He got his knife from his pocket and opened it and stood by the furnace, looking at Mary’s white throat. Could he do it? He had to. Would there be blood? Oh, Lord! He looked round with a haunted and pleading look in his eyes. He saw a pile of old newspapers stacked carefully in a corner. He got a thick wad of them and held them under the head. He touched the sharp blade to the throat, just touched it, as if expecting the knife to cut the white flesh of itself, as if he did not have to put pressure behind it. Wistfully, he gazed at the edge of the blade resting on the white skin; the gleaming metal reflected the tremulous fury of the coals. Yes; he had to. Gently, he sawed the blade into the flesh and struck a bone. He gritted his teeth and cut harder. As yet there was no blood anywhere but on the knife. But the bone made it difficult. Sweat crawled down his back. Then blood crept outward in widening circles of pink on the newspapers, spreading quickly now. He whacked at the bone with the knife. The head hung limply on the newspapers, the curly black hair dragging about in blood. He whacked harder, but the head would not come off.
He paused, hysterical. He wanted to run from the basement and go as far as possible from the sight of this bloody throat. But he could not. He must not. He had to burn this girl. With eyes glazed, with nerves tingling with excitement, he looked about the basement. He saw a hatchet. Yes! That would do it. He spread a neat layer of newspapers beneath the head, so that the blood would not drip on the floor. He got the hatchet, held the head at a slanting angle with his left hand and, after pausing in an attitude of prayer, sent the blade of the hatchet into the bone of the throat with all the strength of his body. The head rolled off.
He was not crying, but his lips were trembling and his chest was heaving. He wanted to lie down upon the floor and sleep off the horror of this thing. But he had to get out of here. Quickly, he wrapped the head in the newspapers and used the wad to push the bloody trunk of the body deeper into the furnace. Then he shoved the head in. The hatchet went next.
Would there be coal enough to burn the body? No one would come down here before ten o’clock in the morning, maybe. He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock. He got another piece of paper and wiped his knife with it. He put the paper into the furnace and the knife into his pocket. He pulled the lever and coal rattled against the sides of the tin chute and he saw the whole furnace blaze and the draft roared still louder. When the body was covered with coal, he pushed the lever back. Now!
He shut the trunk and pushed it into a corner. In the morning he would take it to the station. He looked around to see if he had left anything that would betray him; he saw nothing.
He went out of the back door; a few fine flakes of snow were floating down. It had grown colder. The car was still in the driveway. Yes; he would leave it there.
Jan and Mary were sitting in the car, kissing. They said, Good night, Bigger…. And he said, Good night…. And he touched his hand to his cap….
As he passed the car he saw that the door was still open. Mary’s purse was on the floor. He took it and closed the door. Naw! Leave it open; he opened it and went on down the driveway.
The streets were empty and silent. The wind chilled his wet body. He tucked the purse under his arm and walked. What would happen now? Ought he to run away? He stopped at a street corner and looked into the purse. There was a thick roll of bills; tens and twenties…. Good! He would wait until morning to decide what to do. He was tired and sleepy.
He hurried home and ran up the steps and went on tiptoe into the room. His mother and brother and sister breathed regularly in sleep. He began to undress, thinking, I’ll tell ’em I left her with Jan in the car after I took the trunk down in the basement. In the morning I’ll take the trunk to the station, like she told me….
He felt something heavy sagging in his shirt; it was the gun. He took it out; it was warm and wet. He shoved it under the pillow. They can’t say I did it. If they do, they can’t prove it.
He eased the covers of the bed back and slipped beneath them and stretched out beside Buddy; in five minutes he was sound asleep.
BOOK TWO
FLIGHT
It seemed to Bigger that no sooner had he closed his eyes than he was wide awake again, suddenly and violently, as though someone had grabbed his shoulders and had shaken him. He lay on his back, in bed, hearing and seeing nothing. Then, like an electric switch being clicked on, he was aware that the room was filled with pale daylight. Somewhere deep in him a thought formed: It’s morning. Sunday morning. He lifted himself on his elbows and cocked his head in an attitude of listening. He heard his mother and brother and sister breathing softly, in deep sleep. He saw the room and saw snow falling past the window; but his mind formed no image of any of these. They simply existed, unrelated to each other; the snow and the daylight and the soft sound of breathing cast a strange spell upon him, a spell that waited for the wand of fear to touch it and endow it with reality and meaning. He lay in bed, only a few seconds from deep sleep, caught in a deadlock of impulses, unable to rise to the land of the living.
Then, in answer to a foreboding call from a dark part of his mind, he leaped from bed and landed on his bare feet in the middle of the room. His heart raced; his lips parted; his legs trembled. He struggled to come fully awake. He relaxed his taut muscles, feeling fear, remembering that he had killed Mary, had smothered her, had cut her head off and put her body in the fiery furnace.
