The Outsider (67 page)

“But, joking aside…You killed Hilton with his own gun and you didn't leave a clue. How did you get
into the hotel? You were at the hotel desk early that afternoon, but no one remembers seeing you there after that, either entering or leaving. Of course, they have a rather racially liberal policy at the Albert Hotel and Negroes leaving or entering would not be the occasion for anybody's noticing, would it? And sometimes I suppose all things work together for the loves and desires of little gods?”

Cross felt dead. How could this man lay open his life with such decisive strokes? With such mocking cynicism? Goddamn him to hell!

“Now, these diaries…This girl deceived by the Party…This naïve child made the mistake of thinking that she had found in you something clean, pure, something her heart had dreamed of. In
you
, of all the men on earth! She looked upon you and your people as her brothers and sisters in suffering…What irony! Hurt, deceived, she projected out upon you her desires! Afraid of deception, she embraced a fount of deception! Full of timid, feminine desire, she flings her arms about a furnace of desire and is consumed in it…Then you, in your desert of loneliness, must have told her what you had done. She'd fought the Party for you, told them upon her life that you were an innocent man…And, in a sense, she was right; you were innocent of what the Party was charging. But, for a reason I do not know, you told her and she leaped…That's how I figure it. What you told her was too much for her. You made her feel that she could no longer trust any person on this earth. She leaped from that window to escape the kind of world you showed her! You
drove
her out of life. What you told her was the crowning horror of all the horrors! The apex of deception…And you
had
to tell her; you wanted her help. But did you tell her that Gil had not done anything to you? Did you tell her that you
killed Gil for
nothing
? Boy, did you, could you go that far? I wonder…

“Damon, those diaries told me that you were guilty, and that girl's leaping from that window was proof of it. Will you admit it? No? Your silence is a confession! Your inability to challenge me is proof! I'm waiting
…Speak!
Tell me I'm wrong…You
can't
!”

Houston turned, opened the door of the room and went out. Cross lay watching the door swing a little to and fro on a squeaky hinge. Well, Houston was going to get the cops and they were going to take him to the station now…This was the end. But what evidence did Houston have? What facts to buttress all of this? So far he had cited nothing but psychological facts. Come to think of it, they were not even psychological facts. They were feelings, lightninglike intuitions which only a man who had lived long on that lower (or was it a higher?) level of life could know. He heard Houston's footsteps coming back. He braced himself.

Houston entered the room with a glass of water in his right hand. He stood looking at Cross a solemn moment, then he lifted the glass to his lips and drained it thirstily, his humped body resembling that of a huge, waiting spider.

“I was thirsty,” Houston confessed in the voice of a man who had satisfied a physical need. He sighed. “I haven't spoken so much since I was last facing a jury a month ago.”

Cross could bear it no longer; his lips trembled.

“Get it over with! If you think you'll drag one word from me, you're crazy!” he shouted.

“Now,” Houston spoke in a soothing tone, “don't spoil it all. You were playing your role so well…”

“You're gloating over me! Okay, start your damned wheels turning to punish me…!”

“Hold on, my friend. I'm not through yet,” Houston said with a feeling of deep relish in his voice. “You'll be punished, but not in the way
you
think. Ah, I know…You have visions of lashes, third degree sessions, blinding spotlights in your eyes, questions popping at you for hours on end. You may even think of mobs, for all I know…And all of this because the cops want you to confess. But, Damon, you've confessed already…”

Hot tension leaped in Cross. Had he overlooked something silly that would send him to the chair? Had he left some foolish thing undone that would make him look like an adolescent boy stealing apples from a neighbor's orchard?

“Confession?” he stammered. “What do you mean?”

Houston threw back his head and laughed. “You confessed to
me
, just to
me
, to
me
alone. See? I've no concrete evidence to use in court against you…”

Was the man crazy? What was he getting at?

