“It’s pretty bad, hunh, Bigger?” Britten asked.
“Yessuh.”
“I’d bet a million dollars that this is Jan’s smart idea.”
Bigger said nothing. He was limp all over; he was standing up here against this wall by some strength not his own. Hours past he had given up trying to exert himself any more; he could no longer call up any energy. So he just forgot it and found himself coasting along.
It was getting a little chilly; the fire was dying. The draft could scarcely be heard. Then the basement door burst open suddenly and one of the men who had gone to telephone came in, his mouth open, his face wet and red from the snow.
“Say!” he called.
“Yeah?”
“What is it?”
“My city editor just told me that that Erlone fellow won’t leave jail.”
For a moment the strangeness of the news made them all stare silently. Bigger roused himself and tried to make out just what it meant. Then someone asked the question he longed to ask.
“Won’t leave? What you mean?”
“Well, this Erlone refused to go when they told him that Mr. Dalton had requested his release. It seems he had got wind of the kidnapping and said that he didn’t want to go out.”
“That means he’s guilty!” said Britten. “He doesn’t want to leave jail because he knows they’ll shadow him and find out where the girl is, see? He’s scared.”
“What else?”
“Well, this Erlone says he’s got a dozen people to swear that he did not come here last night.”
Bigger’s body stiffened and he leaned forward slightly.
“That’s a lie!” Britten said. “This boy here saw him.”
“Is that right, boy?”
Bigger hesitated. He suspected a trap. But if Jan really had an alibi, then he had to talk; he had to steer them away from himself.
“Yessuh.”
“Well, somebody’s lying. That Erlone fellow says that he can prove it.”
“Prove hell!” Britten said. “He’s just got some of his Red friends to lie for him; that’s all.”
“But what in hell’s the good of his not wanting to leave jail?” asked one of the men.
“He says if he stays in they can’t possibly say he’s mixed up in this kidnapping business. He said this boy’s lying. He claims they told him to say these things in order to blacken his name and reputation. He swears the family knows where the girl is and that this thing is a stunt to raise a cry against the Reds.”
The men gathered round Bigger.
“Say, boy, come on with the dope now. Was that guy really here last night?”
“Yessuh; he was here all right.”
“You saw ’im?”
“Yessuh.”
“Where?”
“I drove him and Miss Dalton up here in the car. We went upstairs together to get the trunk.”
“And you left him here?”
“Yessuh.”
Bigger’s heart was pounding, but he tried to keep his face and voice under control. He did not want to seem unduly excited over these new developments. He was wondering if Jan could really prove that he had not been here last night; and he was thinking the question in his own mind when he heard someone ask,
“Who has this Erlone got to prove he was not here last night?”
“He says he met some friend of his when he got on the street car last night. And he says he went to a party after he left Miss Dalton at two-thirty.”
“Where was the party?”
“Somewhere on the North Side.”
“Say, if what he says is true, then there’s something fishy here.”
“Naw,” said Britten. “I’ll bet he went to his pals, the ones he planned all of this with. Sure; why wouldn’t they alibi for ’im?”
“So you really think he did it?”
“Hell, yes!” Britten said. “These Reds’ll do anything and they stick together. Sure; he’s got an alibi. Why shouldn’t he have one? He’s got enough pals working for ’im. His wanting to stay in jail’s nothing but a dodge, but he’s not so smart. He thinks that his gag’ll work and leave him free of suspicion, but it won’t.”
The talk stopped abruptly as the door at the head of the stairs opened. Peggy’s head came through.
“You gentlemen want some coffee?” she asked.
“Sure!”
“Atta gal!”
“I’ll bring some down in just a minute,” she said, closing the door.
“Who is she?”
“Mrs. Dalton’s cook and housekeeper,” Britten said.
“She know anything about all this?”
“Naw.”
Again the men turned to Bigger. He felt this time he had to say something more to them. Jan was saying that he was lying and he had to wipe out doubt in their minds. They would think that he knew more than he was telling if he did not talk. After all, their attitude toward him so far made him feel that they did not consider him as being mixed up in the kidnapping. He was just another black ignorant Negro to them. The main thing was to keep their minds turned in another direction, Jan’s direction, or that of Jan’s friends.
“Say,” one of the men asked, coming close to him and placing, a foot upon the edge of the trunk. “Did this Erlone fellow talk to you about Communism?”
“Yessuh.”
“Oh!” Britten exclaimed.
“What?”
“I forgot! Let me show you fellows the stuff he gave the boy to read.”
Britten stood up, his face flushed with eagerness. He ran his hand into his pocket and pulled forth the batch of pamphlets that Jan had given Bigger and held them up for all to see. The men again got their bulbs and flashed their lightning to take pictures of the pamphlets. Bigger could hear their hard breathing; he knew that they were excited. When they finished, they turned to him again.
“Say, boy, was this guy drunk?”
“Yessuh.”
“And the girl, too?”
“Yessuh.”
“He took the girl upstairs when they got here?”
“Yessuh.”
