Native Son

  “And look! Here’s something….”

  One of them stooped and picked up a bit of round metal and held it close to his eyes.

  “It’s an earring….”

  There was silence. Bigger stared without a thought or an image in his mind. There was just the old feeling, the feeling that he had had all his life: he was black and had done wrong; white men were looking at something with which they would soon accuse him. It was the old feeling, hard and constant again now, of wanting to grab something and clutch it in his hands and swing it into someone’s face. He knew. They were looking at the bones of Mary’s body. Without its making a clear picture in his mind, he understood how it had happened. Some of the bones had not burnt and had fallen into the lower bin when he had worked the handle to sift the ashes. The white man had poked in the shovel to clear the air passage and had raked them out. And now there they lay, tiny, oblong pieces of white bone, cushioned in grey ashes. He could not stay here now. At any moment they would begin to suspect him. They would hold him; they would not let him go even if they were not certain whether he had done it or not. And Jan was still in jail, swearing that he had an alibi. They would know that Mary was dead; they had stumbled upon the white bones of her body. They would be looking for the murderer. The men were silent, bent over, poking into the pile of grey ashes. Bigger saw the hatchet blade come into view. God! The whole world was tumbling down. Quickly, Bigger’s eyes looked at their bent backs; they were not watching him. The red glare of the fire lit their faces and the draft of the furnace drummed. Yes; he would go, now! He tiptoed to the rear of the furnace and stopped, listening. The men were whispering in tense tones of horror.

  “It’s the girl!”

  “Good God!”

  “Who do you suppose did it?”

  Bigger tiptoed up the steps, one at a time, hoping that the roar of the furnace and the men’s voices and the scraping of the shovel would drown out the creaking sounds his feet made. He reached the top of the steps and breathed deeply, his lungs aching from holding themselves full of air so long. He stole to the door of his room and opened it and went in and pulled on the light. He turned to the window and put his hands under the upper ledge and lifted; he felt a cold rush of air laden with snow. He heard muffled shouts downstairs and the inside of his stomach glowed white-hot. He ran to the door and locked it and then turned out the light. He groped to the window and climbed into it, feeling again the chilling blast of snowy wind. With his feet upon the bottom ledge, his legs bent under him, his sweaty body shaken by wind, he looked into the snow and tried to see the ground below; but he could not. Then he leaped, headlong, sensing his body twisting in the icy air as he hurtled. His eyes were shut and his hands were clenched as his body turned, sailing through the snow. He was in the air a moment; then he hit. It seemed at first that he hit softly, but the shock of it went through him, up his back to his head and he lay buried in a cold pile of snow, dazed. Snow was in his mouth, eyes, ears; snow was seeping down his back. His hands were wet and cold. Then he felt all of the muscles of his body contract violently, caught in a spasm of reflex action, and at the same time he felt his groin laved with warm water. It was his urine. He had not been able to control the muscles of his hot body against the chilled assault of the wet snow over all his skin. He lifted his head, blinking his eyes, and looked above him. He sneezed. He was himself now; he struggled against the snow, pushing it away from him. He got to his feet, one at a time, and pulled himself out. He walked, then tried to run; but he felt too weak. He went down Drexel Boulevard, not knowing just where he was heading, but knowing that he had to get out of this white neighborhood. He avoided the car line, turned down dark streets, walking more rapidly now, his eyes before him, but turning now and then to look behind.

  Yes, he would have to tell Bessie not to go to that house. It was all over. He had to save himself. But it was familiar, this running away. All his life he had been knowing that sooner or later something like this would come to him. And now, here it was. He had always felt outside of this white world, and now it was true. It made things simple. He felt in his shirt. Yes; the gun was still there. He might have to use it. He would shoot before he would let them take him; it meant death either way, and he would die shooting every slug he had.

