The Outsider

by Richard Wright

  “Yes.”

  “Then call her,” Farrel directed.

  “And I’ll have to stay too?” Hilton demanded.

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” Farrel said.

  “But why?”

  “Listen, I’m acting under the orders of the District Attorney. He is acting according to the reports he’s getting from the Medical Examiner downstairs. If you want to, I can take you to see an Assistant D.A. Maybe you can arrange something with him…”

  “The hell with it,” Hilton said.

  Eva was weeping now afresh.

  “I want to see Gil,” she sobbed. “Please, please—”

  “I’m sorry, lady,” Clark said. “They’ve taken his body to the Morgue.”

  “…and it looks like they killed each other,” Farrel was saying in a low voice to another officer.

  “It’s the most freakish thing I ever saw,” the other officer said.

  Finally Cross, Eva, Hilton, and Menti were alone; the police had gone, stationing a young cop on guard in the hallway in front of the apartment door. For awhile there was silence among the four of them. Eva was weeping noiselessly but earnestly now, and Cross observed that her grief at this moment had none of that spontaneousness of emotion that had characterized the grief she had pretended for the cops. She was free now; her secret wish had come true…Was that why she was weeping?

  Cross was frantically trying to weigh all the possibilities involved. Could the Party let Eva, with her guilty knowledge, go free? And the Party’s attitude toward him? For the moment the Party was his ally, but Communists were not naïve enough to accept him merely on a basis of a declaration of solidarity. They wanted something more…And what could that be…? For its own defense, the Party was trying to dump Eva into his arms, knowing that black and white love could find shelter nowhere else so readily as under its red aegis…Well, for the time being, he’d accept the situation as it was, but not for the Party’s reasons…

  Cross watched Hilton. Eva was resting on the sofa with her face buried in the crook of her elbow, her chest heaving. Menti patted her shoulder. Hilton paced the floor, puffing at the inevitable cigarette that protruded from his lips.

  “It didn’t go too badly,” Hilton spoke as though wanting to share his thoughts. “But, of course, the real showdown will come in the morning with the D.A.” He looked at Cross. “You did well. Maintain the same attitude tomorrow. We’re behind you.”

  “I’ll try,” Cross mumbled; he wondered if he ought to tell Hilton that he had already met the District Attorney. He decided not to; there was no purpose in adding items that would inflame Hilton’s already suspicious mind. I’ll try to take care of it when it comes, he told himself. But Hilton worried him. The man was too calm, too collected, his face always a tense, blank mask. How much of his reactions was he concealing…?

  “I’m sleepy,” Hilton said, stretching his arms above his head and giving a yawn that was too genuine.

  “Why don’t you and Menti sleep in Gil’s room,” Eva suggested in a whisper.

  “Okay, I’m turning in,” Hilton said. But even now he did not demonstrate any feeling of sympathy for Eva. “Good night,” he said, and headed for the hallway.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Eva?” Cross asked.

  “No. You should rest, Lionel,” she said, looking pityingly at him. “We brought you into a mess, didn’t we? I’m sorry…”

  “Good night,” Menti called to her.

  An hour later Cross was in bed, turning sleeplessly from side to side, trying mentally to cope with the threat of Ely Houston. What would he think of these deaths? Would he not think it somewhat odd that both Gil and Herndon had been men of extreme ideas? Oh, God…Cross sat upright in bed with a wild jerk of his body. Jesus…That bloody handkerchief…! He had to get rid of it before the District Attorney showed up in the morning; it had been in the pocket of his pants until now…He got out of bed, pulled on his bathrobe, took the wadded handkerchief and put it into the pocket of the robe and quietly opened the door to the hallway. The apartment was quiet and dark. If anybody demanded where he was going, he could always say that he was on his way to the bathroom…He stole silently down the dark hallway to the door of the kitchen. He paused, listening for sounds, then turned the knob, pushed the door inward, and went inside. Faint blue light fell through a window, casting a ghostly radiance over the gas stove, the sink, and the refrigerator. Yes, there was the incinerator…He could see and would not have to turn on the light. He crossed the floor and lifted the lid and tossed the guilty handkerchief quickly down. He smelt a whiff of smoke; it would burn soon. His tension ebbed a bit. He turned to go to his room and, like thunder, the kitchen light blazed on. He caught his breath; Hilton was sitting in a chair near the wall, the habitual cigarette hanging unlit from his lips.

