Native Son - Richard Wright [158]
“Why didn’t you play it?”
“Hell, what do I know? I ain’t got nothing. Nobody’ll pay any attention to me. I’m just a black guy with nothing. I just went to grammar school. And politics is full of big shots, guys from colleges.”
“Didn’t you trust them?”
“I don’t reckon they wanted anybody to trust ’em. They wanted to get elected to office. They paid you to vote.”
“Did you ever vote?”
“Yeah; I voted twice. I wasn’t old enough, so I put my age up so I could vote and get the five dollars.”
“You didn’t mind selling your vote?”
“Naw; why should I?”
“You didn’t think politics could get you anything?”
“It got me five dollars on election day.”
“Bigger, did any white people ever talk to you about labor unions?”
“Naw; nobody but Jan and Mary. But she oughtn’t done it…. But I couldn’t help what I did. And Jan. I reckon I did him wrong by signing ‘Red’ to that ransom note.”
“Do you believe he’s your friend now?”
“Well, he ain’t against me. He didn’t turn against me today when they was questioning him. I don’t think he hates me like the others. I suppose he’s kind of hurt about Miss Dalton, though.”
“Bigger, did you think you’d ever come to this?”
“Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Max, it seems sort of natural-like, me being here facing that death chair. Now I come to think of it, it seems like something like this just had to be.”
They were silent. Max stood up and sighed. Bigger watched to see what Max was thinking, but Max’s face was white and blank.
“Well, Bigger,” Max said. “We’ll enter a plea of not guilty at the arraignment tomorrow. But when the trial comes up we’ll change it to a plea of guilty and ask for mercy. They’re rushing the trial; it may be held in two or three days. I’ll tell the judge all I can of how you feel and why. I’ll try to get him to make it life in prison. That’s all I can see under the circumstances. I don’t have to tell you how they feel toward you, Bigger. You’re a Negro; you know. Don’t hope for too much. There’s an ocean of hot hate out there against you and I’m going to try to sweep some of it back. They want your life; they want revenge. They felt they had you fenced off so that you could not do what you did. Now they’re mad because deep down in them they believe that they made you do it. When people feel that way, you can’t reason with ’em. Then, too, a lot depends upon what judge we have. Any twelve white men in this state will have already condemned you; we can’t trust a jury. Well, Bigger, I’ll do the best I can.”
They were silent. Max gave him another cigarette and took one for himself. Bigger watched Max’s head of white hair, his long face, the deep-grey, soft, sad eyes. He felt that Max was kind, and he felt sorry for him.
“Mr. Max, if I was you I wouldn’t worry none. If all folks was like you, then maybe I wouldn’t be here. But you can’t help that now. They going to hate you for trying to help me. I’m gone. They got me.”
“Oh, they’ll hate me, yes,” said Max. “But I can take it. That’s the difference. I’m a Jew and they hate me, but I know why and I can fight. But sometimes you can’t win no matter how you fight; that is, you can’t win if you haven’t got time. And they’re pressing us now. But you need not worry about their hating me for defending you. The fear of hate keeps many whites from trying to help you and your kind. Before I can fight your battle, I’ve got to fight a battle with them.” Max snuffed out his cigarette. “I got to go now,” Max said. He turned and faced Bigger. “Bigger, how do you feel?”
“I don’t know. I’m just setting here waiting for ’em to come and tell me to walk to that chair. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk or not.”
Max averted his face and opened the door. A guard came and caught Bigger by the wrist.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Bigger,” Max called.
Back in his cell, Bigger stood in the middle of the floor, not moving. He was not stoop-shouldered now, nor were his muscles taut. He breathed softly, wondering about the cool breath of peace that hovered in his body. It was as though he were trying to listen to the beat of his own heart. All round him was darkness and there were no sounds. He could not remember when he had felt as relaxed as this before. He had not thought of it or felt it while Max was speaking to him; it was not until after Max had gone that he discovered that he had spoken to Max as he had never spoken to anyone in his life; not even to himself. And his talking had eased from his shoulders a heavy burden. Then he was suddenly and violently angry. Max had tricked him! But no. Max had not compelled him to talk; he had talked of his own accord, prodded by excitement, by a curiosity about his own feelings. Max had only sat and listened, had only asked questions. His anger passed and fear took its place. If he were as confused as this when his time came, they really would have to drag him to the chair. He had to make a decision: in order to walk to that chair he had to weave his feelings into a hard shield of either hope or hate. To fall between them would mean living and dying in a fog of fear.