  He came to Cottage Grove Avenue and walked southward. He could not make any plans until he got to Bessie’s and got the money. He tried to shut out of his mind the fear of being caught. He lowered his head against the driving snow and tramped through the icy streets with clenched fists. Although his hands were almost frozen, he did not want to put them in his pockets, for that would have made him feel that he would not have been ready to defend himself were the police to accost him suddenly. He went on past street lamps covered with thick coatings of snow, gleaming like huge frosted moons above his head. His face ached from the sub-zero cold and the wind cut into his wet body like a long sharp knife going to the heart of him with pain.

  He was in sight of Forty-seventh Street now. He saw, through a gauzelike curtain of snow, a boy standing under an awning selling papers. He pulled his cap visor lower and slipped into a doorway to wait for a car. Back of the newsboy was a stack of papers piled high upon a newsstand. He wanted to see the tall black headline, but the driving snow would not let him. The papers ought to be full of him now. It did not seem strange that they should be, for all his life he had felt that things had been happening to him that should have gone into them. But only after he had acted upon feelings which he had had for years would the papers carry the story, his story. He felt that they had not wanted to print it as long as it had remained buried and burning in his own heart. But now that he had thrown it out, thrown it at those who made him live as they wanted, the papers were printing it. He fished three cents out of his pocket; he went over to the boy with averted face.

  “Tribune.”

  He took the paper into a doorway. His eyes swept the streets above the top of it; then he read in tall black type: MILLIONAIRE HEIRESS KIDNAPPED. ABDUCTORS DEMAND $10,000 IN RANSOM NOTE. DALTON FAMILY ASK RELEASE OF COMMUNIST SUSPECT. Yes; they had it now. Soon they would have the story of her death, of the reporters’ finding her bones in the furnace, of her head being cut off, of his running away during the excitement. He looked up, hearing the approach of a car. When it heaved into sight he saw that it was almost empty of passengers. Good! He ran into the street and reached the steps just as the last man got on. He paid his fare, watching to see if the conductor was noticing him; then went through the car, watching to see if any face was turned to him. He stood on the front platform, back of the motorman. If anything happened he could get off quickly here. The car started and he opened the paper again, reading:

  A servant’s discovery early yesterday evening of a crudely penciled ransom note demanding $10,000 for the return of Mary Dalton, missing Chicago heiress, and the Dalton family’s sudden demand for the release of Jan Erlone, Communist leader held in connection with the girl’s disappearance, were the startling developments in a case which is baffling local and state police.

  The note, bearing the signature of “Red” and the famed hammer and sickle emblem of the Communist Party, was found sticking under the front door by Peggy O’Flagherty, a cook and housekeeper in the Henry Dalton residence in Hyde Park.

  Bigger read a long stretch of type in which was described the “questioning of a Negro chauffeur,” “the half-packed trunk,” “the Communist pamphlets,” “drunken sexual orgies,” “the frantic parents,” and “the radical’s contradictory story.” Bigger’s eyes skimmed the words: “clandestine meetings offered opportunities for abduction,” “police asked not to interfere in case,” “anxious family trying to contact kidnappers”; and:

  It was conjectured that perhaps the family had information to the effect that Erlone knew of the whereabouts of Miss Dalton, and certain police officials assigned that as the motive behind the family’s request for the radical’s release.

  Reiterating that police had framed
him as a part of a drive to oust Communists from Chicago, Erlone demanded that the charges upon which he had been originally held be made public. Failing to obtain a satisfactory answer, he refused to leave jail, whereupon police again remanded him to his cell upon a charge of disorderly conduct.

  Bigger lifted his eyes and looked about; no one was watching him. His hand was shaking with excitement. The car moved lumberingly through the snow and he saw that he was near Fiftieth Street. He stepped to the door and said,

  “Out.”

