Native Son

by Richard Wright

  “You suppose she ran off?” he heard Britten ask.

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Dalton said.

  Britten turned to Bigger and looked at him; Bigger kept his eyes down.

  “Boy, I just want to know, are you telling the truth?”

  “Yessuh. I’m telling the truth. I just started to work here last night. I ain’t done nothing. I did just what they told me to do.”

  “You sure he’s all right?” Britten asked Dalton.

  “He’s all right.”

  “If you don’t want me to work for you, Mr. Dalton,” Bigger said, “I’ll go home. I didn’t want to come here,” he continued, feeling that his words would awaken in Mr. Dalton a sense of why he was here, “but they sent me anyhow.”

  “That’s true,” Mr. Dalton told Britten. “He’s referred to me from the relief. He’s been in a reform school and I’m giving him a chance….” Mr. Dalton turned to Bigger. “Just forget it, Bigger We had to make sure. Stay on and do your work. I’m sorry this had to happen. Don’t let it break you down.”

  “Yessuh.”

  “O.K.,” said Britten. “If you say he’s O.K., then it’s O.K. with me.”

  “Go on to your room, Bigger,” said Mr. Dalton.

  “Yessuh.”

  Head down, he walked to the rear of the furnace and upstairs into his room. He turned the latch on the door and hurried to the closet to listen. The voices came clearly. Britten and Mr. Dalton had come into the kitchen.

  “My, but it was hot down there,” said Mr. Dalton.

  “Yes.”

  “…. I’m a little sorry you bothered him. He’s here to try to get a new slant on things.”

  “Well, you see ’em one way and I see ’em another. To me, a nigger’s a nigger.”

  “But he’s sort of a problem boy. He’s not really bad.”

  “You got to be rough with ’em, Dalton. See how I got that dope out of ’im? He wouldn’t’ve told you that.”

  “But I don’t want to make a mistake here. It wasn’t his fault. He was doing what that crazy daughter of mine told him. I don’t want to do anything I’ll regret. After all, these black boys never get a chance….”

  “They don’t need a chance, if you ask me. They get in enough trouble without it.”

  “Well, as long as they do their work, let’s let ’em be.”

  “Just as you say. You want me to stay on the job?”

  “Sure. We must see this Jan. I can’t understand Mary’s going away and not saying anything.”

  “I can have ’im picked up.”

  “No, no! Not that way. Those Reds’ll get hold of it and they’ll raise a stink in the papers.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do?”

  “I’ll try to get ’im to come here. I’ll phone his office, and if he’s not there I’ll phone his home.”

  Bigger heard their footsteps dying away. A door slammed and then all was quiet. He came out of the closet and looked in the dresser drawer where he had put the pamphlets. Yes, Britten had searched his room; his clothes were mussed and tumbled. He would know how to handle Britten next time. Britten was familiar to him; he had met a thousand Brittens in his life. He stood in the center of the room, thinking. When Britten questioned Jan, would Jan deny having been with Mary at all, in order to protect her? If he did, that would be in his favor. If Britten wanted to check on his story about Mary’s not going to school last night, he could. If Jan said that they had not been drinking it could be proved that they had been drinking by folks in the café. If Jan lied about one thing, it would be readily believed that he would lie about others. If Jan said that he had not come to the house, who would believe him after it was seen that he had lied about his not drinking and about Mary’s going to school? If Jan tried to protect Mary, as he thought he would, he would only succeed in making a case against himself.

  Bigger went to the window and looked out at the white curtain of falling snow. He thought of the kidnap note. Should he try to get money from them now? Hell, yes! He would show that Britten bastard! He would work fast. But he would wait until after Jan had told his story. He should see Bessie tonight. And he ought to pick out the pencil and paper he would use. And he must not forget to use gloves when he wrote the note so that no fingerprints would be on the paper. He’d give that Britten something to worry about, all right. Just wait.

  Because he could go now, run off if he wanted to and leave it all behind, he felt a certain sense of power, a power born of a latent capacity to live. He was conscious of this quiet, warm, clean, rich house, this room with this bed so soft, the wealthy white people moving in luxury to all sides of him, whites living in a smugness, a security, a certainty that he had never known. The knowledge that he had killed a white girl they loved and regarded as their symbol of beauty made him feel the equal of them, like a man who had been somehow cheated, but had now evened the score.

  The more the sense of Britten seeped into him the more did he feel the need to face him once again and let him try to get something from him. Next time he would do better; he had let Britten trap him on that Communist business. He should have been on the lookout for that; but the lucky thing was that he knew that Britten had done all his tricks at once, had shot his bolt, had played all his cards. Now that the thing was out in the open, he would know how to act. And furthermore, Britten might want him as a witness against Jan. He smiled while he lay in the darkness. If that happened, he would be safe in sending the ransom note. He could send it just when they thought they had pinned the disappearance of Mary upon Jan. That would throw everything into confusion and would make them want to reply and give the money at once and save the girl.

