The Outsider (19 page)

“Yes,” Cross heard himself speaking. “I'm Cross.”

“Well, don't be ashamed of letting me catch you in a whorehouse, man,” Joe said, blinking and trying to understand the strange expression that shrouded Cross's face. “Come on
in
here and let me
talk
to you.” Joe grabbed Cross's hand and dragged him forward. He unlocked a door and pulled Cross inside a room. Cross's eyes darted about. The bed was unmade, the shades drawn, and a dim light glowed on the ceiling. Joe's clothing was flung pell-mell over the back of a chair. Cross's fingers ached to blot out this black man who grinned with bewilderment.

“Sit down, man,” Joe spluttered. “Tell me what this
is…
”

Joe shut the door and Cross heard the click of the lock; that meant that no one could come in without warning; he was alone with Joe…Joe flopped on the bed, his eyes full on Cross, waiting for an explanation. Cross moved on cat's feet to the center of the room, noticing the window which had the exact position of the window in his room, that window through which he had peered only a few hours ago and looked at the distant, snow-drenched streets far below…He then
stared at the almost empty whiskey bottle on the night table. Tension was so tight in him that he felt his skull would burst. Joe saw him gazing at the bottle.

“You want a drink, hunh? I scared you, didn't I?” Joe took the bottle and drained the whiskey into a glass. “This bottle's dead. But we've got another one on the way.” He sat the bottle on the floor and handed the tumbler to Cross. “I reckon I'm about the last man on earth you ever expected to see, hunh?”

Cross emptied the glass with one swallow, and smiling tightly, said: “That's right, Joe.”

“You
are
Cross!” Joe shouted and slapped his thighs. “For a minute, I thought maybe I was making a fool out of myself. God, I'm sweating—! Cross, you're the goddamndest man God ever made…”

Cross reached for the neck of the empty whiskey bottle and lifted it.

“Ain't no more whiskey in that bottle, man,” Joe said. “I just sent Ruth down for another fifth. She'll be back in a minute. Sit down, man! Don't be scared…Lord, I can't get over this!”

“When's this Ruth coming back?” Cross asked quietly.

“In a minute,” Joe said, a shadow of disquiet flickering over his face. He brightened quickly. “Say, who you're shacking up with in here? Bertha, Mamie, Della, or…”

“Jenny,” Cross said.

“She's great!” Joe approved. “Boy, she can go when she feels like it. She's got some build…”

Joe went on talking and Cross stared at him. He had to do something. But what? This clown was tearing down his dream, smashing all he had so laboriously built up. And there he sat: fat, black, half-laughing and half-scared, with beads of sweat popping on his fore
head, his black chest showing and his bare legs sprawled out from the bed, his blue silk bathrobe flowing around him…

“God, but you're sly, Cross,” Joe went on. “Ain't you gonna tell me what happened? I didn't know you knew about this place. But there ain't no better place to get over the blues, is it? Kind of crummy here, but the gals are nice. Hell, man, if you ain't gonna say nothing, I'll tell 'em. They made a mistake in that damned church today. I'm gonna call up Pink. He'll die laughing…” Joe rose from the bed.

Cross grasped the neck of the bottle firmly; his arm trembled; his fingers gripped the bottle so hard that he thought the glass would crush in his palm. He lifted the bottle high in the air. Joe's lips moved soundlessly, his eyes black pools of mute protest. Joe was frozen, waiting, his lips open and about to utter a question and then Cross brought down the bottle with a crashing blow on Joe's head. Just before the blow landed Cross heard Joe utter in tones of deep amazement: “Say?” The bottle caught Joe on the temple, bursting from the force of the blow and Joe fell slowly backwards without having lifted a finger; he lay still, his thick lips hanging grotesquely open. Cross moved now with the speed of a panther. He let up the shade and a tide of greyish light swept into the room; he opened the window and a blast of freezing air turned his breath to steam. He turned and faced the inert form sprawled on the bed in its bathrobe. He grabbed Joe's right arm and slid his left arm under Joe's legs and lifted him as one would a sick child. He stood a moment, looking at Joe's black, quiet face, and then he looked at the open window. He struggled to the window with the body, hoisted it up and for a moment the body was poised in space. He pushed it through and shut the window at once, all in one swift, merciless
movement. He turned back to the room, picked up the glass shards of whiskey bottle and opened the door. The corridor was empty. He went out and hurried to the bathroom and secreted the shards atop a tall, wooden cabinet. He examined himself minutely in the full mirror and saw no telltale signs except sweat on his face. He mopped his brow with the bottom of his bathrobe, then stood still, listening intently. He heard faint voices and the muffled music of radios. Time seemed to be flowing on normally. Through the window of the bathroom he could see that night was falling upon the frozen city. He headed for his room, feeling unsteady in his legs. He hesitated before going in, trying to control himself. Again he mopped sweat from his face, then opened the door of his room. Jenny still lay on the bed.