  The car stopped and he swung off into the driving snow. He was almost in front of Bessie’s now. He looked up to her window; it was dark. The thought that she might not be in her room, but out drinking with friends, made him angry. He went into the vestibule. A dim light glowed and his body was thankful for the meager warmth. He could finish reading the paper now. He unfolded it; then, for the first time, he saw his picture. It was down in the lower left-hand corner of page two. Above it he read: REDS TRIED TO SNARE HIM. It was a small picture and his name was under it; he looked solemn and black and his eyes gazed straight and the white cat sat perched upon his right shoulder, its big round black eyes twin pools of secret guilt. And, oh! Here was a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Dalton standing upon the basement steps. That the image of Mr. and Mrs. Dalton which he had seen but two hours ago should be seen again so soon made him feel that this whole vague white world which could do things this quickly was more than a match for him, that soon it would track him down and have it out with him. The white-haired old man and the white-haired old woman standing on the steps with their arms stretched forth pleadingly were a powerful symbol of helpless suffering and would stir up a lot of hate against him when it was found out that a Negro had killed Mary.

  Bigger’s lips tightened. There was no chance of his getting that money now. They had found Mary and would stop at nothing to get the one who had killed her. There would be a thousand white policemen on the South Side searching for him or any black man who looked like him.

  He pressed the bell and waited for the buzzer to ring. Was she there? Again he pressed the bell, holding his finger hard upon it until the door buzzed. He bounded up the steps, sucking his breath in sharply at each lift of his knees. When he reached the second landing he was breathing so hard that he stopped, closed his eyes and let his chest heave itself to stillness. He glanced up and saw Bessie staring sleepily at him through the half-opened door. He went in and stood for a moment in the darkness.

  “Turn on the light,” he said.

  “Bigger! What’s happened?”

  “Turn on the light!”

  She said nothing and did not move. He groped forward, sweeping the air with his open palm for the cord; he found it and jerked on the light. Then he whirled and looked about him, expecting to see someone lurking in the corners of the room.

  “What’s happened?” She came forward and touched his clothes. “You’re wet.”

  “It’s all off,” he said.

  “I don’t have to do it?” she asked eagerly.

  Yes; she was thinking only of herself now. He was alone.

  “Bigger, tell me what happened?”

  “They know all about it. They’ll be after me soon.”

  Her eyes were too filled with fear to cry. He walked about aimlessly and his shoes left rings of dirty water on the wooden floor.

  “Tell me, Bigger! Please!”

  She was wanting the word that would free her of this nightmare; but he would not give it to her. No; let her be with him; let somebody be with him now. She caught hold of his coat and he felt her body trembling.

  “Will they come for me, too, Bigger? I didn’t want to do it!”

  Yes; he would let her know, let her know everything; but let her know it in a way that would bind her to him, at least a little longer. He did not want to be alone now.

  “They found the girl,” he said.

  “What we going to do, Bigger? Look what you done to me….”

  She began to cry.

  “Aw, come on, kid.”

  “You really killed her?”

  “She’s dead,” he said. “They found her.”

  She ran to the bed, fell upon it and sobbed. With her mouth all twisted and her eyes wet, she asked in gasps:

  “Y-y-you d-didn’t send the l-letter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bigger,” she whimpered.

  “There ain’t no help for it now.”

  “Oh, Lord! They’ll come for me. They’ll know you did it and they’ll go to your home and talk to your ma and brother and everybody. They’ll come for me now sure.”

  That was true. There was no way for her but to come with him. If she stayed here they would come to her and she would simply lie on the bed and sob out everything. She would not be able to help it. And what she would tell them about him, his habits, his life, would help them to track him down.

  “You got the money?”

  “It’s in my dress pocket.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Ninety dollars.”

  “Well, what you planning to do?” he asked.

  “I wish I could kill myself.”

  “Ain’t no use talking that way.”

  “There ain’t no way else to talk.”

  It was a shot in the dark, but he decided to try it.

  “If you don’t act better’n this, I’ll just leave.”

  “Naw; naw…. Bigger!” she cried, rising and running to him.

