The Outsider

by Richard Wright

  “I don’t know what’s happened to you,” he played his role.

  “Cross, you remember you hit me,” she moaned.

  “I didn’t!” His face pretended to grow hard. “You’re mixed up…Tell me, who’s been here?”

  “Nobody,” she breathed.

  “Who else saw me come in here?”

  “Nobody,” she whispered, her eyes widening with understanding.

  “Look, Junior’s coming,” he spoke in a low, rapid voice. “Brace up…You’ll upset ’im.”

  “Is it possible?” she asked herself in a despairing whisper.

  She pulled herself unsteadily from the bed to the dresser and began arranging her hair with palsied hands. He could see her watching his reflection in the mirror; he had to be careful. She had forgotten her bedroom slipper on the quilt; he got it and held it out to her.

  “Here; you better put it on,” he said in a neutral voice.

  “Oh,” she said in confusion.

  She obeyed him with movements charged with suppressed fear. But when he looked at her she glanced quickly away.

  Junior, four years of age, came running in in his pyjamas. “I’m hungry,” he sang, lifting an earnest, brown face to his father.

  Cross swept the boy up in his arms and fondled him. Watching Cross out of the corners of her eyes, Gladys went hesitantly from the room to prepare breakfast. Cross burrowed his head playfully into Junior’s stomach and the boy giggled. He was now certain that he could handle it. This was the beginning, the setup; next time would be the pay off.

  During the following week, under the cover of anxious solicitude, Cross craftily urged Gladys to see a doctor and she politely refused. A few days later she timidly begged him to see a doctor, telling him that she was certain that what had happened was a recurrence of what he had done with the girl. In a tone of play-acting shock, looking her levelly in the eyes, he scoffed at her interpretation and assured her that he was absolutely sane. He now made it a rigorous rule never to refer to the “accident”; all mention of it had to come from her. And, as time went on, she found it more and more difficult to bring it up; but he knew that the thought of it was continuously hovering in the background of her mind.

  One day, puckering up her lips and touching his cheek gently as she spoke—hoping by such a gesture to negate any hint that she thought him insane—she expressed concern that he might harm the children “while in one of your spells”. He patted her shoulder and said soothingly: “Don’t worry, darling. Everything’s all right.” She beseeched him to reduce his drinking, his smoking, to sleep more. She strove to keep more order in the house, chiding the children lovingly not to “make noise and get on poor papa’s nerves”.

  He chose Easter Sunday morning for his next attack. He knew that nothing would be further from Gladys’ mind then, for her attention would be involved in buying Easter egg coloring and arranging new clothes for the children’s Easter outing. He worked the night of Easter Eve and went straight home and found Gladys alone in the kitchen; she whirled with fear as he came in, for she knew that he was as early as on that other fateful morning. Again he walked slowly toward her, wordlessly, his facial expression simulating dementia.

  “No, no, no…!”

  He slapped her resoundingly and she went down like a log.

  “Junior!” she yelled. “Somebody help me!”

  He stooped and slapped her once more, his face contorted in an imitation of rage; then he turned and rushed out, hurried to the bar and joined Joe, Pink and Booker who had not missed him this time. He sat coolly talking and drinking with them, but his mind was trying to picture what was happening at home. At a little past five he went back, let himself in with his key, and headed as usual to the bathroom to wash up. He lathered his hands and whistled softly. Suddenly he was still, hearing muffled footsteps moving haltingly along the hallway. What’s she doing…? Then all was quiet. He dried his face and hands and when he emerged he did not have to look for Gladys, for there she was at the door, confronting him with his gun, pointing it straight at his heart.

  “Cross,” she said heavily, struggling to manage her breathing, “I can’t bear with you another minute. Pack your things and get out, now! You’re crazy, a danger to yourself and others!”

  He saw such craven fear in her face that he was afraid that she would lose control of herself and pull the trigger, causing him to die messily in a trap of his own devising.

  “My God,” his voice rang with sincerity. “Take it easy…”

  His nervousness made Gladys step quickly away from him and wave the gun threateningly.