“Listen, Damon, you made your own law,” Houston pronounced. “And, by God, I, for one, am going to let you live by it. I'm pretty certain you're finished with this killing phase…So, I'm going to let you go. See? Yes; just go!
You're free!
Just like that.” Houston snapped his fingers in Cross's face. “I'm going to let you keep this in your heart 'til the end of your days! Sleep with it, eat with it, brood over it, make love with it…You are going to punish yourself, see? You are your own law, so you'll be your own judge…I wouldn't
help
you by taking you to jail…I've very little concrete evidence to haul you into court on anyhow; it's likely I couldn't convict you…And I'll not give you the satisfaction of sitting in a court of law with those tight lips of yours and gloating at me or any jury while we tried to prove the impossible. What the hell could a jury of housewives, like the simple-minded Sarah Hunter, make out
of a guy like you? I'll not give you the chance to make that kind of a fool out of me, Damon! No, sir! I'm much too smart for that.

“These killings will be marked unsolved. And, in a sense, they are. Even now I cannot say why you killed in a rational manner, in a manner that would persuade others…I've not told anyone of what I've found about you.” Houston tapped his head. “It's all right here. And it'll stay there. You're trembling…Oh, yes; I understand now. You thought that I was going to get the cop to arrest you when I went out for that glass of water…? Ha-ha-ha! Oh, you're sweating, hunh? Boy, you'll sweat tears of terror, night and day. That's the lot of a little god. Didn't you know that gods were lonely? When you eat, a part of you will stand back, shy and embarrassed. When you make love, a part of you will turn away in shame. From now on, there will be a dead hand holding life back from you…Will you find your way back? I doubt it. To whom could you tell your story, Damon? Who will listen? A psychoanalyst? You have no respect for them, and what the hell could they do for you? They'd be frightened of you; they'd rush out of their consulting rooms, their hair standing on end, screaming with terror. No; they are not for you, my boy. It's between
you
and
you
, you and yourself.”

Houston stood looking down with musing eyes at Cross. And Cross felt sweat running down his face; it was on his chest, seeping down his arms. Even his legs were wet. Suddenly he wanted to beg this man not to leave him. He could not believe that it was like this that it was to end…But he could make no move.

“That's all,” Houston said. “Whatever nameless powers that be, may they have something like mercy on your tormented soul.”

He turned and strode out of the room. Cross could
hear him speaking in low tones to Sarah, then there came the echo of his footsteps along the hallway; then he heard the front door open and close. He was alone. He felt like screaming for Houston to come back, to talk to him, to tell him what to do. But he clamped his teeth and held still. I'm alone, he said to himself. He felt dizzy. Terror wrapped him around in a sheet of flame and his body wept tears…The prop had gone; Houston had gone; the world against which he had pitched his rebellion had pitied him, almost forgiven him…The thing he had been fighting had turned its face from him as though he was no longer worthy of having an opponent and this rejection was a judgment so inhuman that he could not bear to think of it.

He had broken all of his promises to the world and the people in it, but he had never reckoned on that world turning on him and breaking its promise to him too! He was not to be punished! Men would not give meaning to what he had done! Society would not even look at it, recognize it! That was not fair, wasn't right, just…The ludicrous nature of his protest came to him and he smiled wryly at his own self-deception. Always back deep in his mind, he had counted on their railing at him, storming, cursing, condemning…Instead, nothing, silence, the silence that roars like an indifferent cataract, the silence that reaches like a casual clap of thunder to the end of space and time…

He had to talk to somebody! But to whom? No; he had to keep this crime choked in his throat. He, like others, had to pretend that nothing like this could ever happen; he had to collaborate and help keep the secret. He had to go forward into the future and pretend that the world was as tradition said it was…

His head dropped senselessly to the bedcover and he drifted off into that state of bleak relaxation that comes
after an exhausting strain. He was not sleeping, not fully awake; he was existing with an alien world looming implacably over and against him. But all of his compulsions were gone, leaving him empty of even desire…

 

