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.
“Good-bye, Sarah.”
She did not answer; he saw her face reflect a struggle. He started toward her and she burst into tears, whirled, turned into the kitchen and slammed the door. He pivoted on his heels and walked on down the hall, opened the door and went out.
The streets were wet under the glare of a bright sun. He paused on the stoop; he had no notion where he was going. He heard water gurgling in the gutters, running toward the conduits of the sewers. He walked toward Seventh Avenue, thinking: Was it possible that all he had learned in the last few weeks would remain locked forever in his heart? Would he ever be able to say anything about it? And Eva…?
He became aware of someone following him and he turned. It was Menti and behind Menti was that sullen, inexpressive Hank whose hands were jammed as always in his overcoat pockets, his eyes staring hard at Cross from beneath the brim of a dirty hat.
Cross stopped and waited for Menti to catch up with him. “Are you following me, Menti?”
“Where are you going?” Menti asked, grinning.
“I don’t know. Tell the Party that I said I didn’t know.”
“Leaving town?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can one get in touch with you?”
“You can’t.”
“You won’t have an address?”
“Maybe not.”
“Well, I’ll be seeing you,” Menti said. “Don’t forget the Party.”
“How could I ever forget the Party?” Cross asked him.
Menti grinned and turned away. Cross kept on to the end of the block. He was moving again among people. But how could he ever make a bridge from him to them? To live with them again would mean making promises, commitments. But he had strayed so far that little commitments were now of no avail. He would have to start all over again. And it was impossible to do that alone…
He checked his suitcase and went into a cinema and sat looking at the moving shadows on the screen without understanding their import. Two hours later he came out and had lunch. Once again he stood upon the sidewalk, will-less, aimless. Then he was agitated. There was Menti down at the far end of the block, and Hank was behind him. They were watching him. Goddamn them…
He came to Lenox Avenue and headed toward downtown. He saw another movie house. He looked over his shoulder; Menti and Hank were moving toward him…Quickly he paid his admission and ducked into the sheltering darkness of the cinema, looking now and then to see if Menti or his man was near…He could not find them.
When he emerged three hours later, stiff and thirsty, Menti and Hank were not to be seen. Had he ditched them? Maybe…Dusk was falling upon Harlem. Neon lights gleamed in the deepening mists. He went into a bar and sat in the rear, facing the door, keeping watch. He downed several whiskies which he could not feel or taste. What was he going to do? Find another room or leave town…?
Once more on the sidewalk, he looked for Menti. Suddenly he longed for the shelter of a well-lighted place, something like a huge hotel lobby with throngs of people and hard, glaring electric bulbs shedding clarity and safety upon everything…He found himself facing Central Park. He paused at a street corner till the red traffic light turned green, then he crossed and walked alongside Central Park, heading toward downtown.
He glanced over his shoulder, feeling that he was being followed; but there was no one to be seen on the night streets behind him. An occasional car whizzed past, its headlights illuminating the foggy night about him for a moment, then leaving him alone in the dark once more. Ahead he saw a young couple coming toward him, engrossed in each other…A sense of Eva flashed through him and he knew that the bleakness he was now feeling came from the desire he had had of having her with him…This homelessness would not have been so difficult to bear if he had not based his hopes on being with her.
Again he paused and glanced over his shoulder. Yes; there were two dark forms lurking in the shadows about a block away. Menti and Hank were after him…And he was in a bad spot here next to Central Park. He was in danger; he looked around him in panic. He had to hide somewhere, quickly…If he could dodge them tonight, he would leave the city first thing tomorrow morning…A taxi? But there was none in sight. If only he had the shelter of the home of a friend in which to hide…Who? Oh, God, yes…Hattie! He’d quite forgotten her. He had run off from her and left her to fend for herself with her confidence men. How had she made out? He would call her now, and if she was in, he’d go right over…
Ahead of him, across the street, were the lights of a drugstore. He looked again over his shoulder and saw the dark forms of Menti and Hank standing, watching. He crossed the street and entered the drugstore, breathing easier amidst the neon lights, the rows of colored bottles, the gleaming mirrors…He thumbed through a telephone directory, found Hattie’s number, dropped a coin in the box, and dialed. He heard the faint sound of her phone ringing. Maybe she had already lost her home and had moved…?
“Hello.” It was Hattie’s voice; it sounded tired.
“Hattie?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Hattie, this is Jordan. Addison Jordan. Remember?”
There was a pause and he heard her gasp.
“Oh, God! What happened to you?” Her voice was cold and distant.