This was Sunday morning and he had to take the trunk to the station. He glanced about and saw Mary’s shiny black purse lying atop his trousers on a chair. Good God! Though the air of the room was cold, beads of sweat broke onto his forehead and his breath stopped. Quickly, he looked round; his mother and sister were still sleeping. Buddy slept in the bed from which he had just arisen. Throw that purse away! Maybe he had forgotten other things? He searched the pockets of his trousers with nervous fingers and found the knife. He snapped it open and tiptoed to the window. Dried ridges of black blood were on the blade! He had to get rid of these at once. He put the knife into the purse and dressed hurriedly and silently. Throw the knife and purse into a garbage can. That’s it! He put on his coat and found stuffed in a pocket the pamphlets Jan had given him. Throw these away, too! Oh, but… Naw! He paused and gripped the pamphlets in his black fingers as his mind filled with a cunning idea. Jan had given him these pamphlets and he would keep them and show them to the police if he were ever questioned. That’s it! He would take them to his room at Dalton’s and put them in a dresser drawer. He would say that he had not even opened them and had not wanted to. He would say that he had taken them only because Jan had insisted. He shuffled the pamphlets softly, so that the paper would not rustle, and read the titles: Race Prejudice on Trial. The Negro Question in the United States. Black and White Unite and Fight. But that did not seem so dangerous. He looked at the bottom of a pamphlet and saw a black and white picture of a hammer and a curving knife. Below it he read a line that said: Issued by the Communist Party of the United States. Now, that did seem dangerous. He looked further and saw a pen-and-ink drawing of a white hand clasping a black hand in soli darity and remembered the moment when Jan had stood on the running board of the car and had shaken hands with him. That had been an awful moment of hate and shame. Yes, he would tell them that he was afraid of Reds, that he had not wanted to sit in the car with Jan and Mary, that he had not wanted to eat with them. He would say that he had done so only because it had been his job. He would tell them that it was the first time he had ever sat at a table with white people.
He stuffed the pamphlets into his coat pocket and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes until seven. He had to hurry and pack his clothes. He had to take that trunk to the station at eight-thirty.
Then fear rendered his legs like water. Suppose Mary had not burned? Suppose she was still there, exposed to view? He wanted to drop everything and rush back and see. But maybe even something worse had happened; maybe they had discovered that she was dead and maybe the police were looking for him? Should he not leave
town right now? Gripped by the same impelling excitement that had had hold of him when he was carrying Mary up the stairs, he stood in the middle of the room. No; he would stay. Things were with him; no one suspected that she was dead. He would carry through and blame the thing upon Jan. He got his gun from beneath the pillow and put it in his shirt.
He tiptoed from the room, looking over his shoulder at his mother and sister and brother sleeping. He went down the steps to the vestibule and into the street. It was white and cold. Snow was falling and an icy wind blew. The streets were empty. Tucking the purse under his arm, he walked to an alley where a garbage can stood covered with snow. Was it safe to leave it here? The men on the garbage trucks would empty the can early in the morning and no one would be prying round on a day like this, with all the snow and its being Sunday. He lifted the top of the can and pushed the purse deep into a frozen pile of orange peels and mildewed bread. He replaced the top and looked round; no one was in sight.
He went back to the room and got his suitcase from under the side of the bed. His folks were still sleeping. In order to pack his clothes, he had to get to the dresser on the other side of the room. But how could he get there, with the bed on which his mother and sister slept standing squarely in the way? Goddamn! He wanted to wave his hand and blot them out. They were always too close to him, so close that he could never have any way of his own. He eased to the bed and stepped over it. His mother stirred slightly, then was still. He pulled open a dresser drawer and took out his clothes and piled them in the suitcase. While he worked there hovered before his eyes an image of Mary’s head lying on the wet newspapers, the curly black ringlets soaked with blood.
“Bigger!”
He sucked his breath in and whirled about, his eyes glaring. His mother was leaning on her elbow in bed. He knew at once that he should not have acted frightened.
“What’s the matter, boy?” she asked in a whisper.
“Nothing,” he answered, whispering too.
“You jumped like something bit you.”
“Aw, leave me alone. I got to pack.”
He knew that his mother was waiting for him to give an account of himself, and he hated her for that. Why couldn’t she wait until he told her of his own accord? And yet he knew that if she waited, he would never tell her.
“You get the job?”
“Yeah.”
“What they paying you?”
“Twenty.”
“You started already?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“I wondered what made you so late.”
“I had to work,” he drawled with impatience.
“You didn’t get in until after four.”
He turned and looked at her.
“I got in at two.”
“It was after four, Bigger,” she said, turning and straining her eyes to look at an alarm clock above her head. “I tried to wait up for you, but I couldn’t. When I heard you come in, I looked up at the clock and it was after four.”
“I know when I got in, Ma.”
“But, Bigger, it was after four.”
“It was just a little after two.”
“Oh, Lord! If you want it two, then let it be two, for all I care. You act like you scared of something.”
“Now, what you want to start a fuss for?”
“A fuss? Boy!”
