Cross cleared his throat to control himself. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I’m offering my house as security—”
“I’m ahead of you, Damon,” Finch said. “On the strength of your wife’s plea, I’ve had the papers all drawn up. Boy, you’ve got a good wife. You ought to take care of her—”
“I do,” Cross mumbled.
“If you did, you wouldn’t be in this mess,” Finch said. He pushed the contract toward Cross. “Here, sign…”
Cross signed clumsily, his nervousness letting a blob of ink smear blackly across the page. He fumbled with a blotter to soak it up.
“Let me do that,” Finch said, taking the blotter from Cross. “Looks like a chicken with dirty feet ran over this contract.” He handed Cross a carbon copy of the contract, then opened a drawer and pulled forth a sheaf of vouchers. “How do you want this? A check or cash?”
“Cash. I’d like the money tonight.”
“Why not? It’s your money.”
Finch initialed a voucher for cash and flipped it at Cross.
“Okay. Get going,” Finch said, yanking his thumb toward the door.
Cross stood and wanted to spit at the man. He edged forward and opened the door.
“Shut the door when you go out,” Finch called, picking up his deck of cards and beginning to shuffle them again.
“Yes; of course,” Cross said.
He pulled the door softly shut and sighed. Well, that was done. Then he stiffened. One of the Assistant Postmasters was bearing down upon him, his grey eyes intent on Cross’s face.
“Damon, just a moment!”
“Yes, sir,” Cross answered, waiting.
The Assistant Postmaster pointed a forefinger at Cross. “Damon, don’t ever again come to this Post Office on an errand like this. If it hadn’t been for your wife, I wouldn’t touch this stink with a ten-foot pole. Look, you had one loan and paid it. Do the same with this. We’re here to handle the mails, not emotional dramas. Now, this eight hundred ought to settle your little business, hunh?”
“Yes, sir,” he lied; it would only settle the claim of Gladys, but it would not help him with Dot. “Let me explain, sir…”
“Don’t tell me about it. I don’t want to know.”
“I’d like the night off, sir,” Cross said. “I’ll take it out of my vacation days.”
“And what other service can I render you?” the Assistant Postmaster asked with mockery.
“I’m ill,” Cross said peevishly.
“You look it,” the Assistant Postmaster said. “Okay. Take it. But I know a guy called Damon who’s going to find the Post Office a hard line to walk from this out.”
Cross bit his lip, turned away and descended the stairs to the cashier’s office of the Postal Union and presented his voucher.
“Cash, eh?” the teller asked, smiling. “What’re you going to do with all that money? Buy the Tribune Tower?”
Cross pretended that he had not heard. He pushed the pile of fifty-dollar bills into his wallet, sought a telephone booth and dialed Gladys.
“I got the money,” he told her.
“I want it first thing in the morning,” she said flatly.
“I’ll bring it by at noon.”
“All right.”
He made for the exit, showed his badge to the guard and stepped into the street. It was snowing again; fat, white flakes drifted lazily down from a night sky. An “L” train rattled past overhead. He sighed, feeling relieved. He had to be careful and not let a pickpocket rob him of the money. He put his badge, the duplicate copy of the loan contract into the pocket of his overcoat and stuffed his wallet into his shirt, next to his skin. His job now was to head off Dot.
Diving into a subway, he paid his fare and, two minutes later, when a train roared up, walked into the first coach and sank into a seat, closing his eyes. The train pulled into motion; he opened his eyes and noticed that another Negro, shabbily dressed, of about his own color and build, was sitting across the aisle from him. The movement of the coach rocked some of the tension out of him, but not enough to let him relax. Restlessness made him rise and go to the front window and stand looking at the twin ribbons of steel rails sliding under the train. A moment later, when the train was streaking through the underground, darkness suddenly gouged his eyes and a clap of thunder smote his ears. He was spinning through space, his body smashing against steel; then he was aware of being lifted and brutally catapulted through black space and, while he was tossed, screams of men and women rent the black air.