“Look, I want to see you. I’ll tell you everything…”
“Where are you?”
“In a drugstore, near Central Park.”
“Why did you run off like that?”
“Oh, God, Hattie. I know I acted badly…”
“What do you want now?”
“I want to see you. Now. Tonight.”
“Listen, I’m in a mess. Maybe I can see you next week—Look, you see, I’m in trouble
. I’m losing my home…You understand?”
He heard her sobbing quietly.
“Did the police ever catch White and Mills?” he asked.
“No,” she heaved over the line. “There was no trace of ’em. And today I was supposed to pay $250 to straighten out the mortgage. I didn’t have it. I must get out in the morning; the bank is taking over the house…”
“You say you need $250?”
“Yes.”
“Hattie, I’ll let you have it. I’ve got it with me. Can I see you now?”
There was a moment’s silence.
“You mean that really?” she asked, a note of scared hope was in her voice.
“Yes; I tell you I got it with me, in cash.”
“Oh, God…”
“I’ll take a taxi over right now, hear?”
“Oh, God in Heaven,” she cried. “But, don’t fool me, please…”
“I’ll see you in ten minutes, Hattie.”
“Okay. But don’t fool me—”
He hung up. He would hide with her until he made up his mind where he wanted to go. He left the phone booth and looked through the drugstore window. Menti and Hank were not in sight. Central Park lay black and silent across the street. He went out and looked for a taxi. There was none…Well, he’d walk until he saw one. He swung along the pavement, full of desperate hope…He’d give Hattie the $250; it would be worth it to hide himself, and he owed it to her for what he had done by running off…How quiet the night was! Had Menti and Hank given him up? There’s a taxi…
“Taxi!” he bellowed.
The taxi slowed and pulled to a curb half a block away alongside the park. He broke into a wild run, waving his hand to assure the driver that he was coming. He crossed the street and walked with the park flanking him. He was lucky after all…
A second later he heard a snapping sound, as of a twig being broken, and then a faint footfall; there was a shower of something like loose gravel and in the same instant he felt tearing through his chest a searing streak of fire and a loud, sharp report smote his ears as his body jerked forward. The next moment he was sprawled flat on his back, having pitched headlong over his suitcase. He was staring toward a sky he could not see. Pain ripped at his chest. He had been shot. Somewhere in the region of his heart was a jumping, pulsing pain. He heard footsteps running. The Party…Then his inner world began to turn as dark as that world around him. He heard vague voices.
“You hurt, Mister?”
He felt someone tugging at his arm and pain rose from his chest in one huge red wave and engulfed him.
When Cross opened his eyes again he was aware of a dim light in a partially darkened room. He was cold and tired. As some measure of consciousness returned, he struggled to lift himself upon his elbow, but he felt an alien hand softly restraining him.
“You must be still.”
It was the voice of a woman. He struggled to focus his eyes and mumbled: “What happened?”
“You’re hurt. Lie still.”
The nurse was a foggy blur of white. Yes, he was in a hospital and then he felt again that awful ball of fire in his chest and he was aware that he was laboring in his breathing. He tried to lift his right hand, but it was too, too heavy. They got me, he thought. He felt no wonder, hate, or surprise. He had been going to the taxi and they had shot him…A fit of uncontrollable coughing seized him and shadows closed in again.
A long time later, his eyes fluttered weakly open and he saw daylight. The dim figure of a nurse in white leaned over him and beyond her he was vaguely conscious of other people whose presence seemed remote and unimportant.
“Damon,” a familiar voice came into his ear. “Can you hear me?”
He heard the question, but it seemed foolish to try to answer. He attempted again to focus his eyes, but could not.
“Damon, this is Houston, the District Attorney. Can you talk a little…?”
A fleeting smile passed through him, making his lips twitch slightly. Houston! His pal! The old hunchback! The wise old scared outlaw who had found a way of embracing his fear so that he could live and act without being too scared! He longed to see Houston; once more he sought to focus his eyes, but the face looming over him remained a blob of pink.
“Who shot you, Damon? Did you see him?”
How foolish and unessential it was to ask him that now! What did it matter?
“Was it the Party? Can you hear me? Was it the Party folks who shot you?” The voice was insistent.
Yes; he’d try to answer; he struggled to move his tongue and shape his lips and he whispered:
“I don’t know. I think so…”
“Don’t try to talk too much, Damon. Just listen and answer briefly. Save your strength…Did the Party find out you had killed Gil and Hilton?”
“No,” he whispered.
“Then why do you think they shot you?”