  “I didn’t know you were there,” Cross breathed, struggling to stifle his panic.

  “What’s the matter?” Hilton asked. “You can’t sleep either?”

  Cross thought rapidly. Had Hilton seen him throw the handkerchief away? He did not think so. Then his job now was to act naturally and not rouse Hilton’s suspicions.

  “I thought I’d get a glass of milk,” Cross mumbled. “Ha-ha—I threw my cigarette down the incinerator—I smoke too much.” Ought he have said that? Good God, this sonofabitch Hilton…

  Moving self-consciously, he took a tumbler from a cupboard and went to the refrigerator and poured some milk.

  “Aren’t you going to sleep?” Cross asked, taking a sip from the glass.

  “I never sleep much,” Hilton grumbled. “Just sitting, thinking…”

  “That’s a goddamn shame about Gil, isn’t it?” Cross felt compelled to say.

  “Yeah,” Hilton drawled.

  “I should’ve broken down that damned door,” Cross accused himself.

  “You did what he told you to, didn’t you? You’ve nothing to worry about.”

  “Yes. But to die like that—”

  “A Communist is a soldier, Lane. He’s prepared to die.”

  “I’m so new at all of this—”

  “You’re not so new. You know what you’re doing.”

  “But I don’t understand—”

  “You understand enough,” Hilton cut him short.

  What was Hilton thinking? The very manner in which he spoke bothered Cross. But what the hell! He was going to sleep…Hilton knew nothing yet.

  “I’m tired; good night,” Cross said.

  “Good night, Lane,” Hilton said, staring at the far wall.

  Had Hilton seen anything? He went down the hallway, then paused, listening. There were no sounds. No, Hilton had seen nothing; if he had, he surely would have said something about it. Hilton was no bashful boy…Now that he felt out of danger, Cross’s heart began to pound with excitement. If Hilton had caught him with that bloody handkerchief, he would have been in Hilton’s power for the rest of his life. He would either have had to kill Hilton on the spot, or make a break for it through one of the windows of the apartment. To be in the power of a cold little god like Hilton was about the most awful thing that could happen to a man. He would have trampled on me night and day, Cross thought, shivering with relief. He entered his room and, fumbling in the dark, he pulled off his robe and got into bed.

  “Lionel—”

  It was Eva’s voice coming from nearby; it was low and plaintive. Terror flooded him. Maybe they all knew what he had done!

  “Eva?”

  “Yes.”

  What was she doing here in his room in the dark? Did she know that he had just burned the handkerchief? He reached out to turn on the light and his hand knocked over a book.

  “No,” Eva whispered.

  He felt her fingers seize hold of his hand.

  “Don’t turn on the light.”

  “What’s the matter, Eva?”

  He felt both of her hands now gripping his own, as though she was trying to hang on to him for life’s sake.

  “
I didn’t know you were out of your room,” she began, her voice catching in her throat. “I knocked and when you didn’t answer, I came in…”

  Cross felt hot tears dropping on to his fingers.

  “Lionel, forgive me—But I’m so scared—And I’m so much alone—You’ll never know how alone I am—I’m bothering you, I know—But I can’t stay in my room alone,” she sobbed. “Oh, God, I’m no good—I’m too scared—” For a second she was silent. Then she spoke again in a changed tone of voice: “You’re colored and you’re strong. I’ll never know how you manage to face those awful people and never flinch or quail…You’re prepared for them and I’m not…Have pity on me and let me stay here near you…”

  Her breathing filled the black darkness. Her soul was reaching gropingly toward him for protection, advice, solace. Cross smiled, feeling that he was listening to her words as perhaps God listened to prayers…A wave of hot pride flooded him. She was laying her life at his feet. With but a gesture of his hand he could own her, shield her from the Party, from fear, from her own sense of guilt…

  “You’ll be cold,” he said softly.