“I thought maybe you had flushed down the drain, you took so long,” she said.

He sank into a chair, fighting down a wild, foolish impulse to tell her what he had done. She rose, smiling, and went to him; he pushed her violently away.

“What's the matter with you? You're trembling and wringing wet…” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “Say, are you on the needle or something…?”

“Leave me alone,” he muttered.

“I wonder what you're up to,” she said, turning away uneasily.

A knock came at the door. Cross stiffened and felt he could not breathe. He would not have been too surprised if the door had opened and Joe had walked into the room. But he had tossed Joe out of that window; or had he? He struggled to sort reality from fantasy. The knock came again, louder this time.

“Aren't you going to answer it?” Jenny asked him.

“You answer it,” Cross said.

“Jenny!” a woman's voice called through the door.

“Yeah?” Jenny answered, going to the door and opening it.

A tall, fleshy blonde woman stood in the doorway with a bottle of whiskey under her arm.

“Hello, Ruth,” Jenny said. “What's the matter?”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you,” the woman called Ruth said. Her eyes looked about the room, resting at last on Cross. “But Joe isn't here, is he?”

“No, honey,” Jenny said, shrugging. “I haven't seen him.”

Ruth's lips curled in scorn. “That black bastard's run out on me,” she hissed. “If he's dumped me without paying, I'll kill him the next time I see him, so help me God! But I don't understand…All his clothes are still there.”

“Oh, he'll come back,” Jenny smiled. “He always does.”

“He tried a new trick,” Ruth blazed. “He sent me down for a bottle of liquor and took a powder.” Ruth forced a smile for Cross. “I'm sorry to bother you with my troubles. But, you know, the fool left his clothes behind…You reckon he could be two-timing me? Maybe he's in some other room…?”

“
Might
be,” Jenny said, laughing at the possibility.

“I'll leave you now,” Ruth said, her eyes baffled.

Jenny closed the door and turned to Cross, chuckling: “Ruth and her Joe. I do believe she's in love with him, but he doesn't give a damn about her.”

“Who's Joe?” Cross asked listlessly.

“A colored postal clerk who comes here all the time,” she told him as she sat on the bed again, her hands folded modestly over her pubic hair. “He's Ruth's star client; he even keeps his bathrobe and slippers in her room. God, he's a scream. Jet black, fat…A regular
clown…Spends his money like water…Listen to this: He once told me…”

Cross was not listening though his eyes were on her face. He was wondering how Joe's body had fallen and where…Had it landed on the street? He wanted to open the window and look out, but he knew that would have aroused questions in Jenny's mind. He had done a horrible thing; he had killed so swiftly and brutally that he hardly recognized what he had done as he recalled it to his mind. It was he who had made that assault on Joe in that room; yes, he had done that to save himself. He heard Jenny laughing.

“…don't you think so?” she was asking.

“I don't know,” he mumbled.

“Hell, you're not even
listening
!” she said angrily. “At least Joe's a good sport!”

“Well, go to him,” Cross told her, relishing his irony.