  “Well, snap out of it,” he said, backing to a chair. He sat down and felt how tired he was. Some strength he did not know he possessed had enabled him to run away, to stand here and talk with her; but now he felt that he would not have strength enough to run even if the police should suddenly burst into the room.

  “You h-hurt?” she asked, catching hold of his shoulder.

  He leaned forward in the chair and rested his face in the palms of his hands.

  “Bigger, what’s the matter?”

  “I’m tired and awful sleepy,” he sighed.

  “Let me fix you something to eat.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “Naw; no whiskey. You need some hot milk.”

  He waited, hearing her move about. It seemed that his body had turned to a piece of lead that was cold and heavy and wet and aching. Bessie switched on her electric stove, emptied a bottle of milk into a pan and set it upon the glowing red circle. She came back to him and placed her hands upon his shoulders, her eyes wet with fresh tears.

  “I’m scared, Bigger.”

  “You can’t be scared now.”

  “You oughtn’t’ve killed her, honey.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t help it. I swear!”

  “What happened? You never told me.”

  “Aw, hell. I was in her room….”

  “Her room?”

  “Yeah. She was drunk. She passed out. I…. I took her there.”

  “What she do?”

  “She…. Nothing. She didn’t do anything. Her ma came in. She’s blind….”

  “The girl?”

  “Naw; her ma. I didn’t want her to find me there. Well, the girl was trying to say something and I was scared. I just put the edge of the pillow in her mouth and…. I didn’t mean to kill her. I just pulled the pillow over her face and she died. Her ma came into the room and the girl was trying to say something and her ma had her hands stretched out, like this, see? I was scared she was going to touch me. I just sort of pushed the pillow hard over the girl’s face to keep her from yelling. Her ma didn’t touch me; I got out of the way. But when she left I went to the bed and the girl…. She…. She was dead…. That was all. She was dead…. I didn’t mean….”

  “You didn’t plan to kill her?”

  “Naw; I swear I didn’t. But what’s the use? Nobody’ll believe me.”

  “Honey, don’t you see?”

  “What?”

  “They’ll say….”

  Bessie cried again. He caught her face in his ha
nds. He was concerned; he wanted to see this thing through her eyes at that moment.

  “What?”

  “They’ll…. They’ll say you raped her.”

  Bigger stared. He had entirely forgotten the moment when he had carried Mary up the stairs. So deeply had he pushed it all back down into him that it was not until now that its real meaning came back. They would say he had raped her and there would be no way to prove that he had not. That fact had not assumed importance in his eyes until now. He stood up, his jaws hardening. Had he raped her? Yes, he had raped her. Every time he felt as he had felt that night, he raped. But rape was not what one did to women. Rape was what one felt when one’s back was against a wall and one had to strike out, whether one wanted to or not, to keep the pack from killing one. He committed rape every time he looked into a white face. He was a long, taut piece of rubber which a thousand white hands had stretched to the snapping point, and when he snapped it was rape. But it was rape when he cried out in hate deep in his heart as he felt the strain of living day by day. That, too, was rape.

  “They found her?” Bessie asked.

  “Hunh?”

  “They found her?”

  “Yeah. Her bones….”

  “Bones?”

  “Aw, Bessie. I didn’t know what to do. I put her in the furnace.”

  Bessie flung her face to his wet coat and wailed violently.

  “Bigger!”

  “Hunh?”

  “What we going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They’ll be looking for us.”

  “They got my picture.”

  “Where can we hide?”

  “We can stay in some of them old houses for awhile.”

  “But they might find us there.”

  “There’s plenty of ’em. It’ll be like hiding in a jungle.”

  The milk on the stove boiled over. Bessie rose, her lips still twisted with sobs, and turned off the electric switch. She poured out a glass of milk and brought it to him. He sipped it, slowly, then set the glass aside and leaned over again. They were silent. Bessie gave him the glass once more and he drank it down, then another glass. He stood up, his legs and entire body feeling heavy and sleepy.