Native Son - Richard Wright [138]
Bigger’s anger rose. He was not crazy and he did not want to be called crazy.
“I don’t want to go to no hospital.”
“It’s a way out for you, boy.”
“I don’t want no way out.”
“Listen, start at the beginning. Who was the first woman you ever killed?”
He said nothing. He wanted to talk, but he did not like the note of intense eagerness in the man’s voice. He heard the door behind him open; he turned his head just in time to see another white man look in questioningly.
“I thought you wanted me,” the man said.
“Yes; come on in,” Buckley said.
The man came in and took a seat, holding a pencil and paper on his knee.
“Here, Bigger,” Buckley said, taking Bigger by the arm. “Sit down here and tell me all about it. Get it over with.”
Bigger wanted to tell how he had felt when Jan had held his hand; how Mary had made him feel when she asked him about how Negroes lived; the tremendous excitement that had hold of him during the day and night he had been in the Dalton home—but there were no words for him.
“You went to Mr. Dalton’s home at five-thirty that Saturday, didn’t you?”
“Yessuh,” he mumbled.
Listlessly, he talked. He traced his every action. He paused at each question Buckley asked and wondered how he could link up his bare actions with what he had felt; but his words came out flat and dull. White men were looking at him, waiting for his words, and all the feelings of his body vanished, just as they had when he was in the car between Jan and Mary. When he was through, he felt more lost and undone than when he was captured. Buckley stood up; the other white man rose and held out the papers for him to sign. He took the pen in hand. Well, why shouldn’t he sign? He was guilty. He was lost. They were going to kill him. Nobody could help him. They were standing in front of him, bending over him, looking at him, waiting. His hand shook. He signed.
Buckley slowly folded the papers and put them into his pocket. Bigger looked up at the two men, helplessly, wonderingly, Buckley looked at the other white man and smiled.
“That was not as hard as I thought it would be,” Buckley said.
“He came through like a clock,” the other man said.
Buckley looked down at Bigger and said.
“Just a scared colored boy from Mississippi.”
There was a short silence. Bigger felt that they had forgotten him already. Then he heard them speaking.
“Anything else, chief?”
“Naw. I’ll be at my club. Let me know how the inquest turns out.”
“O.K., chief.”
“So long.”
“I’ll be seeing you, chief.”
Bigger felt so empty and beaten that he slid to the floor. He heard the feet of the men walking away softly. The door opened and shut. He was alone, profoundly, inescapably. He rolled on the floor and sobbed, wondering what it was that had hold of him, why he was here.
He lay on the cold floor sobbing; but really he was standing up strongly with contrite heart, holding his life in his hands, staring at it with a wondering question. He lay on the cold floor sobbing; but really he was pushing forward with his puny strength against a world too big and too strong for him. He lay on the cold floor sobbing; but really he was groping forward with fierce zeal into a welter of circumstances which he felt contained a water of mercy for the thirst of his heart and brain.
He wept because he had once again trusted his feelings and they had betrayed him. Why should he have felt the need to try to make his feelings known? And why did not he hear resounding echoes of his feelings in the hearts of others? There were times when he did hear echoes, but always they were couched in tones which, living as a Negro, he could not answer or accept without losing face with the world which had first evoked in him the song of manhood. He feared and hated the preacher because the preacher had told him to bow down and ask for a mercy he knew he needed; but his pride would never let him do that, not this side of the grave, not while the sun shone. And Jan? And Max? They were telling him to believe in himself. Once before he had accepted completely what his life had made him feel, even unto murder. He had emptied the vessel which life had filled for him and found the emptying meaningless. Yet the vessel was full again, waiting to be poured out. But no! Not blindly this time! He felt that he could not move again unless he swung out from the base of his own feelings; he felt that he would have to have light in order to act now.