  The warm room lulled his blood and a deepening sense of fatigue drugged him with sleep. He stretched out more fully on the bed, sighed, turned on his back, swallowed, and closed his eyes. Out of the surrounding silence and darkness came the quiet ringing of a distant church bell, thin, faint, but clear. It tolled, soft, then loud, then still louder, so loud that he wondered where it was. It sounded suddenly directly above his head and when he looked it was not there but went on tolling and with each passing moment he felt an urgent need to run and hide as though the bell were sounding a warning and he stood on a street corner in a red glare of light like that which came from the furnace and he had a big package in his arms so wet and slippery and heavy that he could scarcely hold onto it and he wanted to know what was in the package and he stopped near an alley corner and unwrapped it and the paper fell away and he saw—it was his own head—his own head lying with black face and half-closed eyes and lips parted with white teeth showing and hair wet with blood and the red glare grew brighter like light shining down from a red moon and red stars on a hot summer night and he was sweating and breathless from running and the bell clanged so loud that he could hear the iron tongue clapping against the metal sides each time it swung to and fro and he was running over a street paved with black coal and his shoes kicked tiny lumps rattling against tin cans and he knew that very soon he had to find some place to hide but there was no place and in front of him white people were coming to ask about the head from which the newspapers had fallen and which was now slippery with blood in his naked hands and he gave up and stood in the middle of the street in the red darkness and cursed the booming bell and the white people and felt that he did not give a damn what happened to him and when the people closed in he hurled the bloody head squarely into their faces dongdongdong….

  He opened his eyes and looked about him in the darkened room, hearing a bell ring. He sat up. The bell sounded again. How long had it been ringing? He got to his feet, swaying from stiffness, trying to shake off sleep and that awful dream.

  “Yessum,” he mumbled.

  The bell rang again, insistently. He fumbled in the dark for the light chain and pulled it. Excitement quickened within him. Had something happened? Was this the police?

  “Bigger!” a muffled voice called.

  “Yessuh.”

  He brac
ed himself for whatever was coming and stepped to the door. As he opened it he felt it being pushed in by someone who seemed determined to get in in a hurry. Bigger backed away, blinking his eyes.

  “We want to talk to you,” said Britten.

  “Yessuh.”

  He did not hear what Britten said after that, for he saw directly behind Britten a face that made him hold his breath. It was not fear he felt, but a tension, a supreme gathering of all the forces of his body for a showdown.

  “Go on in, Mr. Erlone,” Mr. Dalton said.

  Bigger saw Jan’s eyes looking at him steadily. Jan stepped into the room and Mr. Dalton followed. Bigger stood with his lips slightly parted, his hands hanging loosely by his sides, his eyes watchful, but veiled.

  “Sit down, Erlone,” Britten said.

  “This is all right,” Jan said. “I’ll stand.”

  Bigger saw Britten pull from his coat pocket the packet of pamphlets and hold them under Jan’s eyes. Jan’s lips twisted into a faint smile.

  “Well,” Jan said.

  “You’re one of those tough Reds, hunh?” Britten asked.

  “Come on. Let’s get this over with,” Jan said. “What do you want?”

  “Take it easy,” Britten said. “You got plenty of time. I know your kind. You like to rush and have things your way.”

  Bigger saw Mr. Dalton standing to one side, looking anxiously from one to the other. Several times Mr. Dalton made as if to say something, then checked himself, as though uncertain.

  “Bigger,” Britten asked, “is this the man Miss Dalton brought here last night?”

  Jan’s lips parted. He stared at Britten, then at Bigger.

  “Yessuh,” Bigger whispered, struggling to control his feelings, hating Jan violently because he knew he was hurting him; wanting to strike Jan with something because Jan’s wide, incredulous stare made him feel hot guilt to the very core of him.

  “You didn’t bring me here, Bigger!” Jan said. “Why do you tell them that?”

  Bigger did not answer; he decided to talk only to Britten and Mr. Dalton. There was silence. Jan was staring at Bigger; Britten and Mr. Dalton were watching Jan. Jan made a move toward Bigger, but Britten’s arm checked him.

  “Say, what is this!” Jan demanded. “What’re you making this boy lie for?”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell us you weren’t drunk last night, hunh?” asked Britten.

  “What business is that of yours?” Jan shot at him.

  “Where’s Miss Dalton?” Britten asked.

  Jan looked round the room, puzzled.

  “She’s in Detroit,” he said.

  “You know your story by heart, don’t you?” Britten said.

  “Say, Bigger, what’re they doing to you? Don’t be afraid. Speak up!” said Jan.

  Bigger did not answer; he looked stonily at the floor.

  “Where did Miss Dalton tell you she was going?” Britten asked.

  “She told me she was going to Detroit.”

  “Did you see her last night?”

  Jan hesitated.

  “No.”

  “You didn’t give these pamphlets to this boy last night?”

  Jan shrugged his shoulders, smiled and said:

  “All right. I saw her. So what? You know why I didn’t say so in the first place….”

  “No. We don’t know,” Britten said.

  “Well, Mr. Dalton here doesn’t like Reds, as you call ’em, and I didn’t want to get Miss Dalton in trouble.”

  “Then, you did meet her last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is she?”