Afterwards Cross remembered that when the lights had gone out he had involuntarily blinked his eyes, instinctively feeling that the cause of sudden darkness was some fault of the functioning of his pupils. About him were sounds of ripping metals and then something thumped against his head, sending him to sleep. How long he was unconscious, he did not know. When he was aware of himself again he realized that his body was in a vaguely upright position, but jammed between what seemed like two walls of steel. The right side of his skull was gripped by pain and something wet and warm trickled down a side of his face. His left leg was being wrenched and his right leg was pinioned, crushed to numbness between what seemed like two vices. He groaned. The words: It’s a subway wreck! shaped themselves in his consciousness.
Abruptly the thunder ceased and the only sounds he heard were screams. In the blackness that walled itself before his eyes, Cross was afraid to move. How badly am I hurt? Is it over? He became aware that he was holding his head tucked down to dodge another attack of annihilation. Lifting his eyes he saw far ahead of him a jutting spray of blue electric sparks showering down from somewhere. He had to get out of this, now, NOW…Gingerly, he groped with his fingers and what he touched made him project in terms of images what his fingers felt and he screamed. He imagined he saw the profile of a human face drenched in blood. He snatched his hand away and wiped it dry upon his coat.
He breathed softly, listening: a viscous liquid was slowly falling drop by drop somewhere near him: the whimper of a woman seemed to be issuing from a half-conscious body: a quiet coughing seemed to be trying to dislodge something thick and wet from a sticky throat: an incessant grunt grew fainter and fainter until it was heard no more…
He was calm now, thinking. His lighter must be in his left pants’ pocket. Twisting, he reached for it, felt it with the ends of his fingers. Yes! Purpose gripped him and, squeezing the tips of his fingers together, he caught hold of the lighter and slowly pulled it out. He pushed the lever and a bluish flame shed feeble light amid a welter of topsy-turvy forms. Lines zigzagged and solids floated in shadows, vanishing into meaninglessness; images dissolved into other images and his mind was full of a sense of shifting significances.
He saw that the seats of the train were above his head; the coach had reversed itself, twisted within the tube of the underground and he was standing on the shattered lights of the ceiling. Seats had ripped from the floor and had fallen to the ceiling where he stood.
Cross shut his eyes and bit his lips, his ears assailed by screams. He had to get out of here! He bent lower and looked; a white face with unblinking eyes was wedged at the level of his knees and beneath that face he could make out a dark pool of fluid that reflected the flickering flame of his lighter. He moved the flame over shards of glinting glass and saw again that window and the shower of blue electric sparks still sprinkling down…Yes; he had to get to that window…But his legs…He had to get them free…He bent and looked closer; his right leg was gripped between the steel wall of the coach and a seat that had tumbled from the floor to the ceiling. He pushed at the seat and it would not budge. Again he shoved his weight mightily at the seat. Why didn’t it move? He stooped lower with the light and saw that the seat that jammed his leg to the wall was anchored in place by the man’s head, which, in turn, was rammed by another seat. The man’s face was fronting Cross.
Cross lifted the pressure of his finger from the lever and the flame went out. He thought: That man’s head is kee
ping this seat from moving…Could he get that head out of his way? He pressed the lever again and looked. He could just reach the man’s head with his right hand. Yes; he had to shove it out of the way. He held the lighter in his left hand, shut his eyes, and felt the palm of his right hand touching the yielding flesh of the man’s face, expecting to hear a protest…He opened his eyes; no breath seemed to be coming from the nostrils or mouth. Cross shuddered. If the man was dead, then any action he took to free himself was right…He held his fingers to the man’s parted lips and could feel no stir of air. For a few seconds he watched the man’s chest and could detect no movement. The man’s dead…But how could he get that head out of his way…? Again he pushed his right hand with all of his strength against the face and it budged only a fraction of an inch. Goddamn…He panted with despair, regarding the man’s head as an obstacle; it was no longer flesh and blood, but a rock, a chuck of wood to be whacked at until it was gone…
He searched vainly in the moving shadows for something to hold in his hand, hearing still the sounds of screams. He felt in his overcoat pocket; the gun was there. Yes…He pulled it out. Could he beat down that foolishly staring face belonging to that head pushing against the seat wedging his leg to the wall? He shut his eyes and lifted the gun by the barrel and brought down the butt, and, even though his eyes were closed, he could see the gun butt crashing into the defenseless face…Sweat broke out on his face and rivulets of water oozed from his armpits.