  “If you come near me, I’ll shoot!” she cried. “And I’ll go free, for you’re crazy!”

  Her arm trembled and she reached toward him, the gun barrel coming within inches of his right temple.

  “Gladys,” he breathed, leaning weakly against a wall. “I can’t get my clothes unless you let me pass.”

  “You’re sick, Cross,” she pronounced in neutral, distant tones.

  Realizing that she was blocking his path, she stepped cautiously to one side. He went into the bedroom and began to pack. She waited in the doorway, still nervously clutching the gun.

  “Gladys,” he ventured to protest.

  “Get out!” she ordered in a frenzy.

  He packed a suitcase and stood looking at her out of the corners of his eyes. “I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff later—”

  “You let me know and I’ll send you your things,” she said. “Don’t ever set foot in this house without first telling me, you hear! If you do, it’ll be dangerous for you.”

  “I’ll phone you,” he mumbled.

  She held open the front door, still brandishing the gun loosely in her shaking hand. He saw her legs wobbling; he walked over the threshold, sweating, fearing that he would stumble.

  “See a doctor, Cross,” she said, slamming the door.

  On the sidewalk he paused and saw her peering at him from behind one of the lace window curtains in the living room, still grasping the gun. He walked on and filled his lungs with crisp morning air. It had worked without a hitch.

  Cross roused himself on the jolting trolley, wiped a clear spot on the sweaty windowpane and saw that he had ridden past Gladys’ place. Good God…He rushed to the front of the car and when it slowed he swung off. As he neared the house his steps faltered. He was doubtful if Gladys would help him, but his predicament was so knotty that he had to try, whatever the outcome. He mounted the steps and paused; his instincts warned him away from this Gladys whom he had made hate him too well. But he had to see her. He pushed the button of the doorbell and almost in the moment of his pushing it, the door flung open and Gladys stood before him, grim, erect. Out of a tightly organized face two deep-set eyes regarded him with composed hate.

  “Hello, Gladys,” he mumbled.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said with placid irony. “I watched you creep up the walk like a doomed man. Are you scared of your home now?”

  “I want to talk to you about something important,” he told her.

  A twisted smile played on Gladys’ rouged lips. “I suppose it’s about Miss Dorothy Powers, hunh?”

  Anger flashed through him. No; he had to be calm.

  “That’s it, Gladys,” he admitted, forcing a smile.

  She stepped to one side and he moved gingerly into the hallway, feeling for the first time intimidated by Gladys. He glanced about apprehensively, his body screaming for a drink to brace him for this ordeal.

  “Where’re the kids?” he asked to fill the gaping silence.

  “I knew you were coming,” she announced, “so I sent them for the afternoon to the house of a friend of mine.” Her voice was a midnight bell tolling tidings of bad news to come.

  He walked into the living room and sat. Gladys followed and stood at the other end of the room and regarded him with hostile eyes. He could feel that she was clamoring for an emotional scene. Well, he would refuse her any such satisfac
tion. He would be polite, bantering, if possible.

  “A young lady visited you this morning, I think,” he said, trying to rid his voice of anxiety.

  “You mean that bitch you sent—!” The hot lava of hate leaped out.

  “Gladys, I didn’t send anybody here,” he cut in quickly.

  “Cross, for God’s sake, why do you insist on being such a crawling coward? You sent her here—”

  “I didn’t, I tell you!”

  “You’re lying!”

  “Gladys, I know how you feel about me—”

  “You ought to,” she spat at him. “Do you think you can walk over me? Well, you won’t, ever! You sent that little whore here to beg me…”

  He tried to stop listening. It was going worse than he thought. Well, if she wanted to blast Dot, let her. The main thing was the question of divorce.