“They guessed…”
“You didn’t confess, didn’t tell ’em?”
“No.”
“Did they have any proof? How did they know?”
“They didn’t know…They didn’t understand me…And they shoot what they don’t understand…”
“Listen, if you can give me anything to go on, I’ll prosecute them.”
Cross sighed. His lips were dry, burning. What silliness was Houston talking? He had been living by a law and that law had turned on him. That was all.
“Forget it,” he whispered.
“But if you know anything—”
“Skip it.”
Pain seized him again and he felt someone holding his arm; they were injecting a sedative into him to quiet the pain.
“Damon, this is Houston still…Look, is there anything you want to tell me? These killings, were there more of them?”
Oh, God, that poor clown of a Joe Thomas…!
“Yes…”
“Where?”
“One other man…In Chicago. His name was Joe Thomas…I killed him in a hotel room to keep him from…betraying me…”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all…Isn’t that…enough?”
He felt suddenly sleepy and he had to fight against it. He had nestling blackly deep in him a knowledge of his pending end that made him know that he had but a short time in which to say anything.
“Damon, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he managed to whisper.
Houston’s voice seemed to be closer now and the tone had changed; it was the voice of a brother asking an urgent, confidential question.
“Damon, listen to me, just listen and think about what I’m asking and then try to answer…This is Houston still talking to you…Damon, you were an outsider…You know what I mean, don’t you? You lived apart…Damon, tell me, why did you choose to live that way?”
The damned old curious outlaw! He never forgot anything. He was still on his trail…Still hunting him down…Sure; he’d tell ’im…
“I wanted to be free…To feel what I was worth…What living meant to me…I loved life too…much…”
“And what did you find?”
“Nothing…” He lay very still and summoned all of his strength. “The search can’t be done alone,” he let his voice issue from a dry throat in which he felt death lurking. “Never alone…Alone a man is nothing…Man is a promise that he must never break…”
“Is there anything, Damon, you want me to tell anybody?”
His mind reeled at the question. There was so much and yet it was so little…
“I wish I had some way to give the meaning of my life to others…To make a bridge from man to man…Starting from scratch every time is…is no good. Tell them not to come down this road…Men hate themselves and it makes them hate others…We must find some way of being good to ourselves…Man is all we’ve got…I wish I could ask men to meet themselves…We’re different from what we seem…Maybe worse, maybe better…But certainly different…We’re strangers to ourselves.” He was silent for a moment, then he continued, whispe
ring: “Don’t think I’m so odd and strange…I’m not…I’m legion…I’ve lived alone, but I’m everywhere…Man is returning to the earth…For a long time he has been sleeping, wrapped in a dream…He is awakening now, awakening from his dreams and finding himself in a waking nightmare…The myth-men are going…The real men, the last men are coming…Somebody must prepare the way for them…Tell the world what they are like…We are here already, if others but had the courage to see us…”
He felt a weak impulse to laugh. His strength was flowing rapidly from him. His eyes would not focus. The world that was visible was a grey, translucent screen that had begun to shimmer and waver. He closed his eyes and struggled with his tongue and lips to try to shape words.
“Do you understand what I mean, Damon?” Houston asked softly. “I’m talking about you, your life…How was it with you, Damon?”
His eyes stared bleakly. His effort was supreme; his lips parted; his tongue moved; he cursed that damned ball of seething fire that raged in his chest and managed to get his reluctant breath past it to make words:
“It…It was…horrible…”
There was a short silence, and then Houston’s voice came again: “What do you mean? What was horrible?”
The effort to keep his heavy eyes open was too much and it was not worth trying. He stopped fighting and let his lids droop and darkness soothed him for a moment; once more he struggled grimly to control his lips and tongue, to still that exploding ball of fire that leaped white hot in his chest; then he said in a softly falling, dying whisper:
“All of it…”
“But why? Why? Try and tell me…”
“Because in my heart…I’m…I felt…I’m innocent… That’s what made the horror…”
He felt his dull head falling helplessly to one side. Huge black shadows were descending softly down upon him. He took a chest full of air and sighed…
He was dead.
London—Paris, 1952
Note on the Text
This volume presents the text of Richard Wright’s The Outsider from the final typescript of the novel, submitted to his publishers in October 1952. This is the last version of the text that Wright prepared without external intervention by his publisher. A great deal of material pertaining to the publication of this work, including typescripts, proofs, and correspondence between Wright and his publishers, is in the James Weldon Johnson Collection of the Beinecke Library at Yale University and in the Harper and Brothers archive in the Firestone Library at Princeton University.