the knife. He sketched it in. Now, it was complete. He read it over. Oh! He had left out something. He had to put in the time when he wanted them to bring the money. He bent and printed again:
p.s. Bring the money at midnight
. He sighed, lifted his eyes and saw Bessie standing behind him. He turned and looked at her.

“Bigger, you ain’t really going to do that?” she whispered in horror.

“Sure.”

“
Where’s
that girl?”

“I don’t know.”

“You
do
know. You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t know.”

“Aw, what difference do it make?”

She looked straight into his eyes and whispered,

“Bigger, did you kill that girl?”

His jaw clamped tight and he stood up. She turned from him and flung herself upon the bed, sobbing. He began to feel cold; he discovered that his body was covered with sweat. He heard a soft rustle and looked down at his hand; the kidnap note was shaking in his trembling fingers. But I ain’t scared, he told himself. He folded the note, put it into an envelope, sealed it by licking the flap, and shoved it in his pocket. He lay down on the bed beside Bessie and took her in his arms. He tried to speak to her and found his throat so husky that no words came.

“Come on, kid,” he whispered finally.

“Bigger, what’s happened to you?”

“It ain’t nothing. You ain’t got much to do.”

“I don’t
want
to.”

“Don’t be scared.”

“You told me you was never going to kill nobody.”

“I ain’t killed nobody.”

“You
did
! I see it in your eyes. I see it all over you.”

“Don’t you trust me, baby?”

“Where’s that girl, Bigger?”

“I don’t know.”

“How you know she won’t turn up?”

“She just won’t.”

“You
did
kill her.”

“Aw, forget the girl.”

She stood up.

“If you killed
her
you’ll kill
me
,” she said. “I ain’t in this.”

“Don’t be a fool. I love you.”

“You told me you
never
was going to kill.”

“All right. They white folks. They done killed plenty of us.”

“That don’t make it right.”

He began to doubt her; he had never heard this tone in her voice before. He saw her tear-wet eyes looking at him in stark fear and he remembered that no one had seen him leave his room. To stop Bessie who now knew too much would be easy. He could take the butcher knife and cut her throat. He had to make certain of her, one way or the other, before he went back to Dalton’s. Quickly, he
stooped over her, his fists clenched. He was feeling as he had felt when he stood over Mary’s bed with the white blur drawing near; an iota more of fear would have sent him plunging again into murder.