  “There is one thing, by God,” she roared, “that you are going to do! You are going to respect me. You can’t send a filthy, stinking little tart like that to talk to me. You can be sure I gave your bitch a hot welcome, and she won’t forget it, not soon!” Gladys groped for words, her mouth open. “And while I’m on it, let me settle one more question. You’ll not get a divorce. For a rotten slut like her, never! That’s the way I feel and I’m not ashamed of it! If you can be dirty, then so can I! Keep on living with her, but if she asks you to make her respectable, tell her you can’t! Take your Dorothy and fuck her and let her give you a litter of bastards. That’s all she’s fit for, and you, too, it seems! Is that clear?”

  Her hysterical tirade made him ashamed for her. The satisfaction she was deriving from it was obscene.

  “Look, I’m not going to argue with your feelings,” he clutched at words to stem the tide, striving to be judicious, balanced. “Let’s arrange something. I’m supporting you and the children—”

  “And by the living hell, you’ll keep on!”

  “Okay. I agree. But your welfare depends on my job—”

  He jerked as she burst into a gale of cynical laughter. “So, you’ve been to the Post Office?” she asked. “They put the fear of God into you, hunh? That’s why you came crawling to me…”

  Cross froze. Had she already told the postal officials about the possibility of his being convicted of rape? He had come to bargain with her, but if she had already talked, the game was all but lost.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked quietly.

  “Cross, are you stupid?” There was a mocking pity in her tone. “I must protect myself…That little whore of yours had not been gone from here an hour before my lawyer and I had gone to the Post Office—”

  “Why?”

  He knew why she had gone, but he wanted to know how far she had gone. Maybe his job was already lost!

  Gladys spoke quietly, as though she were a school teacher explaining a complicated problem to a dullard. She came to within a few feet of Cross and sat.

  “Cross, you really cannot expect me to think of you and your troubles,” she said. “You’re intelligent and you know what you’re doing. I had to act in my own defense. I went straight to the Postmaster and told him that your Miss Powers was about to charge you with rape—”

  “Did she tell you that?” Cross asked, feeling that his chair was whirling him round.

  “Of course she did,” Gladys informed him with a smile. “Do you think she’s informing you of her moves against you? The Postmaster knows, of course, that you cannot marry the girl…And if you are convicted, you’re ruined. Now, the Postal Inspector has your case, see?”

  Cross had no will to gainsay her; he knew that she was summing up his situation accurately.

  “Cross, you must not be naïve,” she continued. “There’s nothing that Miss Powers can do but charge you, unless she’s willing to live with you and bear your child…And I doubt if she loves you that much.” She paused, lit a cigarette, eyeing Cross the while. “Now, there are some rather disagreeable things I must say to you.” She lifted her left hand and with her right hand she pulled down the little finger of her left hand and said: “Number One: You’re signing this house over to me at once. Number Two: You’re signing over the car to me. Number Three: You’re going to the Post Office tonight and borrow eight hundred dollars from the Postal Union on your salary. I’ve already made the arrangements with the Postal Inspector. He’s okayed it. I want that money to clear the titles of both the house and the car.” She stood, lifted her hand to bar his words. “I know you want to say no,” she said. “But you can’t. Cross, understand this: so far as I’m concerned, you’re through! I’m squeezing you like a lemon. If you don’t do what I’m asking, in the morning I shall keep an appointment with Miss Powers. She, I, and her lawyer will go to the 49th Street Police Station and I will help her bring charges against you. I’m not justifying my actions. I’m not apologizing, see? I’m just telling you. That’s how things stand between us, Cross.”

  He was willing to sign over everything, but he did not want to borrow the money; it would mean indebtedness for him for two years to come. And he could use that money to try to bribe Dot…

  “They may not let me have the money,” he said.

  “Mr. Dumb,” she said scornfully, “if the Postal Union thought you were going to be indicted for rape, they’d not let you have the money, for you’d have no job. I led them to believe that the girl would abort the child, that you’d pay her off…I made sure with the Postmaster that your job was safe, and the Postal Union has been told that it’s all right…”

  “But the girl can still charge me,” Cross protested without strength. “What game’s this you’re playing?”

  “My game,” Gladys said.