“Before I get out of bed, you pick on me.”
“Bigger, I’m not picking on you, honey. I’m glad you got the job.”
“You don’t talk like it.”
He felt that his acting in this manner was a mistake. If he kept on talking about the time he had gotten in last night, he would so impress it upon her that she would remember it and perhaps say something later on that would hurt him. He turned away and continued packing. He had to do better than this; he had to control himself.
“You want to eat?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll fix you something.”
“O.K.”
“You going to stay on the place?”
“Yeah.”
He heard her getting out of bed; he did not dare look round now. He had to keep his head turned while she dressed.
“How you like the people, Bigger?”
“They all right.”
“You don’t act like you glad.”
“Oh, Ma! For Chrissakes! You want me to cry!”
“Bigger, sometimes I wonder what makes you act like you do.”
He had spoken in the wrong tone of voice; he had to be careful. He fought down the anger rising in him. He was in trouble enough without getting into a fuss with his mother.
“You got a good job, now,” his mother said. “You ought to work hard and keep it and try to make a man out of yourself. Some day you’ll want to get married and have a home of your own. You got your chance now. You always said you never had a chance. Now, you got one.”
He heard her move about and he knew that she was dressed enough for him to turn round. He strapped the suitcase and set it by the door; then he stood at the window, looking wistfully out at the feathery flakes of falling snow.
“Bigger, what’s wrong with you?”
He whirled.
“Nothing,” he said, wondering what change she saw in him. “Nothing. You just worry me, that’s all,” he concluded, feeling that even if he did say something wrong he had to fight her off him now. He wondered just how his words really did sound. Was the tone of his voice this morning different from other mornings? Was there something unusual in his voice since he had killed Mary? Could people tell he had done something wrong by the way he acted? He saw his mother shake her head and go behind the curtain to prepare breakfast. He heard a yawn; he looked and saw that Vera was leaning on her elbow, smiling at him.
“You get the job?”
“Yeah.”
“How much you making?”
“Aw, Vera. Ask Ma. I done told her everything.”
“Goody! Bigger got a job!” sang Vera.
“Aw, shut up,” he said.
“Leave him alone, Vera,” the mother said.
“What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter with ’im all the time?” asked the mother.
“Oh, Bigger,” said Vera, tenderly and plaintively.
“That boy just ain’t got no sense, that’s all,” the mother said. “He won’t even speak a decent word to you.”
“Turn your head so I can dress,” Vera said.
Bigger looked out of the window. He heard someone say, “Aw!” and he knew that Buddy was awake.
“Turn your head, Buddy,” Vera said.
“O.K.”
Bigger heard his sister rushing into her clothes.
“You can look now,” Vera said.
He saw Buddy sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes. Vera was sitting on the edge of a chair, with her right foot hoisted upon another chair, buckling her shoes. Bigger stared vacantly in her direction. He wished that he could rise up through the ceiling and float away from this room, forever.
“I wish you wouldn’t look at me,” Vera said.
“Hunh?” said Bigger, looking in surprise at her pouting lips. Then he noticed what she meant and poked out his lips at her. Quickly, she jumped up and threw one of her shoes at him. It sailed past his head and landed against the window, rattling the panes.
“I told you not to look at me!” Vera screamed.
Bigger stood up, his eyes red with anger.
“I just wish you had hit me,” he said.
“You, Vera!” the mother called.
“Ma, make ’im stop looking at me,” Vera wailed.
“Wasn’t nobody looking at her,” Bigger said.
“You looked under my dress when I was buttoning my shoes!”
“I just wish you had hit me,” Bigger said again.
“I ain’t no dog!” Vera said.
“Come on in the kitchen and dress, Vera,” the mother said.
> “He makes me feel like a dog,” Vera sobbed with her face buried in her hands, going behind the curtain.
“Boy,” said Buddy, “I tried to keep awake till you got in last night, but I couldn’t. I had to go to bed at three. I was so sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open.”
“I was here before then,” Bigger said.
“Aw, naw! I was up….”
“I know when I got in!”
They looked at each other in silence.
“O.K.,” Buddy said.
Bigger was uneasy. He felt that he was not handling himself right.
“You get the job?” Buddy asked.
“Yeah.”
“Driving?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of a car is it?”
“A Buick.”
“Can I ride with you some time?”
“Sure; soon as I get settled.”
Buddy’s questions made him feel a little more at ease; he always liked the adoration Buddy showed him.
“Gee! That’s the kind of job I want,” Buddy said.
“It’s easy.”
“Will you see if you can find me one?”
“Sure. Give me time.”
“Got a cigarette?”
“Yeah.”
They were silent, smoking. Bigger was thinking of the furnace. Had Mary burned? He looked at his watch; it was seven o’clock. Ought he go over right now, without waiting for breakfast? Maybe he had left something lying round that would let them know Mary was dead. But if they slept late on Sunday mornings, as Mr. Dalton had said, they would have no reason to be looking round down there.
Native Son Page 12