He did not stir from his room until late the next morning, and when he did emerge, it was to go into the kitchen with Eva's diary. Since Houston had laid his self-hate and his self-love so mockingly naked, he felt that he no longer had any right to keep the diary and he was resolved to burn it. He opened one of the notebooks and tore out a sheet; just before touching the page to the flame of his lighter, he let his eyes stray listlessly over the lines, reading:

“March 3rd

“Last night was in Harlem and had dinner with Bob and Sarah Hunter. A tall, sensitive young Negro, Lionel Lane, was there; he was tense and seemed to be seeking for something in life. He struck me as one who would leave no stone unturned to find his destiny. Gil was taken with him and asked him to come and live with us awhile…Will he too be ‘used' as I have been? How can I warn him? I dreamed of him after going to bed—I thought he asked me to come and see him and I was afraid because he lived in Harlem—Then I became so ashamed of my fear that I decided to go anyhow. I dreamed that when I got to Harlem there was, for some reason, a huge crowd of people waiting to see me and I felt quite embarrassed and lost…I was trembling, fearing to be asked to explain why I was in Harlem. Lionel came and rescued me; he was so magnificently himself, so self-assured among his own people who loved and respected him. The moment he arrived the crowd changed its attitude toward me…Then he took my arm and led me down the street; he was smiling as we passed in front of the masses of strange people. A wave of happiness flooded me and I fainted…Is not all virtue with the op
pressed who are not corrupted? I must find some way of saving this boy from the muck in which my life has become bogged…But how can I do it?

“March 4th

“Lionel is now in the apartment and I'm filled with a sense of dread. I'd planned to remain in all day, but since he is here, I've decided to go out. I'll go to a concert in the afternoon. That is as good an excuse as any to get away…But I must try to save him from his own naïveté…He is so quiet, trusting, sensitive…What is he thinking all the time? I see him sitting and brooding and his eyes hold the most self-absorbing look I've ever seen in a human being…God, he must be suffering…? Is he mulling over the past wrongs done to him and his people? I wish I could help someone like that.”

 

Cross crumpled the sheet, held it to the flame, and watched it burn. Once he turned his head sharply, feeling that Eva was standing near, watching him…Slowly he burnt the pages, dropped the charred remains in the sink, ran water over them and flushed them down the drain. When he finished he lifted his eyes and looked out of the window.

Bright sunshine was flooding the world with warm, yellow light and he became aware that he could hear the soft, faint sounds of water dripping. Yes, a thaw had set in. The ice was melting; the snow was dissolving and flowing from the roofs…

He heard the front door of the apartment open and close; a moment later Sarah came into the kitchen. She had been out into the streets and was still wearing her overcoat.

“I knew you were tired and I didn't want to awaken you,” she began without ceremony. “But now you are up and I can talk to you.”

“Yes, Sarah. What is it?”

“I want you to move.” She did not look at him as she spoke.

“Of course. What do I owe you for our staying here…”

“Nothing.” Her voice was bitter.

“I can pay my way.” He wanted to help her, but he did not know how.

“I don't want your money,” she said. “I'm starting a new life…I went to confession this morning.” Her voice was metallic, cold.

“I'm glad for you,” Cross said. He was suddenly resentful of the fact that Sarah had failed to see that he, of his own accord, was about to move. “Is your telling me to move so bluntly your first act of Christian charity?”

Sarah's eyes hardened.

“This is
my
apartment—” she began.

“I don't dispute that,” Cross told her. “But I thought your practicing religion again would make you a little kind…I'm all packed to go. I've enough money to take care of myself for a bit…And for that, I'm damned lucky. I'm glad that I'm not at your mercy…”

“I don't want to argue with you—”

“You won't. I'll get out in five minutes.”

There was no communication between them. Couldn't they part as friends who had a little sympathy for each other? Cross looked at her and knew at once that there was no way. Sarah desired too much. Only a great promise could lift her up and help her to live again. Promises…? Could he ever make promises again? And he could not promise anything to Sarah; she had already received from her church a promise covering the whole of her life on this earth and the life to come…He turned from her, entered his room,
picked up his suitcase, and went into the hall. Sarah stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at him.