  “The eight hundred dollars,” he was pleading now, “could keep the girl and I could make payments to you—”

  “I don’t give a damn about that girl,” she snapped. “What happens between you and her is your business!”

  Gladys was using Dot to drag money from him and at the same time betraying Dot! Cross wanted to close his eyes and sleep this nightmare away.

  “If you get eight hundred dollars, you’ll not help the girl?”

  “Hell, no! Why should I? Let that bitch rot!”

  He was properly trapped. There was nothing more to say. This was a cold and vindictive Gladys created by him. He rose and moved toward the door.

  “What’s your answer?” she asked.

  “Okay. I’ll get the money. I’ll phone you tonight.”

  “Oh, there’s one other thing,” she said, opening the door for him. “Is your life insurance paid up?”

  “Hunh?” His voice sounded far away. “Yes; yes…”

  “Have you changed the beneficiary?” she asked.

  “No; why should I?”

  “I just wanted to know,” she said.

  He felt as though he were already dead and was listening to her speak about him. He went out and did not glance back. He was so depressed that he was not aware of trampling through the deep snow. About him were sounds that had no meaning. When he came fully to himself, his feet were like two icy stumps. I must have fever…He paused and stared around him. He was tired. Oh, God, I got to get that money for Gladys…He looked about for a taxi. Oh, there’s the “L”…He ran for the entrance, stumbled up the steps of the “L”, fished a dime from his pocket, paid, and rushed to the platform just as a Loopbound train slid to a stop. He found a seat, fell into it, and sat hunched over, brooding.

  His seeing Gladys had compounded his problems. If he obeyed her, he was lost; and if he did not obey her, he was lost. Yet, because he could not make up his mind to ditch it all, he had to follow her demands.

  Before reaching Roosevelt Road the “L” dipped underground. Cross rose, swaying with the speed of the train, and traversed each coach until he came to the first car whose front window looked out upon a dim stretch of tunnel. He leaned his forehead against the glass and stared at the rushing ribbons of steel rails whose glinting surfaces vanished beneath his feet.


  When his station arrived, he got off and went toward the Post Office, a mass of steel and stone with yellow windows glowing, a mass that rose sheerly toward an invisible sky. The night air was still; it had begun to grow a little warmer. It’s going to snow again, he thought idly. Yes, he’d see about the loan right now, but he’d not work tonight. He hungered for sleep. He flashed his badge to the guard at the door and went inside. Where’s that Postal Union office? Yes; there on the right…He pushed open the door and saw Finch, the union secretary, sitting quietly, his hat on, chewing an unlighted cigar and holding a deck of soiled playing cards in his hands. Cross approached Finch’s desk and for a moment they stared at each other. He suddenly hated Finch’s whiteness, not racially, but just because he was white and safe and calm and he was not.

  “Damon, hunh?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was waiting for you,” Finch said. “Sit down.”

  Cross obeyed. He did not want to look at Finch; he knew that the man knew his troubles and it made him ashamed; instead, he stared stupidly at the pudgy, soft fingers as they shuffled the cards.

  “You look like an accident going somewhere to happen,” Finch commented.

  “I’m under the weather,” Cross confessed. “I want to renew that eight-hundred-dollar loan I had last year—”

  “Oh, yes.” Finch looked up. “Your wife’s been in.”

  White fingers took the cigar from thin lips and a brown stream of tobacco juice spewed into a spittoon. Finch replaced the cigar, chewed it, and settled it carefully again in his jaw.

  “You colored boys get into a lot of trouble on the South Side,” Finch gave a superior smile. “You must have a hot time out there every day, hunh?”

  Cross stiffened. His accepting Finch’s sneering at his racial behavior was a kind of compound interest he had to pay on his loan.

  “Is the loan possible?” Cross asked.

  “The Postmaster said it’s all right,” Finch said, finally stacking the cards and flinging them to one side, as though ridding himself of something unpleasant. “Half of my time’s spent taking care of you colored boys…What goes on on the South Side?”