  “No, no…I’ll be all right.”

  “Here; take my robe…”

  “All right,” she consented.

  He heard her moving amid a rustling of garments in the dark, and then he felt her hands again, her fingers entwining themselves in his own.

  “You don’t mind, Lionel? Please, don’t send me away…”

  “No, Eva.”

  “I just can’t stand fear, and I’m full of fear when I’m alone in times like these…And I’ve been scared so long…”

  “Just rest easy. You’ll be all right. Don’t worry…”

  “I thought you’d understand…Listen, don’t tell the others I came in here,” she begged convulsively. “I’m ashamed of being so scared.”

  “No one will ever know,” he told her.

  “I don’t mind so much if I cry before you, but I could never cry before them,” she whispered. “And I need to cry…”

  Her weeping now was real, different from the pretended weeping for the Party and different from the weeping she had done in front of Hilton and Menti. In front of the universe of white skins, she was too frozen with fear to cry; but with people of color who she felt were victims and, hence, more understanding, she could weep without check. He wanted to lift her from the floor and take her into the bed, but he felt that such would violate her budding trust.

  “Lionel,” she called in a whisper.

  “Yes?”

  She controlled her sobbing and was silent for some moments.

  “We could have saved Gil,” she whimpered.

  “But, Eva, how could we know that that would happen?” he asked her gently, trying to purge her of her sense of guilt.

  “But the Party might think that we let him be killed,” she whispered.

  She was not confessing to him, but she was near it.

  “But, why?” he asked in make-believe astonishment.

  She wept afresh, resting her head on his shoulder, gripping his hands rigidly, convulsively.

  “You don’t understand,” she said despairingly. “People are worse than you think…They treat you bad because you’re colored, but me—People like me, they take our lives away…”

  He was silent. He had given his life away. How could he ever tell her that he understood what had blasted her self-confidence?

  “You’ll be all right,” he said gently.

  “You shouldn’t be in this. You’ve suffered enough—”

  “I’m used to it, Eva.”

  “Why’s there so much cruelty? I want to die; life’s too much, too much…” Her breathing came loud and hoarse. “Is it wrong to feel like that, Lionel?”

  “We all feel it. But we have to fight it,” he told her.

  “Did you ever want to kill yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Lionel!”

  Her fingers gripped his like bands of steel. Then he felt her fingers disengage themselves from his and a moment later they were touching his lips, eyes, his hair, tenderly, softly.

  “Those cops were horrible to you tonight, weren’t they?”

  “It was nothing.”

  “I’m so sorry, Lionel,” she sighed. “You have it hard enough, and then we drag you into this…”

  He understood. She was pitying him for his being black and having to take the scoffs and insults of the white world; and, in doing so, she was pitying him for the wrong reasons. But he could not tell her that. Oh, God…If only he could find a way of begging her pity for his having killed Gil, for his having let his soul take on the shape of monstrousness, for his having forsaken his humanity. That was the pitying he needed…He knew that Eva, too, had been forced to live as an outsider; she, too, in a different sort of way, was on his side. Maybe, in the future, he could tell her, could unburden himself and feel free once before he died?

  He felt her moving and then she was sliding into bed with him.

  “Just hold me a little, Lionel,” she whispered, shivering and clinging to him.

  He held her, feeling her hot tears on his face.

  “I’m so cold, so scared, so lost,” she sobbed.

  At last she grew quiet and later he could tell that she had gone to sleep. It was then that he knew he loved her, wanted to try to banish the dread that haunted her, wanted to tell her what he knew of terror and hopelessness. He held in his arms one woman who was willing to understand, whom life had so tempered that he could talk to her, but between them stood a wall not of race but of mutual guilt, blood, and mistaken identity…

  Pale dawn crept into the room. Cross looked down at Eva’s wan face; she slept as one exhausted. He shook her gently, calling softly to her:

  “Eva…”

  Her eyes fluttered open; when she saw him, she buried her face in his bosom.