If Joe's body had landed on the street in the snow, then it would soon be seen by someone and there would be an outcry. But maybe it had dropped into a deep drift? He was excited by such a prospect. If that had happened, no one would see it for awhile…He blinked when Jenny rose from the bed and came to him; she caught his hand and pulled him to his feet. Gently, she forced him to the bed, climbed in with him and drew the covers over them.

“Charlie, what's the matter?” she asked in a whisper. “Talk to me…”

Maybe at any moment now a knock would come at the door and it would be about Joe. He heard footsteps pass in the corridor outside and wondered if it was Ruth still hunting for her Joe…He had had no choice; it had been either he or Joe. He had known it the moment he had looked into that fat, black, laughing face.

“Your body is trembling,” Jenny whispered. “I wish I could
help
you!”

She was getting on his nerves. Why didn't she leave…?

“You're always watching me, questioning me,” he complained in a distant voice.

“You're too goddamn fucking suspicious!” she cursed him, curling her lips back over her teeth.

He looked at her; there was an animal-like quality in her that made him like her, and that quality showed most clearly when she was angry.

“Okay, baby, spill your story,” he consented. “You've been wanting to talk to me. Now, I'm listening…”

He lifted himself on an elbow, his eyes on her face, but he was really seeking over the snowdrifts outside, looking for Joe's body.

“You sure are a great help,” she complained, her anger vanishing. “I'll try—Look, Charlie, you're black and I'm white—That's what this goddamn country says, but it's the bunk, and you know it and I know it. They say it to keep us apart, don't they?”

He nodded, not quite understanding what she had said. Maybe he had made a mistake in killing Joe like that…? God, he had planned to be free, and now he had killed…

“…I'd bet a million dollars that I've lived a much harder life than you have. I grew up in the slums of a small rotten town in the middle of Kansas. My father was a drunkard and a socialist of a sort…”

He was conscious that the more she talked the better she talked. The gal's got some sense…But wouldn't they raid the hotel when they found Joe's body…?

“…he was always yelling about the rights of Negroes and fighting for the underdog. My mother was the janitor in the town school. If it hadn't been for her,
I wouldn't 've even learned to read and write. My mother really supported us, brought us up and nursed father when he had the D.T.'s. She was the only decent person I've ever known in my life…Surprised to hear
me
say things like that, hunh?”

He was looking at her, but was wondering what the police would say about finding Joe's body clad only in a bathrobe…

“…and I spotted you as an educated guy after you'd said only two words. I respect education…It's too late for me to get one now, I reckon. But I want one; really, I do.”

He nodded his head as she spoke, telling her that he was following her, but he was only reacting to the general sense of her words.

“…everybody in our little town looked down on us. Me, my brothers and sisters, we were the drunkard's children, the scum of the earth. Then I got in trouble with a boy, got knocked up, and had to have an abortion. You wouldn't think it, Charlie, but 'til two years ago I didn't know where babies came from. Honest to Pete! I thought they came out of women's bowels…Isn't that crazy? But I know
now
. And how! But let me get back to the story. You're listening, aren't you? You're not bored?”

“Oh, no; go ahead,” he said; he might be lost already. It was good that he had his gun; if the police found out about him, well, he would blow his brains out…

“…and when I got knocked up, the whole town knew it. My father drove me out of the house. I lived in a dump for awhile, then got rid of the child. It was hell; I was sick with a fever of one hundred and four for three days. I thought I was a dead duck. Mama finally made father let me come back home. But just to walk down the street to the store to buy a loaf of bread was
hell…When I passed people, they'd stop talking and just stare at me…I ran off and came to Chicago. The first week I worked in a Greek restaurant; like a dope, I went out with the Greek. He raped me…”

He wondered why she felt so deep a sense of inferiority; he was black, but he had never felt that humble in the face of life. And Joe? Maybe the sirens would start howling soon…?

“…sounds crazy, hunh? But I'm not asking for sympathy. The hell with it. I'm young. I'll fight, work. Now, why am I telling you all this? You said you were going west, didn't you? I want to go to California—”

“Movies?” he asked.

“Hell, no. I'm not pretty,” she said.

Cross studied her face; she was much prettier than she thought.