“Say, boy, what do you think of public ownership? Do you think the government ought to build houses for people to live in?”
Bigger blinked.
“Suh?”
“Well, what do you think of private property?”
“I don’t own any property. Nawsuh,” Bigger said.
“Aw, he’s a dumb cluck. He doesn’t know anything,” one of the men whispered in a voice loud enough for Bigger to hear.
There was a silence. Bigger leaned against the wall, hoping that this would satisfy them for a time, at least. The draft could not be heard in the furnace now at all. The door opened again and Peggy came into view carrying a pot of coffee in one hand and a folding card table in the other. One of the men went up the steps and met her, took the table, opened it, and placed it for her. She set the pot upon it. Bigger saw a thin spout of steam jutting from the pot and smelt the good scent of coffee. He wanted some, but he knew that he should not ask with the white men waiting to drink.
“Thank you, sirs,” Peggy mumbled, looking humbly round at the strange faces of the men. “I’ll get the sugar and cream and some cups.”
“Say, boy,” Britten said. “Tell the men how Jan made you eat with ’im.”
“Yeah; tell us about it.”
“Is it true?”
“Yessuh.”
“You didn’t want to eat with ’im, did you?”
“Nawsuh.”
“Did you ever eat with white people before?”
“Nawsuh.”
“Did this guy Erlone say anything to you about white women?”
“Oh, nawsuh.”
“How did you feel, eating with him and Miss Dalton?”
“I don’t know, suh. It was my job.”
“You didn’t feel just right, did you?”
“Well, suh. They told me to eat and I ate. It was my job.”
“In other
words, you felt you had to eat or lose your job?”
“Yessuh,” said Bigger, feeling that this ought to place him in the light of a helpless, bewildered man.
“Good God!” said one of the men. “What a story!” Don’t you see it? These Negroes want to be left alone and these Reds are forcing ’em to live with ’em, see? Every wire in the country’ll carry it!”
“This is better than Loeb and Leopold,” said one.
“Say, I’m slanting this to the primitive Negro who doesn’t want to be disturbed by white civilization.”
“A swell idea!”
“Say, is this Erlone really a citizen?”
“That’s an angle.”
“Mention his foreign-sounding name.”
“Is he Jewish?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is good enough as it is. You can’t have everything you want.”
“It’s classic!”
“It’s a natural!”
Then, before Bigger knew it, the men had their bulbs in their hands again, aiming at him. He hung his head slowly, slowly so as not to let them know that he was trying to dodge them.
“Hold up a little, boy!”
“Stand straight!”
“Look over this way. Now, that’s it!”
Yes; the police would certainly have enough pictures of him. He thought it rather bitterly, smiling a smile that did not reach his lips or eyes.
Peggy came back with her arms full of cups, saucers, spoons, a jar of cream and a bowl of sugar.
“Here it is, sirs. Help yourselves.”
She turned to Bigger.
“There’s not enough heat upstairs. You’d better clean those ashes out and make a better fire.”
“Yessum.”
Clean the fire out! Good God! Not now, not with the men standing round. He did not move from his place beside the wall; he watched Peggy walk back up the stairs and close the door behind her. Well, he had to do something. Peggy had spoken to him in the presence of these men, and for him not to obey would seem odd. And even if they did not say anything about it, Peggy herself would soon come back and ask about the fire. Yes, he had to do something. He walked to the door of the furnace and opened it. The low bed of fire was red-hot, but he could tell from the weak blast of heat upon his face that it was not as hot as it ought to be, not as hot as it had been when he had shoved Mary in. He was trying to make his tired brain work fast. What could he do to avoid bothering with the ashes? He stooped and opened the lower door; the ashes, white and grey, were piled almost level with the lower grate. No air could get through. Maybe he could sift the ashes down more and make that do until the men left? He would try it. He caught hold of the handle and worked it to and fro, seeing white ashes and red embers falling into the bottom of the furnace. Behind him he could hear the men’s talk and the tinkle of their spoons against the cups. Well, there. He had gotten some of the ashes down out of the stove, but they choked the lower bin and still no air could get through. He would put some coal in. He shut the doors of the furnace and pulled the lever for coal; there was the same loud rattle of coal against the tin sides of the chute. The interior of the furnace grew black with coal. But the draft did not roar and the coal did not blaze. Goddamn! He stood up and looked helplessly into the furnace. Ought he to try to slip out of here and leave this whole foolish thing right now? Naw! There was no use of being scared; he had a chance to get that money. Put more coal in; it would burn after awhile. He pulled the lever for still more coal. Inside the furnace he saw the coal beginning to smoke; there were faint wisps of white smoke at first, then the smoke drew dark, bulging out. Bigger’s eyes smarted, watered; he coughed.
The smoke was rolling from the furnace now in heavy billowing grey clouds, filling the basement. Bigger backed away, catching a lungful of smoke. He bent over, coughing. He heard the men coughing. He had to do something about those ashes, and quickly. With his hands stretched before him, he groped in the corner for the shovel, found it, and opened the lower door of the furnace. The smoke surged out, thick and acrid. Goddamn!