He opened his eyes; the bloody face had sunk only a few inches; the nostrils, teeth, chin and eyes were pulped and blackened. Cross sucked in his breath; a few more blows would dislodge it. He shut his eyes and hammered again and suddenly he heard a splashing thud and he knew that the head had given way, for his blows were now falling on air…He looked; the mangled face was on the floor; most of the flesh had been ripped away and it already appeared skeletonlike. He had done it; he could move his leg.
Now, he had to free his other leg. Peering with the lighter, he saw that his left leg was hooked under a fallen seat. With his right leg free, he hoisted himself up and saw that he would get loose if he could use his left leg as a ramrod to shove at the seat. Pricked by splinters of glass, he hauled himself upward and perched himself on the back of an overturned seat and, with his left foot, he gave a wild kick against the seat and it did not move. Bracing himself, he settled his heel against the back of the seat, eased his overcoat—which was hindering his movements—down a little from his shoulders, and shut his eyes and pushed against the seat. It fell away. Both of his legs were free. An awful stench filled his nostrils.
He looked toward the gutted window; the blue electric sparks were still falling. From somewhere came a banging of metal against metal, like an urgent warning. That window was the way out. He crept forward over the ceiling of the overturned coach, past twisted and bloody forms, crunching shattered electric bulbs under his feet, feeling his shoes slopping through sticky liquid. He moved on tiptoe, as though afraid of waking the sleeping dead. He reached the window and saw that a young woman’s body had been crushed almost flat just beneath it. The girl was dead, but, if he was to get through that window, he had either the choice of standing upon her crushed body or remaining where he was. He stepped upon the body, feeling his shoes sinking into the lifeless flesh and seeing blood bubbling from the woman’s mouth as his weight bore down on her bosom. He reached for the window, avoiding the jagged edges of glass. Outside the blue electric sparks rained down, emitting a ghostly light. He did not need his lighter now. He crawled through and lowered his feet to the ground. He had to be careful and not step upon any live wires or the third rail…His feet sought for gravel.
He stood for a moment, collecting himself. His head throbbed. When he moved his right leg it pained him. His body was clammy and was trembling. For a moment he felt as though he would lose consciousness, but he remained on his feet. Screams, more distant now, came to his ears. He moved forward in the bluish gloom. Yes, ahead of him were amber lights! He pushed on and could hear distant voices and they were not the voices of the wounded. He had been lucky. I’d better let a doctor look at me…He now realized how fantastically fortunate he had been; had he remained in his seat, he would have been crushed to death…
He picked his way catlike over wooden trestles and then stopped. His overcoat…? Oh, God, he had left it somewhere back in that death-filled darkness, but he could not recall how it had gotten away from him. The gun was still in his pants’ pocket. With stiff and sweaty fingers he lit a cigarette and walked on. From above ground he caught the faint wail of sirens and ahead of him he saw dim traces of light in the circular tunnel. Later he made out blurred, white uniforms and he knew that they were doctors and nurses.
He trudged past overturned coaches whose windows were gutted of glass. He could see doctors and nurses quite clearly now. He heard someone yell: “Here comes another one! He seems all right!”
They had seen him and were running to meet him. A doctor and a nurse caught hold of his arms.
“Are you all right?” the doctor asked.
“I guess so,” he answered out of a daze.
“You are lucky,” the nurse said.
“Get ’im to an ambulance,” the doctor told the nurse. “I want to take a look back here.”
The doctor hurried off into the tunnel of darkness, spotting his way with a flashlight.
“Can you walk all right?” the nurse asked him.
“Yeah.”
“Does anything hurt you?”