  “If she’s not in Detroit, then I don’t know where she is.”

  “You gave these pamphlets to this boy?”

  “Yes; I did.”

  “You and Miss Dalton were drunk last night….”

  “Aw, come on! We weren’t drunk. We had a little to drink….”

  “You brought her home about two?”

  Bigger stiffened and waited.

  “Yeah.”

  “You told the boy to take her trunk down to the basement?”

  Jan opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked at Bigger, then back to Britten.

  “Say, what is this?”

  “Where’s my daughter, Mr. Erlone?” Mr. Dalton asked.

  “I tell you I don’t know.”

  “Listen, let’s be frank, Mr. Erlone,” said Mr. Dalton. “We know my daughter was drunk last night when you brought her here. She was too drunk to leave here by herself. Do you know where she is?”

  “I—I didn’t come here last night,” Jan stammered.

  Bigger sensed that Jan had said that he had come home with Mary last night in order to make Mr. Dalton believe that he would not have left his daughter alone in a car with a strange chauffeur. And Bigger felt that after Jan admitted that they had been drinking, he was bound to say that he had brought the girl home. Unwittingly, Jan’s desire to protect Mary had helped him. Jan’s denial of having come to the home would not be believed now; it would make Mr. Dalton and Britten feel that he was trying to cover up something of even much greater seriousness.

  “You didn’t come home with her?” Mr. Dalton asked.

  “No!”

  “You didn’t tell the boy to take the trunk down?”

  “Hell, no! Who says I did? I left the car and took a trolley home.” Jan turned and faced Bigger. “Bigger, what’re you telling these people?”

  Bigger did not answer.

  “He’s just told us what you did last night,” Britten said.

  “Where’s Mary…. Where’s Miss Dalton?” Jan asked.

  “We’re waiting for you to tell us,” said Britten.

  “D-d-didn’t she go to Detroit?” Jan stammered.

  “No,” said Mr. Dalton.

  “I called her this morning and Peggy told me she had.”

  “You called her just to see if the family had missed her, didn’t you?” asked Britten.

  Jan walked over to Bigger.

  “Leave ’im alone!” Britten said.

  “Bigger,” Jan said, “why did you tell these men I came here?”

  “You say you didn’t come here at all last night?” Mr. Dalton asked again.

  “Absolutely not. Bigger, tell ’em when I left the car.”

  Bigger said nothing.

  “Come on, Erlone. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’ve been lying ever since you’ve been in this room. You said you didn’t come here last night, and then you say you did. You said you weren’t drunk last night, then you say you were. You said you didn’t see Miss Dalton last night, then you say you did. Come on, now. Tell us where Miss Dalton is. Her father and mother want to know.”

  Bigger saw Jan’s bewildered eyes.

  “Listen, I’ve told you all I know,” said Jan, putting his hat back on. “Unless you tell me what this joke’s all about, I’m getting on back home….”

  “Wait a minute,” said Mr. Dalton.

  Mr. Dalton came forward a step, and fronted Jan.

  “You and I don’t agree. Let’s forget that. I want to know where my daughter is….”

  “Is this a game?” asked Jan.

  “No; no….” said Mr. Dalton. “I want to know. I’m worried….”

  “I tell you, I don’t know!”

  “Listen, Mr. Erlone. Mary’s the only girl we’ve got. I don’t want her to do anything rash. Tell her to come back. Or you bring her back.”

  “Mr. Dalton, I’m telling you the truth….”

  “Listen,” Mr. Dalton said. “I’ll make it all right with you….”

  Jan’s face reddened.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I’ll make it worth your while….”

  “You son….” Jan stopped. He walked to the door.

  “Let ’im go,” said Britten. “He can’t get away. I’ll phone and have ’im picked up. He knows more than he’s telling….”

  Jan paused in the doorway,
looking at all three of them. Then he went out. Bigger sat on the edge of the bed and heard Jan’s feet run down the stairs. A door slammed; then silence. Bigger saw Mr. Dalton gazing at him queerly. He did not like that look. But Britten was jotting something on a pad, his face pale and hard in the yellow glare of the suspended electric bulb.

  “You’re telling us the truth about all this, aren’t you, Bigger?” Mr. Dalton asked.

  “Yessuh.”

  “He’s all right,” Britten said. “Come on; let’s get to a phone. I’m having that guy picked up for questioning. It’s the only thing to do. And I’ll have some men go over Miss Dalton’s room. We’ll find out what happened. I’ll bet my right arm that goddamn Red’s up to something!”

  Britten went out and Mr. Dalton followed, leaving Bigger still on the edge of the bed. When he heard the door slam, he got up and grabbed his cap and went softly down the stairs into the basement. He stood a moment looking through the cracks into the humming fire, blindingly red now; then he went into the driveway, through the falling snow to the street. He had to see Bessie at once; the kidnap note had to be sent right away; there was no time to lose. If Mr. Dalton, Britten or Peggy missed him and asked him where he had been, he would say that he had gone out to get a package of cigarettes. But with all of the excitement, no one would probably think of him. And they were after Jan now; he was safe.

  “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.