“You’d better do something about those ashes, boy!” one of the men called.
“That fire can’t get any air, Bigger!” It was Britten’s voice.
“Yessuh,” Bigger mumbled.
He could scarcely see. He stood still, his eyes closed and stinging, his lungs heaving, trying to expel the smoke. He held onto the shovel, wanting to move, to do something; but he did not know what.
“Say, you! Get some of those ashes out of there!”
“What’re you trying to do, smother us?”
“I’m getting ’em out,” Bigger mumbled, not moving from where he stood.
He heard a cup smash on the concrete floor and a man cursed.
“I can’t see! The smoke’s got my eyes!”
Bigger heard someone near him; then someone was tugging at the shovel in his hands. He held onto it desperately, not wanting to let it go, feeling that if he did so he was surrendering his secret, his life.
“Here! Give me that shovel! I’ll h-h-help y-you….” a man coughed.
“Nawsuh. I-I-I can d-do it,” Bigger said.
“C-come on. L-let go!”
His fingers loosened about the shovel.
“Yessuh,” he said, not knowing what else to say.
Through the clouds of smoke he heard the man clanging the shovel round inside of the ash bin. He coughed and stepped back, his eyes blazing as though fire had leaped into them. Behind him the other men were coughing. He opened his eyes and strained to see what was happening. He felt that there was suspended just above his head a huge weight that would soon fall and crush him. His body, despite the smoke and his burning eyes and heaving chest, was flexed taut. He wanted to lunge at the man and take the shovel from him, lam him across the head with it and bolt from the basement. But he stood still, hearing the babble of voices and the clanging of the shovel against iron. He knew that the man was digging frantically at the ashes in the bin, trying to clean as much out as possible so that air could pass up through the grates, pipes, chimney and out into the night. He heard the man yell:
“Open that door! I’m choking!”
There was a scuffle of feet. Bigger felt the icy wind of the night sweep over him and he discovered that he was wet with sweat. Somehow something had happened and now things were out of his hands. He was nervously poised, waiting for what the new flow of events would bring. The smoke drifted past him toward the open door. The room was clearing; the smoke thinned to a grey pall. He heard the man grunting and saw him bent over, digging at the ashes in the bin. He wanted to go to him and ask for the shovel; he wanted to say that he could take care of it now. But he did not move. He felt that he had let things slip through his hands to such an extent that he could not get at them again. Then he heard the draft, this time a long low sucking of air that grew gradually to a drone, then a roar. The air passage was clear.
“There was a hell of a lot of ashes in there, boy,” the man gasped. “You shouldn’t let it get that way.”
“Yessuh,” Bigger whispered.
The draft roared loud now; the air passage was completely clear.
“Shut that door, boy! It’s cold in here!” one of the men called.
He wanted to go to the door and keep right on out of it and shut it behind him. But he did not move. One of the men closed it and Bigger felt the cold air fall away from his wet body. He looked round; the men were still standing about the table, red-eyed, sipping coffee.
“What’s the matter, boy?” one of them asked.
“Nothing,” Bigger said.
The man with the shovel stood in front of the furnace and looked down into the ashes strewn over the floor. What’s he doing? Bigger wondered. He saw the man stoop and poke the shovel into the ashes. What’s he looking at? Bigger’s muscles twitched. He wanted to run to the man’s side and see what it was he was looking at; he had in his mind an image of Mary’s head lying there bloody and unburnt before the m
an’s eyes. Suddenly, the man straightened, only to stoop again, as though unable to decide if the evidence of his eyes was true. Bigger edged forward, his lungs not taking in or letting out air; he himself was a huge furnace now through which no air could go; and the fear that surged into his stomach, filling him, choking him, was like the fumes of smoke that had belched from the ash bin.
“Say….” the man called; his voice sounded tentative, dubious.
“What?” one man at the table answered.
“Come here! Look!” The man’s voice was low, excited, tense; but what it lacked in volume was more than made up for in the breathless manner in which he spoke. The words had rolled without effort from his lips.
The men set their cups down and ran to the pile of ashes. Bigger, doubtful and uncertain, paused as the men ran past him.
“What is it?”
“What’s the matter?”
Bigger tiptoed and looked over their shoulders; he did not know how he got strength enough to go and look; he just found himself walking and then found himself standing and peering over the men’s shoulders. He saw a pile of scattered ashes, nothing else. But there must be something, or why would the men be looking?
“What is it?”
“See? This!”
“What?”
“Look! It’s….”
The man’s voice trailed off and he stooped again and poked the shovel deeper. Bigger saw come into full view on the surface of the ashes several small pieces of white bone. Instantly, his whole body was wrapped in a sheet of fear.
“It’s bone….”
“Aw,” one of the men said. “That’s just some garbage they’re burning….”
“Naw! Wait; let’s see that!”
“Toorman, come here. You studied medicine once….”
The man called Toorman reached out his foot and kicked an oblong bone from the ashes; it slid a few inches over the concrete floor.
“My God! It’s from a body….”
Native Son Page 24