“My leg, my right leg…”
“Come along, if you can manage,” she said. “They’ll see about it…What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
She led him toward a group of doctors and nurses who were congregated upon a subway station platform. He saw policemen pouring upon the underground tracks and heard someone shout: “Tell ’em the current’s cut off!”
Cross felt hands lifting him on to the platform, and now another nurse had hold of his arm. About him was a babble of voices. He began to revive, feeling a little more like himself.
“I’m all right now,” he told the nurse.
“But you must go to the hospital and be examined,” the nurse told him. “Come. The ambulance is waiting.”
She led him through a throng of policemen to the sidewalk where masses of excited people clogged the streets. The nurse tried to guide him through the crowd but they were brought to a standstill. A policeman saw them and attempted to help by clearing a path before them.
“That’s one of ’em,” Cross heard someone say. “But he doesn’t seem hurt.”
Cross could see the ambulances now; there were internes with stretchers rushing toward the subway station.
“You can get through now,” the policeman said.
“Look,” Cross told the nurse. “I’ll go and get into an ambulance. I’m all right. Go back and help the others.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” the nurse asked.
“Absolutely,” Cross assured her.
She let go of him and he was alone. He felt fine. He started in the direction of the ambulances. The crowd ignored him. He looked down at his clothes; save for dried blood on his shoes, he was all right. His overcoat had protected him somewhat. He paused. Why in hell should he go to a hospital? He was not wounded, only bruised. What he wanted more than medicine was a good, stiff drink of whiskey. Were the doctors and nurses watching him? He looked around; they were not…And the policeman had disappeared. The hell with it…He crossed the street and peered at his dim reflection in the plate glass window of a clothing store. His eyes were muddy and his face was caked with dirt and dried blood. He mopped at his cheek with his coat sleeve, rubbing it clean. Otherwise, he looked quite normal. Some whiskey would fix me up, he told himself and went in search of a drink.
A fine snow was falling, hanging in the air like a delicate veil. He limped toward Roosevelt Road and found a second-rate bar that had sawdust on the floor and an odor of stale
bread and beer. He was glad of the warmth that caressed his face; he had been too preoccupied to notice that he was half-frozen. But what happened to his overcoat? He ordered a double whiskey and thought back over the underground accident. Then he remembered that he must have lost his overcoat when he had climbed atop that overturned seat to free his leg. That was it; he had had to pull his arms out of the coat and had been in such a frenzy that he had forgotten to put it on again. Well, he would buy another one. An overcoat was indeed a small loss in such a holocaust. He fingered the lump at the right side of his head; it was sore, but not serious. A man sure needs luck, he told himself.
The bar was filled with foreign-born working men who did not find his disheveled clothing outlandish. Over his head a loud-speaker blared. He was leaning on his elbow when he heard the radio commentator announce:
Ladies and Gentlemen, we interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin. One half hour ago, a Southbound subway train crashed headlong into another Southbound train that had come to a standstill about six hundred yards from the Roosevelt Road Subway Station. The cause of the accident is being investigated. Access to the wrecked trains is difficult because debris has blocked the underground tubes and rescuers are having to cut their way through thick steel beams with acetylene torches. Although it is too early to give any details, it is feared that the loss of life has been heavy. In the immediate area all subway traffic has been suspended. Doctors and nurses have been rushed to the scene of the disaster. Keep tuned to this station for further details.
Cross smiled. How quick they were! Then suddenly he started so violently that the white man drinking next to him drew back in astonishment. That money! He shoved his hand into his shirt…It was there! Thank God…He leaned weakly against the bar. If he had lost the eight hundred dollars, the only thing left for him would have been to jump into the Chicago River.
He paid his bill and hobbled back into the street where snow was still sifting down. Tomorrow at noon he had to see Gladys. And he’d go home now and wash up and then see Dot…He was hungry; yes, he’d first go to a South Side restaurant and have a decent meal. But he would not take a subway. Hell, no…He’d treat himself to something better this time. At a corner he limped into a taxi and called out: “47th and South Park.”
The Outsider Page 11