  “Darling, go to your room,” he told her. “It’s better that way with Hilton and Menti in the apartment.”

  “Yes; you’re right, Lionel.”

  She kissed him lightly on his lips and whispered: “Thank you, darling.”

  And she was gone. The more he thought of her the more he began to care about what would happen to him. Could he fight his way through and have this girl? It seemed impossible, yet that was what he wanted. I mustn’t think about it, he told himself. He closed his eyes, but he could still smell the faint odor of her hair, feel the delicate pressure of her fingers upon his face, her lips on his…He gritted his teeth and mumbled aloud: Oh, goddamn…

  Hilton roused him at eight-thirty by rapping on the door.

  “Lane, come and get some coffee,” Hilton called.

  Cross tumbled from bed. Oh, yes…He would change his suit…And at the first opportunity he would get rid of the clothes he had worn when he had struck down Gil and Herndon…

  When he went into the kitchen, he found that Hilton had set up breakfast. Eva and Menti were already at the table. Cross sat and began sipping his coffee. What about that bloody handkerchief? Hilton was busy making toast and everything seemed normal. He saw Hilton go to the incinerator and dump some waste paper into it. Yes, he was safe for the time being…

  Menti ate broodingly. Hilton moved quickly about the kitchen like a man who must either do something or become exasperated. Cross let his eyes rest on Eva; she was pale and tired, looking off into space; finally she did glance at him and there flitted into her eyes a sign that she was with him; he felt better.

  The doorbell rang and Hilton started nervously.

  “This is it, I think,” Hilton said.

  Hilton left and a moment later, before Cross could prepare himself, the hunched form of Ely Houston filled the doorway. Cross stared unblinkingly. Houston entered the kitchen and paused; his eyes traveled swiftly around the room and at last rested on Cross.

  “Well,” Houston exclaimed, “what in the world are you doing here?”

  Cross stood, smiled, and reached out his hand to Houston wh
o shook it warmly.

  “How are you, Mr. Houston?” Cross said evenly. “I live here.”

  “At last I’ve tracked you down,” Houston said.

  Hilton, Menti, and Eva were thunderstruck. Hilton was staring at Cross with an open mouth and Cross could tell that he was thinking that maybe he was a police spy.

  “How is it that you know the District Attorney?” Hilton asked softly.

  “Mr. Houston and I have met before,” Cross explained lightly.

  Houston advanced into the kitchen, followed by Farrel and a tall, lean, grey-haired man on whose chest Cross could see a police badge. Farrel too stared at Cross and said:

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were a big-shot, boy?”

  “I’m not,” Cross said.

  Everyone was standing now except Eva; tension and distrust hung in the air. The tall, lean man stood in one corner and surveyed the faces of Cross, Menti, and Hilton.

  “I’ve asked about you,” Houston began, addressing himself to Cross, “but I couldn’t get a line on you…I’ll never forget that talk we had. Know one thing? I made notes on your ideas.” Houston seemed to have forgotten that he had come to investigate the deaths of two men; he was excited and seemed in a holiday mood. “Now, what was it you said…?” Houston paused, ran his hand into his pocket and pulled out a notebook. “I’ve got it right here, you see.” As he thumbed the leaves, the tall man stared in bewilderment at Houston, saying nothing. “Ha—Here it is: ‘Man is nothing in particular…’ You see? I don’t forget.”

  “I see you don’t,” Cross said.

  Hilton was so nervous that he could not control the shaking of his hands. Menti stared, but there was a sardonic smile on his thin lips. Only Eva was listening to Houston.

  “Well, what is this all about?” Houston asked of Cross, rubbing his hands together. “We can talk about special problems later—Oh, yes—What was the name you gave me?”

  “The name is Lane, Lionel Lane,” Cross said.

  “Lionel Lane,” Houston repeated, paused; then went on. “Mr. Lane, this is the Medical Examiner, Dr. Stockton…”

  Cross nodded to Dr. Stockton and the doctor nodded to him.

  “Farrel,” Houston demanded. “What have we got here?”